Chapter 22
Celeste
Saturday
Celeste sips her Moroccan mint tea, watching Warren over the rim of her cup.
He’s psyching himself up to tell her something.
She knows the signs. Jittery, keys jangling, pacing.
Offers of tea, although she’s clearly already got one.
The Saturday-morning papers sit unread on the island.
Warren has them delivered every weekend but only ever reads sports news, and only ever on his phone.
The front page of the Irish Times has a photo of the Cherrywood murder victims. Aimee smiles up from the page, white teeth gleaming, dimples buttoned in her young skin.
Thirty-three to Warren’s fifty-five. The husband—Rory—is handsome.
Was handsome. Dark hair, even features, a cheeky glint in his deep blue eyes.
Warren’s gaze follows hers to the newspaper and his face colors.
“Right, I’d better go, I’m golfing at ten. And…well, the police want me to go down this afternoon to give a statement about the girl. The Bar Four thing.”
She looks at him, doesn’t respond.
“Have you…have you heard any more from Susan O’Donnell? Did she say anything else?”
“About what, Warren?”
He opens his mouth but can’t seem to bring himself to say more. Celeste takes another sip of tea. She doesn’t need to hear about Warren and this Aimee. She can imagine very well without further input from Susan O’Donnell. Anyway—though she doesn’t tell Warren this—she’s blocked Susan’s number.
Warren closes his mouth, nods and walks to the doorway. Then he turns, as though something’s struck him last minute. “Ah, I meant to say, Cody’s work experience’s been pulled.”
Celeste lowers her cup to its saucer and crosses her hands on her lap, eyebrows up, waiting for more.
“Yeah, they said it was something to do with numbers—they’d already accepted more kids than they realized.”
“But?”
Warren looks down. “I believe they heard about Cody and the Fitzpatrick situation.”
“I see. And what do you have to say about that?”
“Come on, Celeste, that’s hardly my fault. You can’t blame me for everything.”
I can and I do.
She traces a finger on the rim of the cup. A wedding present, part of a set. Wedgwood Gold Columbia.
“Maybe if you hadn’t done what you’d done, Susan O’Donnell would never have sent the message and none of this would have happened.”
“Sorry. You know I—”
“Don’t speak.” She says it lightly, calmly. But she wants to hurl the cup at him, watch hot tea drip down his giant, stupid face.
The sound of someone on the stairs halts her. Cody, tousle-headed from sleep, ambles into the kitchen. He’s wearing an oversized T-shirt and boxers, though she’s told him time and again to dress before he comes downstairs. He stops when he sees his parents, looks from one to the other.
“What?” he says in that insouciant way teenagers do. It drives her mad.
“Your work experience has been canceled,” she says. “They know about the Fitzpatrick incident.”
Cody’s eyes widen, his cheeks color. Warren is backing out of the kitchen, still jangling his keys. He makes a “gotta go” gesture. Coward.
Cody turns to the fridge, grabs a carton of juice and pours a glass. His back is tight with tension.
“Don’t think you’re going to spend your summer in your bedroom,” Celeste says in a low, controlled voice. “And don’t dare sulk. You brought this on yourself.”
Cody slams the fridge and stomps up the stairs without looking at her. Celeste, knuckles white, picks up her tea.