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I pace the kitchen. I don’t know what to do with myself, I feel more trapped here than I did locked in a room in the dark. But I can’t leave, the instructions had been explicit. All I can do is wait, in a house that I hate, for events to play themselves out.
CHAPTER FOUR
At 9 a.m., there’s a call on the intercom.
I haven’t slept, I couldn’t. I spent the night curled on the sofa. At dawn I’d gone outside wrapped in my blanket and stood watching the sun rise, the wet grass cool beneath my feet, and tried to find peace.
Going to the video panel by the door, I see Jethro Hawthorpe standing outside the gates, the driver’s-side door of his car open. Without speaking, I find the button to activate the gates, watch as he gets back in his car. He starts to drive through, and I have a sudden desire to press theCLOSEbutton on the control pad and crush his car between the metal gates so that I won’t have to see him.
He drives to the front door, the sound of expensive car tires crunching on the gravel. He gets out of the car, somber in his dark suit and tie. I smooth down the navy-blue shift dress I’m wearing for his visit, although I didn’t know when it would come, or if it would come.
He walks up the steps and I silently open the door, stand back to let him in. We appraise each other a moment. His face is etched with grief, and my heart contracts in sympathy. I have no idea what to say, so I wait for him to speak.
“Let’s talk in the study,” he says.
“I prefer the library,” I say, and he nods, realizing maybe that it will be less painful than being in the room where he last saw his son.
I let him lead the way and follow, clenching my hands. I’m going to have to play this by ear.
“I’ll get to the point—I don’t believe my son’s death was suicide, and I’ve told the police,” Jethro Hawthorpe says, without sitting down. “I think he was murdered, and I think you”—he jabs his finger at me—“were involved.”
Thrown by his accusation of murder, my heart leaps to my mouth. I’m not prepared for this.
“Why would I want Ned murdered?” I ask, my mind racing.
“For his money, why else?”
“I don’t want his money, I—”
“Don’t lie!” His dark eyes flash with anger. “Ned told me you pretended you were pregnant, and about the terms of the postnuptial agreement. You tricked him on both accounts. I’ve worked it out—a billion pounds.” He gives me a look of disbelief tinged with disgust. “It’s unbelievable that you think you can get away with it.”
“Do you think I would take even a penny from a man who only married me as a damage-limitation exercise, to cover himself against sexual assault allegations by playing the victim card?” I can feel heat rising on my face as I step toward him. “Do you think I would take even a penny from a man who would have told the world that I tricked him into marrying me, when it was him who tricked me? He told me that he wanted to get you off his back about a girl you wanted him to marry, and that if I agreed to marry him, he would pay me a hundred thousand pounds for my college fees.”
“What are you talking about? What girl I wanted him to marry?”
“Your son said our marriage was a simple business arrangement and that we would separate after a month, tell everyone we’d made a mistake. And yes, I believed it, because I was stupid and I’ll pay for it for the rest of my life. But I didnottrick him!”
I see the pain and confusion on his face and for a moment, I think he believes me. But then his face hardens again.
“You can say what you like, it will be your word against mine. I shall tell the truth, that you pretended you were pregnant to get your hands on his money, and that when he discovered you had lied, and challenged you, you pushed him off the cliff. Or had someone do it for you.”
Panic swells, I fight it down. “That is not the truth, I did not pretend to be pregnant. And as I’ll be donating any money due to me, in its entirety, to your foundation, your theory that I was after his money won’t stand up.”
He falters and I feel a flash of victory. But he recovers quickly.
“Nice try. You would say that, of course, now that you know you’re cornered.”
I’m unsure what to say next, unsure how much to tell him. But I have to make him believe that Ned died by his own hand.
“If we’re talking of murder, Mr. Hawthorpe, I think you should know that Hunter was murdered.”
“Hunter? Ned’s security guard? What are you talking about? He wasn’t murdered, Ned dismissed him.”
Consumed by doubt that I might be saying too much, I sink onto the nearest chair.
“No,” I say. “That’s what Ned told you. But the truth is that Hunter was murdered two days before your last visit here. Ned and I had been to lunch with a man named Lukas, and on our way back, our car was ambushed. Hunter was dragged from it and shot dead.”
“Where?” Jethro Hawthorpe is skeptical. “Where did this happen?”
