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Ned’s funeral, a service followed by a cremation, is mercifully short. I stand apart from his parents and pretend not to notice the stares of the Hawthorpe family.
I don’t think of Ned, I think of Carolyn. I don’t have proof but I know her death was murder and I know Ned was behind it. Tears seep from my eyes when the wordscruelly taken from us before his timeare pronounced; nobody watching could doubt the sorrow I feel at Ned’s passing. Paul must wonder, though. He must know more; I’m sure he is somehow linked to the people behind our kidnapping.
This morning, when he remarked that I looked pale, I wanted to tell him about Carolyn. But if he knew I’d tried to call Carolyn, he might have told our abductors, and their instructions had forbidden me from contacting anyone except him.
Last night, I googled Carolyn’s death and found a news bulletin from August 11 about a hit-and-run accident the previous day. It mentioned Carolyn’s name and that she’d been hit during an early morning run. I’d had to work backward—the interview with the journalists hadbeen on the seventh, the hit-and-run on the tenth. It fit: Ned had had three days to track and trace Carolyn.
When the service is over, Paul drives me to his offices in London. A taxi is waiting to take me to Reading.
“Good luck,” Paul says, once he’s transferred my suitcases from his trunk to the taxi. He shakes my hand. “If you need anything, you have my number.”
“Thank you.” I attempt a smile. “I thought you were only meant to look after me until the funeral.”
He smiles back. “I’m not averse to going above and beyond the call of duty.”
“Thank you,” I say again.
On the journey to Reading, I’m grateful that my driver is silent. The movement of the car makes me drowsy and I’m soon asleep.
“Mrs. Hawthorpe—”
I open my eyes and see the face of the driver, turned in his seat.
“Lamont,” I correct automatically.
“Apologies, ma’am… we’re here.”
I look out of the window at the brown front door of my childhood home. Shrouded in neglect, it stands out among the other houses, but only because of its shabbiness. In the three years since I left, the street feels different. The doors of the houses on either side of ours have been painted, one red, one blue. They also have new windows. The home that Papa and I lived in for eight years seems to have been frozen in time.
My fingers curl around the set of keys in my hand. The driver opens the car door for me and insists on carrying my suitcases into the house. He follows me into the dark, narrow hallway and puts them down on the floor.
“Thank you,” I say.
He leaves, closing the door behind him.
I push open the door to the right; it opens onto the sitting room where Papa spent most of his days, and an image comes to me, of himsitting in his chair, getting progressively weaker as the illness took hold. I move along to the small dining room, where we had our meals and where I used to study and dream of being a lawyer. At the end of the hallway, there’s the tiny kitchen. I step inside, look around. The old wooden clock is still on the wall but it’s no longer working. Through the window, I can see that someone has recently mowed the small rectangle of lawn.
I go upstairs. A bedroom—mine—sits above the sitting room, another, where Papa slept, above the dining room. It’s only now that I realize that I had the bigger room. The avocado-green bathroom, which I always hated, sits above the kitchen. With the cupboard under the stairs, that’s it: a traditional terraced house.
There’s an envelope on the kitchen table. I open it and draw out a sheet of paper.
Dear Amelie,
First of all, please accept my sincere condolences for your recent loss.
Secondly, welcome back. I hope you find the house clean and comfortable. I had the water and electricity supplies reconnected ahead of your arrival. I also took the liberty of purchasing a new kettle and toaster, and have stocked the fridge and cupboards with food for the first day or two, in case you don’t feel up to going out.
May I suggest that we meet at my office on Monday at 11 a.m.? If for any reason this doesn’t suit you, please let me know at the following number and we can reschedule.
I very much look forward to meeting you.
Regards,
Anthony Barriston
I place the letter back on the table, and in the silence of the house, make a mug of tea. I add the hot water, watching the tea bag twistingin the scalding liquid, then add some milk. Suddenly, it all becomes overwhelming, not just Anthony Barriston’s kindness, but being back in the house where I lived for so many years with my father, making tea in the mug that he used to use. Laying my head on the kitchen table, I let the tears come, and cry until I’m empty.
The tea is cold, I make another cup, and drink it leaning against the countertop, the steam thick in my nostrils, looking through the window above the sink. Putting the mug down, I find the key to the back door in the same place, in the same drawer. I unlock it, push it open, and step outside. The smell of freshly cut grass reaches me, and I’m instantly taken back to the pitch-black room, and my captor stooping to place my tray beside me.
