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CASSANDRA
One thing people always do is underestimate me.
She fell for it, didn’t she, my poor-little-me act?
They all do. Oh, Cassandra Fletcher, it must be so dreadful, and you must be so stupid, mustn’t you, with your peroxide-blonde hair and expensive makeup and clothes?
With your dear cats and their indulgent names and no job to speak of.
Well, why would you need a job when your husband and his family were so wealthy?
And after his tragic disappearance, you are still being taken care of so well . . .
I knew she wasn’t a neighbor. What neighbor in their right mind comes to the street over to discuss a burglary?
Not to mention there was no news about it, no one else apparently affected.
If not that, I would have known she wasn’t a neighbor from her clothes: They were cheap, no getting around it.
A typical high-street shop outfit, fast fashion with no quality whatsoever, and yet the kind of look I am sure she considered one of her best. I would know, as I used to do the same, a long time ago.
She was very young looking; in fact, when I answered the door, I thought she was a teenager at first, but there was something behind her eyes that made her wise beyond her years.
She interested me. Why has this woman come to my door making up some nonsense about a burglary? And so I invited her in, put on my best woe-is-me act, made sure I came across exactly how I wanted: gullible, pliable, dim.
It’s the easiest way to find out what someone wants.
And what she wanted was information about my husband and Bishop’s House.
Yes, I saw the way her beady eyes lit up when I mentioned them.
She could barely disguise her excitement, her fingers gripping her mug of tea, her whole body leaning forward to hang on to my every word.
All while I was talking, she seemed intently focused, as if waiting for me to say something in particular, and whatever it was, she seemed a mixture of satisfied and conflicted by the end of our conversation.
There was something she wanted to say but decided not to.
Which made me very curious.
I had to bump into her again, accidentally on purpose, and invite her to the charity event I am involved in. I knew telling her it was about Hugo would draw her in.
After all, everyone wants to know about Hugo. A disappearance is exciting, isn’t it? It doesn’t happen every day, and especially not to a man like him.
Hugo, Hugo, Hugo. Where to begin with my complicated husband?
It has been seven years since I saw him.
If I’d have known it was the final time, would I have done anything different? Or would I still have made sure my last words to him were the same, the urgent warning that I knew exactly what he was up to, and if he didn’t stop, there would be consequences? Just like the last time.
He didn’t listen. He never did.
When I find my missing husband, I am going to kill him.