Could she?

‘You really can tell me anything,’ Tom says. He scoots back his seat, like he doesn’t plan on going anywhere anytime soon. ‘I’m a total idiot. I’ll probably forget.’

‘You wouldn’t,’ Cathy says, unable to resist a smile. ‘It’s unforgettable.’

Tom spreads his hands wide. ‘I mean – whatever,’ he says nicely. ‘Whether you want to, or not. I’m here.’

‘It’s selfish to tell you.’ Her voice is thick with unshed tears. Snot is building in her nose. God, she must look a mess. Tom wordlessly hands her a tissue from a packet in his glove-box.

‘It isn’t,’ he says. ‘It isn’t selfish to need help.’

Her eyes feel starry with tears. She can’t believe Joe acted like that. Has she been foolish to protect Frannie? To be involved with Joe and his temper? To align herself with them? She thinks of the looks that pass between them, and suddenly she feels completely alone in the world.

Except for Tom. She turns her head to the right and looks directly at him. ‘If I tell you, we can never go back,’ she says, thinking how easy it has become not to be shy. It’s so easy, like a flower that knows to open up at exactly the right moment in spring.

‘Okay,’ he says. ‘Okay. Let’s do it.’ His hand lands on hers, soft as a butterfly. ‘Let’s go.’

If Cathy was worried that Tom already knew about the crime, those doubts are completely extinguished by his reaction.

‘Cathy, that is … that’s fucked up,’ Tom says. The impact of the word feels like g-force to Cathy.

‘No – I …’ She didn’t expect this. She thought he’d be easy-going, understanding. ‘It is,’ she says. ‘But it’s not my fault.’

He swivels his gaze to her in the car. He’s pale. They’re in a lay-by. The road around them is as dark as the track road was in Verona, lit up only by occasional cars that pass in stripes of white and red.

‘I mean – I thought this would be … like, a small crisis.’ He gives a sad half-smile, the kind people give in disbelief.

‘Well, it isn’t,’ she says. ‘And it’s not – I mean. Needless to say, it isn’t the kind of thing that happens to me too often.’

‘Me neither,’ he says quietly. ‘I mean – it’s murder.’

‘She didn’t mean it,’ Cathy says quickly, no longer knowing if that’s true.

Tom doesn’t say anything for several minutes, his hand rubbing thoughtfully over his chin. What was she thinking, bringing her baggage to him in this way? He’s right. It isn’t a small crisis. It isn’t normal. They must be toxic, the lot of them. Delusional fools. Troublemakers.

‘You know,’ she says, a hand on the door. She can get a taxi. She can walk. Anything but this. ‘I wish I hadn’t said.’

‘No, no,’ Tom says. He reaches for her hand, enclosing it in his. ‘I didn’t say that. I didn’t say leave. I didn’t say deal-breaker.’