Epilogue #2
‘I guess I just don’t have the same aptitude for business as you guys,’ I add now.
‘Rubbish,’ Dad replies. ‘You were just too young and too inexperienced, that’s all. We never should have landed you with the responsibility, darling.’ He taps his chest. ‘It’s all this guy’s fault. If I didn’t have this dicky heart . . .’ His voice trails off as he blinks and clears his throat.
Mum puts a hand on his knee. ‘It’s no one’s fault. And anyway, look around . . .’ She sweeps her arm out to indicate our idyllic surroundings. ‘It’s not all bad. Look where we ended up.’
I briefly follow her line of sight, taking in the palm trees and endless beach, before turning back to them with a sigh.
‘It’s nice of you to try to reassure me, but I know I cocked things up.
I buried my head in the sand and let things spiral.
I honestly don’t know how I could have let it get so bad. ’
After my failed refurb project, there was a slump in the property market that I hadn’t been able to navigate.
I didn’t manage the company’s finances well, and I may have fudged a few invoices in order to avoid a hefty tax bill.
And then I told my parents the worst part – that, according to my accountant, due to the number of invoices I faked, I was probably looking at a prison sentence for tax fraud.
‘You did let things run away from you, Bee,’ Mum says. ‘But it’s in the past. I’m sure you’ve learned from it. We’ve all made mistakes.’
‘Yeah, but mine were pretty big ones.’
With the dual revelations that I might be arrested, and that my twin was stalking me, our lives shifted into fast-forward. My parents hired a private investigator who delivered a sickening report that Jade had paid someone to kill me.
After hearing this, my parents hatched a plan to frame her. I recoiled at first, hesitant to be a part of it. But Dad told me that he would do anything to protect me. To protect his family. Despite Jade being my sister and his daughter, my twin sounded like a dangerous, unhinged person.
We convinced the PI to make contact with the killer, and we paid him – probably far more than Jade had – to fake the hit.
Unable to risk a digital image in case she spotted it, we staged a real photograph of me made up to look dead – make-up, prosthetics, my lifeless body sprawled on the cold pavement.
It was the most surreal moment of my life.
Then we vanished overseas so that Jade would never discover I hadn’t been murdered.
The hitman was happy, as he was paid twice without actually having to kill anyone at all.
My parents sold everything as quietly as possible, leaving behind a whispered rumour that they couldn’t stand the disappointment of their daughter ruining the business they’d spent years creating, or the shame of her ending up in jail.
Even though they keep reassuring me that nothing could be further from the truth, I still feel sick at the thought of my mistakes.
Dad sits forward in his chair, eyes bright and unguarded. ‘Look, Bella. We’re here, we’re safe, and we’re together – our little family. That’s all that matters, isn’t it?’
Mum nods, eyes glistening in the dying light. ‘We love you, Bee.’
I reach for their hands. ‘I’m sorry,’ I whisper. ‘And thank you.’
After a moment, I gaze out at the darkening ocean, their words echoing in my mind, trying to believe that this is all for the best. But although we’re here in paradise, safe and undiscovered, I never stop scanning the internet for news of Jade, never stop imagining the million ways it could still unravel.
It’s exhausting, this vigilance, even though I feel like it’s keeping me safe.
That, and my parents. Back then, for the first time in my life, I saw my self-assured father sweat.
It made me realise how much they love me.
What they’re willing to do to protect me.
It allowed me to forgive them for keeping Jade a secret in the first place.
Sometimes, after too much rum, I think about Jade’s life in prison.
I picture her, grey and sullen, glaring at the guards through the glass, plotting revenge with the unblinking patience of a python.
In these imaginings, she always manages to find a way out.
Sometimes she escapes and makes her way here, seeking me out with a cold, righteous fury.
Other times, she sends the same hitman to do her bidding. And this time, he succeeds.
But mostly I try not to think about her at all. It’s just that some days, like today, the fears and memories can’t help spilling out.
My new identity is officially ‘Lila Moore’, at least according to the counterfeit passport I keep under my pillow, but my parents still call me ‘Bee’ and ‘Munchkin’ when we’re alone, the old life stuck to us like barnacles.
Despite my parents’ revelation that my birth mother is Jade’s mum, Nicola Morgan, I knew that I would never consider her in any way to be my mother.
I rolled the name around on my tongue and instantly dismissed it. Penni is my mum, and that is that.
The three of us spend our days adjusting.
The ocean is always there, endless blue like in the postcards, but never the same twice.
Some mornings, the tide pulls out so far you can walk the sandbars nearly to the horizon, and the air is thick with the smell of drying seaweed and the frantic activity of tiny creatures scrambling to get back before the sun bakes them alive.
My mother says it’s a metaphor; I think it’s just nature.
There’s a rhythm to this life. Small rituals – morning swims at the deserted end of the beach, where the sand is coarse and my only witnesses are the sandpipers.
Black coffee at the little café by the canoe rental, where the Wi-Fi barely works but the owner plays old Beatles records on a battered stereo.
And, most of all, the long, slow sunset cocktails where the evening stretches out forever.
I watch my parents try to recalibrate their relationship.
They hold hands now, something I never saw in England, as if public affection is more acceptable in warmer climates.
My mother laughs more, but sometimes I catch her watching the horizon with a tight, worried look.
My father has grown softer, his previously sharp edges worn down by the constant sun and lack of routine.
Tonight, the sky is a furious orange, clouds rimmed in gold, and all around us, people are laughing, not knowing or caring who anyone used to be.
The drinks burn sweet, the fish is smoky and charred and, for a few magic hours, paradise is real.
Sand in my hair, lime on my tongue, I lean back in my chair, and I almost believe it.