Chapter 34
Thirty-Four
EMILY
I don’t remember crossing the lane, only the sensation of being escorted away.
Lara’s arm is around my shoulders, firm and guiding. My feet keep going because of her . . . if she let go, I’m not convinced I could stay upright.
The noise behind us follows us to Lara’s house: the crackle of radios, raised voices, the brittle snap of camera shutters.
Inside Orchard Cottage, it is warm. Too warm.
The air smells of butter and sugar, as if the shortbread Lara always seems to be making clings to the walls.
This house hasn’t been torn open. Nothing has been sealed or taped or declared a crime scene.
It’s just a kitchen, with clean worktops and mugs already waiting by the kettle.
Here, the day has followed the plan it was meant to.
‘Come on,’ Lara says gently. ‘Let’s get your jacket off.’
I don’t argue. I stand while she slides it from my shoulders, then I sit where she tells me to—on the sofa by the French doors, my hands folding obediently in my lap. I stare out at the garden with its over-bright clusters of plastic flowers.
Lara busies herself at the kitchen counter.
I register small details in a kind of trance.
The kettle already full, the teabags dropped neatly into mugs.
The faint whirr of a washing machine in the utility room.
A tripod stands pushed back against the wall, still angled where she must have been filming earlier.
Evidence of a life continuing uninterrupted.
My fingers twist together instead, tighter and tighter, until my knuckles ache and whiten. I can’t seem to stop.
She sets a mug down in front of me, along with a plate bearing two shortbread fingers.
‘Eat something,’ she says. ‘Sugar helps after a shock.’
Silence presses in until Lara says gently, ‘What exactly did the police tell you?’
‘They just said what I told you. That Vanessa has been found dead.’ My voice sounds faint and far away. ‘And Oliver has been arrested.’
The words still sound absurd.
‘It’s going to be OK,’ Lara says softly, reaching for my hand.
‘I’m scared,’ I whisper. ‘I’m so scared.’
Lara leans forward slightly, her voice calm and steady. ‘Of course you are. Anyone would be. This is a terrible shock, Emily.’
She doesn’t know the half of it. I’m scared about so many things. Scared what this means for me.
‘Oliver . . . he’s innocent. He must be,’ she says firmly. ‘Soon they’ll realize they’ve made a terrible mistake.’
I nod, too quickly. ‘Yes. He couldn’t—’ I stop, and swallow. ‘He’d never hurt anyone. Not like that.’
I blink away the faces of all the people we’ve left behind us. People hurt in a different way.
‘Did they say . . . how she’d . . . exactly what had happened?’
I shake my head. ‘They just said he was there when they found her.’ My gaze drops to my hands. ‘I mean, why would he be there?’
The awful words hang between us and Lara rushes to fill the space.
‘Maybe Vanessa called for help and he went round and . . . I don’t know . . . found her. That makes sense. Doesn’t it?’
‘I’d gone into town just to get out of the house for a while,’ I say instead, the bitterness rising before I can tamp it down. ‘I should have been here.’
The kitchen feels smaller suddenly.
‘You can’t blame yourself for this,’ Lara says, before adding, ‘For whatever’s happened in that house.’
Outside, the lane is still loud. Voices carry through the glass, sirens whining somewhere beyond the houses. It’s strange how far away it all feels, as if I’ve stepped sideways into a pocket of calm while, out there, a crisis burns on without me.
‘DI Adebayo said they’d be in touch later,’ I say. ‘There’s nothing I can do until then. I’ll just have to wait.’
The helplessness of the situation sits heavy on my chest. No home. No husband. No plan. Just waiting for someone else to decide what happens next.
Lara watches me for a moment before speaking. ‘You mentioned before . . . that Oliver had been going next door a lot. To Vanessa’s.’
‘I didn’t mean anything by that. There was nothing in it.’ My heart starts to race. ‘Please don’t repeat it. I was just being paranoid. I don’t want to make things worse for him.’
She nods immediately. ‘Of course.’
I chew the inside of my cheek. I know how it must sound.
‘Oliver isn’t a killer,’ I say quietly. ‘He’s not perfect, but he isn’t a violent man. He’d never hurt anyone. Not like that.’
I cling to the idea because, without it, everything unravels.
Lara doesn’t argue, but she doesn’t reassure me either. She just watches, her expression unreadable, and something about that makes my skin prickle.
I stare down at my untouched tea, a faint skin forming on its surface.
Somewhere out there, people are already deciding what this all means. Filling in the gaps and drawing damaging conclusions.