Chapter Twenty-Nine
Isabella
Two years later
At home, there are reminders of James at every corner.
The bouquet we’d preserved from our wedding day, the sunny yellow and blush pink petals of the gerbera daisies framed on the wall gather dust I don’t remove.
His clothing stays hanging in the wardrobe, his hot sauce and mayonnaise left untouched in the fridge, ticking slowly over to their expiry date.
Our photos don’t go either, but every time I look their way, the bitterness inside me grows.
The affair has left me disgruntled, and yet I cannot bring myself to remove the traces of James from this house.
If it’s for Skyla’s sake or mine, I’ll never know.
James is in jail serving a ten-year prison sentence.
I miss him, of course I do. Love isn’t a tap that can just be switched off.
But I’m angry, so angry that I have yet to visit him.
He’s been getting the silent treatment, and considering where he is, I know that must be tough.
But he dug the grave himself, and now he must lie in it.
Skyla and I continue, the way we have to.
We go to The Range, buy ourselves some ￡2.
99 seasonal mugs to mark the change of season.
For the first year ever, I pour some Baileys in her hot chocolate.
She’s old enough now for a splash of it, though I think she pretends to like it more than she does.
So much about her is still my little girl.
We sip our drinks in front of the fireplace after Robin’s funeral.
I hadn’t been able to put one together before now; it had seemed too much to bear.
I think we both need it to take the edge off.
I can’t even begin to imagine Skyla’s grief, knowing her twin sister will never come home the way we’d always hoped.
I’d always hoped. It was me keeping that longing alive for so long.
And it’s me that has to wrap up Skyla’s new seasonal mug after the new year and place it into a box of things she’s taking to her halls of residence.
Despite her worries, Skyla got into not only the University of Oxford but Cambridge too — and she’s chosen Oxford, studying medieval and Tudor history, following in her literary idol’s footsteps, Alison Weir.
She dreams of penning Tudor novels, just like her, and I have no doubt I’ll be seeing Skyla’s name splashed all over the history section at Waterstones and in all of those lovely little independent bookshops in the not-too-distant future.
She’s already started writing one, a story on Mary I and what led to her imprisoning her half-sister, Elizabeth.
The premise strikes a little close to home, but I suppose Skyla feels a connection to Mary I because she had a half-sister, too.
So Skyla will be studying at Oxford — and as for me?
I have Alfie, and my infertility support group to keep me busy.
The company I interviewed for reached back out to me once the news came out that Robin was found and that I had nothing to do with her death.
They apologised, offered me a second interview, a chance to redeem myself.
Said they’d be lucky to have me. I turned them down.
A company with people like that behind them isn’t one I want to be associated with at the end of the day, so I’ve strung together a CV and scour the internet for jobs a couple of hours each day.
I’m sure I’ll find something soon, something fulfilling, and have it help me start this new chapter of my life.
In the meantime, I’ve started a course, the Early Years Foundation Stage training.
I’d like to do something with children, I’ve realised.
Childminding, perhaps. I don’t think there’s anything else that will make me quite as happy as working with little people, helping them to become the best possible version of themselves, and there’s always a desperate need for childminders here.
A lot of my love has been bottled up — and I think it’s time I shared it with children who need someone to watch over them, keep them safe.
If anyone will have me remains the question, but once I’m qualified, I’m going to try.
Life, for the most part, continues as it always has done, minus the scrutiny of the outside world.
Because our story is over. Robin’s body was found and the world simply stopped caring about us.
For the first time in years I am able to walk down the street without the fear of being photographed or worrying about a new story being leaked to the media.
That part of our life faded as quickly as it began — and perhaps it’s that I find most jarring.
Because how can you go back to normalcy after years of scrutiny?
Life and the way I deal with it has forever changed.
* * *
The night before Skyla leaves for Oxford University, I leave Alfie sleeping at the foot of my bed and make my way across to the guestroom, a room I’ll always now associate with Raven.
She’s here despite my better judgement, because who am I to keep the girls apart?
They are family, after all, and Skyla had practically begged me to let her have a relationship with Raven.
‘You can’t stop me,’ she’d said when she’d seen my hesitancy after she’d asked if she could reach out to Raven.
That’s what really made me say yes, because at least this way I can keep a close eye on her rather than things going on behind my back.
For now, at least. When Skyla goes to university, I don’t really know how I’ll cope without this current sense of control.
Even after DCI Gary Quinn told me the incident on the road had nothing to do with Raven, that the black car that tried to run me off the road was registered to a Mr Joe Forde, a man well known for road rage in the area, I’m still uneasy around her.
Our security footage could never be recovered, so what happened to Alfie never came to light.
I won’t say anything to Skyla for fear of upsetting her, but I do believe Raven did something.
Alfie won’t go near Raven now, and for such an affectionate-natured, friendly dog, that speaks volumes to me.
I didn’t really think she’d be allowed here for sleepovers, but the system is more lenient than I’d anticipated. It’s late, and they should both be asleep, but I know they’re not.
I’m about to open the door when I pause.
There’s a faint light spilling onto the landing.
I shuffle my feet back into the shadows but lean forward, putting my ear to the door.
It creaks beneath my weight, though the gentle purr of a girl’s voice continues.
I edge closer, slowly, carefully, trying to make out any words.
But I can’t and I take it as my sign to walk away; to start to let go of this craving my mind has for control.
I can’t steer the outcome any more. In fact, I don’t think I ever could.
I still tiptoe around Raven, still wonder what secrets she keeps close to her chest. We aren’t on good terms exactly, probably never will be, but for Skyla, I try.
The next morning, I make the girls dippy eggs, a favourite of Skyla’s no matter her age.
She’s in a flap about what to wear on her first day, and Raven is in the shower.
She’s left her phone on the kitchen table, and when it lights up with a message, I stop buttering toast and stare at it for a moment.
The shower is still running upstairs, so I take a subtle step towards it.
Then another. By now, the phone has gone back to a dark screen.
I stretch an arm out and tap it, retracting my hand again like it’s hot, not wanting to get caught.
At first, I don’t believe what I see. I have to rub at my eyes, blink the notification into my head.
There on the screen is DCI Gary Quinn’s name.
DCI Gary Quinn who still checks in with me today, even though the case is closed.
Gary, who asks after Skyla whenever we speak.
Gary, who cares about us like no one else.
What is he doing messaging Raven? I pick up the phone, desperate to read what it says, but facial recognition rejects me from unlocking the phone.
Blood pulses to my head. This is a man I have trusted with our lives for well over a decade, and yet even I have never received text messages from him.
It’s always phone calls, emails. Professional.
A text seems somehow more personal. DCI Gary Quinn enforces the law.
He’s senior in his role, was responsible for leading the teams of detectives in Robin’s disappearance.
He managed her entire case — and yet she was never found until I went to confront Raven, even when all along Robin was buried less than five miles from our very home.
A home we didn’t move into until after Robin was dead and buried.
My mind reels. Why did we move here, so close to where she was buried? That can’t have been a coincidence.
The eggs on the stove overcook, any water in the pan boiling away as I look up the visiting hours at James’s prison. It’s time to find out the whole truth.