BooksBarbecue
Back Last Place You Look Save as PDF
Chapters (85)
  1. Cover
  2. Dedication
  3. Prologue
  4. Part 1
  5. 1
  6. 2
  7. 3
  8. 4
  9. 5
  10. 6
  11. 7
  12. 8
  13. 9
  14. 10
  15. 11
  16. 12
  17. 13
  18. 14
  19. 15
  20. 16
  21. 17
  22. Part 2
  23. 18
  24. 19
  25. 20
  26. 21
  27. 22
  28. 23
  29. 24
  30. 25
  31. 26
  32. 27
  33. 28
  34. 29
  35. 30
  36. 31
  37. 32
  38. 33
  39. 34
  40. 35
  41. 36
  42. 37
  43. 38
  44. 39
  45. 40
  46. 41
  47. 42
  48. 43
  49. 44
  50. 45
  51. 46
  52. 47
  53. 48
  54. Part 3
  55. 49
  56. 50
  57. 51
  58. 52
  59. 53
  60. 54
  61. 55
  62. 56
  63. 57
  64. 58
  65. 59
  66. 60
  67. 61
  68. 62
  69. 63
  70. 64
  71. 65
  72. 66
  73. 67
  74. 68
  75. 69
  76. 70
  77. 71
  78. 72
  79. 73
  80. 74
  81. Epilogue
  82. Acknowledgements
  83. Canelo Crime
  84. About the Author
  85. Also by Louisa Scarr

And he didn’t want that. He wanted to stay on the job. It was the only thing that kept him going through the trial and the sentencing of Trevor Stevens. Kept him moving, kept him distracted. Until now. It’s back, and thrust into his face.

Robin knows he can’t let it happen again. He pulls himself up to a sit, then switches the light on. He feels sweaty, and stands up, undressing as he walks, letting his clothes fall to the floor as he goes to the shower.

He stays there, hot jets washing over his face, pulling him back into reality, until the water turns cold. Then he gets dressed: an old Iron Maiden T-shirt, tracksuit bottoms, socks, hoodie. He feels okay. Awake. Ready.

He goes into the hallway, then opens the door to his spare bedroom.

The shard of light expands as the door opens wider, illuminating a cross section of the floor. A perfect triangle, showing first the dark grey carpet, then the bed in the centre. He switches the light on.

To the casual observer, it’s no more than a boring spare room. Large double bed, made up with pale blue sheets and a duvet. Curtains on the window. Shelves on the far side, empty. But then you might start to see the small details. The two pictures on the wall are cartoon paintings of dinosaurs. The corners of the bookshelf are protected with see-through bumpers, the plug sockets are shielded with white plastic covers.

Robin doesn’t go into this room any more, but he needs to today.

He walks in, then reaches under the bed and pulls out a large, flat box. He sits down on the duvet, places it next to him and takes the lid off. Slowly, bit by bit, he takes the contents out.

This is where he put it all. The memories he couldn’t bear to look at. Photos of him and Georgia, aged eight and ten, grinning, ribs showing through pigeon chests, standing next to a sandcastle on the beach. Older, teenagers, New Year, drunk. Him, smart in an usher’s suit, next to Georgia, looking so, so beautiful at her and Liam’s wedding. Then, him with the twins.

Oh, that day. He had the call from Liam – a garbled message while he was at work. ‘They’re here,’ the voice said. ‘The twins, they’re here.’

He phoned back, spoke to his sister. Alex and James, she told him. Tiny, early: four pounds ten, and four pounds five. In the neonatal ICU, but they’re fine, she said, her voice heavy with emotion. They’ll be fine.