40. Wren
CHAPTER FORTY
WREN
The charity event is dedicated to the memory of Hugo Fletcher, and there are reminders of him everywhere.
Photos, banners, and badges with his name—we’re surrounded by the man.
And the whole theme is about missing persons, about raising money to give toward finding information and spreading awareness.
It sets me on edge, it sets us all on edge, but there’s nothing we can do. We have to be here.
The event is being held in one of the posh hotels near the harborside, and in typical English fashion, the rain and cold mean any hope of utilizing the beautiful gardens is out.
Instead, the entire thing is in a big events room, large enough to accommodate the couple hundred people that are milling about.
There are some round tables to sit at, and a few stands with information on them, but unless someone actually heads to one of these and picks up a leaflet, it’s difficult to know exactly what charity funds are being raised for here.
There is a stage at the back of the room with chairs laid out in front of it, and apparently there will be an auction later of all sorts of things, and that’s what is going to raise the money.
At the moment, it’s a free-for-all at the buffet—food and a networking opportunity.
The event is open for anyone to attend, but it seems most people know each other, excited greetings and overenthusiastic kisses on cheeks for anyone, from dearest friends to distant acquaintances.
It’s not our kind of place at all, and I’m worried we stick out like sore thumbs.
There certainly isn’t anyone hugging us or kissing our cheeks.
We tried our best with our outfits, but I can see now they’re not quite right.
I probably look the most accurate in my Zara dress, but even this feels cheap compared to the real designer clothes the glamorous men and women are wearing around us.
I can’t help but cringe for poor Cuckoo, whose most expensive piece of clothing is a coat of her mother’s she’s keeping on to hide her cheap shirt and trousers.
Not that anyone seems to care enough to notice us; they slip past us as if we’re invisible, or perhaps they assume we’re some of the young staff members who are walking around with vol-au-vents.
No one really seems to care about anything apart from their own circle of friends, certainly not the charity, which is the reason why they’re all here in the first place.
Cassandra Fletcher is here, of course, but we give her a wide berth for now, as she is surrounded by her own circle of people.
This includes Rodrick Fletcher, Hugo’s father, as well as other members of Hugo’s family, who I recognize from all the news conferences they’ve done over the years.
It does not seem as though any of Cassandra’s family are here, or that anyone is particularly with her at this event.
Which is good for us because it means she might end up alone at some point.
And the farther we can get her from Rodrick, who is doubling Cuckoo’s anger every time she looks at him, the better.
The four of us are at a table with a few canapés and a glass of prosecco each.
Cuckoo’s glass is already empty, but Starling reminds her we aren’t here for the free alcohol, and Cuckoo snaps back that she’s perfectly aware of that, thanks.
The rest of us are sipping slowly, scanning our environment, looking out for if the police have decided to be here, listening in on conversations to catch snippets of information about Hugo in case there is anything new.
Everything is loud, bright, and making me nauseous.
I watch Cassandra as she glides across the room, another woman’s cheek to kiss and hand to shake wholeheartedly.
She has that same vulnerable energy she had when I was alone with her in her kitchen, a way of putting the attention onto the other person and shrinking herself so she seems inadequate by comparison.
But I am watching her now, and I see her tricks, the subtle ways she steers and manages this other woman.
She is in control of the conversation, but this other woman doesn’t realize it.
This other woman is finishing her glass of wine, and Cassandra is kindly topping it up, but Cassandra hasn’t had so much as a sip of her own.
She wears a disguise, constantly. But she is also constantly calculating.
She is dangerous.
“I have to go to the bathroom,” I say, because I can’t stand looking at her for another moment. “I won’t be long.”
Before any of them can question it or even forbid me, I leap from the seat and hurry for the exit.
There is a bored-looking staff member at the doorway to the foyer who points down the corridor before I have even finished my question—Where are the, oh, thank you—and I trod along a rather dirty carpet for such a posh hotel until I see the plastic sign stuck out from the wall with the stick figure of a woman on it.
I don’t need to use the toilet. I enter and wash my hands, stare at the mirror for a while.
I only leave when another woman comes in, heading straight into a cubicle without so much as a glance my way.
Back toward the main room, there is a noticeboard with Hugo’s photograph on it, and the key information known about when he went missing.
I stare at the date, the time he was last seen, the facts about him going jogging, about how his family and friends will pay a high reward for any clues that lead to him being found.
He looks so friendly in this photo. He’s even playing with a dog, for God’s sake.
By the time I return to the others, they are no longer at the table. I scan the room desperately for them, but they’re not far. They’re at the buffet table, standing together.
And any relief I had from my brief break promptly vanishes.
The nerves are back, full force, gripping me in the throat and stifling my breath.
Because standing with the three of them, talking to them, is Cassandra.
And as I approach, I can see Cuckoo’s face.
She’s quietly fuming, it’s so obvious, and I realize it’s because Cassandra is talking to them normally.
She doesn’t recognize Cuckoo from Hugo’s trial, doesn’t bat an eyelid at her.
Cassandra Fletcher has taken up so much space in Cuckoo’s life, but Cuckoo hasn’t even taken a crumb of hers.
But Cassandra Fletcher will recognize me.
I hesitate a fraction too late; Starling and Crow spot me, and their eyes flicking toward me makes Cassandra, ever observant, turn and face me.
“Hello, darling,” she says to me, and I am greeted with the same cheek kisses and brief embrace she has given everyone else.
As she retreats, I catch a whiff of her perfume, floral and sweet and unassuming, just as she wants to be.
“I am so glad you came. How are you doing? Have there been any updates on that dreadful burglary?”
She is being as sweet as her scent, introducing me to Cuckoo, Starling, and Crow as if we are strangers. She tells them about the burglary story they all know is fake, and as she recites this tale, I have no idea how genuine she’s being. She is too difficult to read.
“It would be so awful,” Cassandra says, “to feel unsafe in your own home.”
“Actually,” I say, when there is finally a chance to speak, “these are my friends. You said I could bring some people along. I hope that was alright?”
Cassandra laughs. “Oh, you are telling some of the truth then. I wondered if you would let me go through that whole charade and not say anything.”
My anxiety, already pressing down on my chest, now decides to weigh ten tons. “What do you mean?”
“I know these are your friends,” Cassandra says. “Here you all are.”
She lifts a hand to her hair, which is swept up in a neat bun, and pats it carefully, making sure no strands have become loose. In doing so, the long sleeve of her dress falls to the crook of her elbow, revealing what she has secured to her wrist.
Cuckoo gasps. Crow places both hands across her mouth. Starling’s eyes widen, and then she frowns, as if she can’t believe what she is seeing.
And I go completely numb.
“We need to talk,” Cassandra says, “don’t we?”
There it is, on Cassandra Fletcher’s wrist: sparkling, each little ornament still in place, making the same clinking sound it always did.
Goldie’s charm bracelet.