BooksBarbecue
Back One Year Later
Chapters (49)
  1. PROLOGUE
  2. PART I
  3. 1
  4. 2
  5. 3
  6. 4
  7. PART II
  8. 5
  9. 6
  10. 7
  11. 8
  12. 9
  13. 10
  14. 11
  15. 12
  16. 13
  17. 14
  18. 15
  19. 16
  20. 17
  21. 18
  22. 19
  23. 20
  24. 21
  25. 22
  26. 23
  27. 24
  28. 25
  29. 26
  30. 27
  31. 28
  32. 29
  33. 30
  34. 31
  35. 32
  36. 33
  37. 34
  38. PART III
  39. 35
  40. 36
  41. 37
  42. 38
  43. 39
  44. PART IV
  45. 40
  46. 41
  47. EPILOGUEAMY
  48. ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
  49. BOOK CLUB QUESTIONS

As I stand there by Pearl’s grave, I have a searing realization: I brought my family here, to this island, to try and put us back together, to make us whole. Instead we’re irretrievably broken, with jagged edges and pieces missing. We’re like some holidayhouse jigsaw puzzle: we’re never going to fit together again. I put my sunglasses back on. My sister lied to me. Again. She knew she wasn’t drunk. She colluded with the police. I know now that it’s too late for our family. But I am going to find out the truth, no matter what it costs. I’m going to find out who tried to kill my sister. And then I’m going to find out who was really responsible for Ruby-May’s death.

PART III

19 AUGUST, BRISTOL

35

NICK

We arrived in Bristol yesterday lunchtime, flying into a damp, grey cotton wool of fog. So much for British summertime. The rain is oddly comforting, though. Bethany slept for most of the journey and when I dropped her off at her apartment, she said she was tired; and no, she did not want me hanging around. There was no point asking why she lied to me; she’d just have lied even more and better. But I will find out the truth. I’m going to take her to have her brain scanned for a blood clot this morning at St Michael’s. I’m hoping that she’ll feel vulnerable enough to confess, when faced with possible death.

I ring the bell to her flat and I’m buzzed in immediately, as if she’s been standing waiting for me. I trudge up the stairs, wheezing a bit. Bethany lives on the top floor, with a view that skims the rigging of the SS Great Britain. The door swings open as I reach the landing and a young girl with blonde hair in a straggly bun and a cropped top pouts at me.

‘Are you the photographer?’

I’m slightly thrown. ‘I am a photographer,’ I say.

She looks me up and down. I suppose I’m dressed for the part in my saggy jeans and dirty Converse, my retro Adidas top and Gert Lush tee.

‘Where’s your camera, then?’

‘In the studio,’ I say, getting impatient. ‘Who are you?’

‘Holly. I’m the researcher.’

I push past her and into Bee’s flat. It’s full of people. The sofas have been shoved aside and orange and black cables snake across the floor. There’s a camera on a tripod in the middle of the room and the cameraman is fiddling with soft box lights; they droop like flowers on their metallic stalks, the petals gauze and silver. His assistant is fastening a reflector to a stand; the circular gold disc catches and spills the early-morning light across the white walls. There are bouquets of white lilies and roses in glass vases on every surface.