Chapter 42
Forty-Two
Sunday
EMILY
I sit on the edge of the bed in Lara’s spare room with my laptop balanced on my knees, the duvet pulled up around my legs like armour.
I have the blinds pulled down so I’m not tempted to stare out at what’s happening outside. Downstairs, I can hear the low murmur of the television and the occasional clink of crockery. Lara is filming and keeping the house normal. Keeping herself normal.
I type a heading in capital letters.
timeline
Absurdly, it makes me feel like I have some authority over this. Like if I get the order of things right, I can exert some control over what is happening to us.
I start with the last few days. Not the past. Not our other lives. Just with this week. This street. This woman.
My fingers hesitate above the keys, and then I type.
10.25 a.m. Order Uber
10.30 a.m. Leave house. Oliver in bed.
Emily in town—café, bookshop, library, Victoria Centre shops. Apple Pay receipts, cab bookings
3.25 p.m. Return to street
I pick up my phone to check the time I texted Oliver to say I was on my way back from town, and stare at my messages. My thumb hovers over Oliver’s name as if touching it might bring him back. He never replied to that message.
I open a new tab and start a note underneath the timeline: what can they find?
It’s a horrible question. It’s the question I’ve been avoiding since I saw the street full of blue lights and realized the activity included our house. Since Lara’s hand steered me across the road in a trancelike state.
I start to list.
Phones. Laptops. Bank accounts. Old addresses. Electoral roll. Utility bills. Our names/IDs.
I swallow.
My passport sits in the pocket of my handbag downstairs, where I left it without thinking. Oliver’s assurance in the GP surgery echoes around my head.
I paid a lot of money for them last year. They’ll pass any checks this place has.
But can his fake ID documentation pass police scrutiny? I have no choice but to believe so. At least their cursory checks.
I push IDs to the back of my mind and think about the day Evan Lambert turned up. The way Vanessa had been stripped of her polish as he bullied her.
I remember Oliver standing in the doorway, calm and strong. I’d been so proud of how he’d defended our neighbour, been so caring.
I pinch the bridge of my nose. The irony is cruel.
Oliver is good at protecting, at being steady in moments of high stress.
I press my palms to my cheeks, feeling how hot my skin is.
Brutal little clips start to play in my head.
Oliver seeming distracted with his phone, his increasing visits to Vanessa’s house.
The police will start with the obvious threads and then they’ll start to pull.
They’ll pull on our finances. On Oliver’s work history. On where we lived before Orchard Lane.
They’ll pull hard on the name changes. This is the thing my mind keeps circling, like a tongue pushing at a loose tooth.
I drag my gaze back to the screen.
If the police trace back and discover that Oliver Sutton is dead—just before we changed our names again—then the questions won’t just be about Vanessa.
They’ll be about me, too.
What did I know? When did I know it? Why did I stay?
I type it all because writing it down feels like pinning a wild thing to the wall.
What if they decide I helped him kill Vanessa?
I picture DI Adebayo’s dark eyes sharpening. Hear her calm, incisive voice:
‘Mrs Sharpe. Why would an innocent woman go along with this?’
I know the answer, but it isn’t one that’s going to do me any favours in a police interview.
Because he loved me when no one else did. Because I told myself the lies were temporary and the future would be real. Because I started the whole thing rolling when we first met.
I shut my eyes and I’m back again at that final party. The night it all ended, supposedly for good.
If Oliver could be that calm while the horror unfolded . . . could he have gone further? Could he have hurt—
No.
I hear footsteps on the stairs and my body goes taut, every muscle bracing. A tap on the bedroom door.
‘Emily?’ Lara’s voice is softer than usual. Cautious. ‘You OK in there?’
I stare at my screen, at my tidy little headings and my pathetic bullet points, and I feel something like a desperate laugh trying to claw its way up my throat.
‘Yeah, I’m fine,’ I call back, and I’m surprised when my voice sounds normal. ‘You know, just trying to get my head straight.’
There’s a pause. ‘I’m making coffee. Want one?’
I swallow. My mouth tastes dry and metallic.
‘Yes, please,’ I say. ‘I’ll be down in a minute.’
When her footsteps retreat, I look again at what I’ve written.
It isn’t much. Not nearly enough to save me. But it is a way of not dissolving into fear while I wait for the knock that will change everything.