Chapter 50
Fifty
Twelve Months Earlier
EMILY
The small, select dinner party at the Harts’ house is in full swing when Marcus pulls Oliver aside.
I’m halfway through a glass of something pink and cold when I see the shift. Hart’s hand clamps on to Oliver’s arm—not jovial this time, but tight and urgent.
Oliver glances at me, just briefly. A signal.
I drift closer.
They leave the room and move to Hart’s small library off the main dining room. All leather armchairs, and a cut-glass decanter of whisky on the mahogany sideboard. I stand just outside watching and listening through a crack in the door.
Hart’s face is flushed, but not with drink.
‘What did you do?’ he hisses.
Oliver keeps his voice low, calm. ‘I don’t know what you mean, Marcus.’
‘Don’t insult me.’ Hart’s hand is shaking now. ‘The funds transfer you told me to expect in my investment account. There’s nothing there.’
Oliver doesn’t react. Not outwardly.
‘There must be some misunderstanding,’ Oliver says blithely. ‘Don’t fret about it. I’ll look into it in the morning.’
‘There is no misunderstanding.’ Hart hisses from behind bared teeth. ‘That wasn’t surplus capital I gave up, like I told you, Oliver. That was—’ He swallows hard. ‘That was everything.’
Our rules of play echo in my head. Only people who can afford to lose it.
Even I’m starting to feel queasy now.
Everything? He told us he wouldn’t miss it. He bragged about—
‘I need that money back,’ Hart wails, his composure fraying. ‘You don’t understand the position I’m in.’
‘Not here.’ Oliver’s jaw tightens. ‘Let’s not make a scene.’
‘A scene?’ Hart pants. ‘If I don’t get that money back right now, I’m ruined. You’ve lied and—’
He steps forward, jabbing a finger at Oliver’s chest, and then it happens. His eyes widening with a strange stillness. His sentence cutting off halfway through a word.
Hart’s hand presses flat against his sternum and he inhales sharply, like someone stepping into cold water.
Oliver steps forward, touching Hart’s shoulder. Hart’s fingers claw weakly at Oliver’s sleeve.
I rush into the room. ‘Marcus?’
Then he folds forward. Just collapses.
The whisky tumbler hits the floor first, shattering. Then he follows.
For a second, neither of us moves.
‘I’ll get someone.’ I start to move, but Oliver stills me with a hand.
‘Wait,’ he says.
Oliver crouches beside him. ‘Marcus?’ He shakes his shoulder lightly. ‘Marcus.’
There is no sound.
‘We need an ambulance,’ I say, my voice louder this time.
Oliver looks at me. And in that look, I see calculation.
He presses two fingers against Hart’s neck. Then his wrist.
Oliver glances towards the door. The music outside swells. There is chatter, laughter, everyone oblivious.
Three seconds pass. Five.
It feels endless.
‘Oliver,’ I say again. ‘Now.’
He reaches into Hart’s jacket pocket.
‘What are you doing?’
‘His phone,’ he says quietly. ‘We don’t know who he’s messaged.’
I stare at him.
He pulls the phone free, slips it into his own inside pocket.
Hart’s head lolls sideways.
Then Oliver finally pulls his own phone from his pocket and dials emergency services. He says, ‘Please, come quickly.’
‘Go and find help,’ he tells me, and I run out of the room.
By the time I’m back with other guests, who push through the door, Oliver is kneeling beside Hart, loosening his tie like a concerned friend.
I stand back, numb.
The paramedics arrive, casting the flare of blue lights through the windows.
Someone is crying.
Oliver’s hand finds mine briefly, squeezing once. Grounding me. ‘You’ll feel better after a glass of champagne, Em,’ he whispers.
We leave after Hart’s wife grips both our hands.
‘Thank you for trying to save him,’ she whispers, and I humbly accept her thanks because it’s so much easier than telling the truth.
The drive home is silent. Champagne nights, I think dully. Not because we deserve it, but because neither of us will probably sleep without it tonight.
My ears ring with the memory of Hart’s breath hitching.
‘Did we just kill a man?’ I say finally.
‘Absolutely not,’ Oliver says curtly, taking his eyes from the road to glare at me. ‘Don’t even think that.’
I turn to him. ‘We waited before getting help.’
Oliver’s grip tightens on the steering wheel. ‘And he was accusing us. Do you think that was going to go away? Soon as he could, he’d be repeating it to everyone else.’
I press my head back against the seat.
‘He said that money was everything he had,’ I whisper.
Oliver exhales slowly. ‘He lied about his wealth. That’s not our fault.’
When we get home, Oliver moves fast.
Laptop open, accounts accessed. Messages deleted, devices wiped.
‘This is it, Em,’ he says, his face alight. ‘We have enough. It’s time to go and start that new life we talked about. New identities for the last time.’
Oliver steps close behind me, wraps his arms around my waist.
‘I’m scared.’ I start to cry.
His voice is soft and familiar. He’s the same man who held me when my mother died. The same man who told me I was everything to him.
‘I won’t let anything happen to you,’ he murmurs into my hair.
And, like a fool, I believe him.