Chapters (78)
- Title Page
- Dedication
- Prologue
- One
- Two
- Three
- Four
- Five
- Six
- Seven
- Eight
- Nine
- Ten
- Eleven
- Twelve
- Thirteen
- Fourteen
- Fifteen
- Sixteen
- Seventeen
- Eighteen
- Nineteen
- Twenty
- Twenty-One
- Twenty-Two
- Twenty-Three
- Twenty-Four
- Twenty-Five
- Twenty-Six
- Twenty-Seven
- Twenty-Eight
- Twenty-Nine
- Thirty
- Thirty-One
- Thirty-Two
- Thirty-Three
- Thirty-Four
- Thirty-Five
- Thirty-Six
- Thirty-Seven
- Thirty-Eight
- Thirty-Nine
- Forty
- Forty-One
- Forty-Two
- Forty-Three
- Forty-Four
- Forty-Five
- Forty-Six
- Forty-Seven
- Forty-Eight
- Forty-Nine
- Fifty
- Fifty-One
- Fifty-Two
- Fifty-Three
- Fifty-Four
- Fifty-Five
- Fifty-Six
- Fifty-Seven
- Fifty-Eight
- Fifty-Nine
- Sixty
- Sixty-One
- Sixty-Two
- Sixty-Three
- Sixty-Four
- Sixty-Five
- Sixty-Six
- Sixty-Seven
- Sixty-Eight
- Sixty-Nine
- Seventy
- Acknowledgments
- About the Author
- Remarkable Praise for Nicci French
- Also by Nicci French
- About the Publisher
“It’s not a question of feeling better,” said Andy. “It’s just that we would know. We could draw a line under it.”
“Which would be better?” Dermot asked wildly. “Would it be better if it were random? Or would you like to discover that there was someone who hated your son enough to murder him?”
There was a pause.
“It doesn’t have to be one of the two.” Andy spoke slowly. “It could have been a misunderstanding.”
“We’d just like to know, that’s all. It’s a torment, not knowing.” Tara looked at Jude and spoke more loudly, almost shouted. “Can’t you see that?”
“I can see that.”
“Stop shouting,” Andy said to Tara, in a voice at least as loud as hers had been. “You sound insane.”
“Maybe I want to be insane. Maybe one day I’ll go insane enough to believe he’s still alive. I’m not sure I care much about whether they catch the person or not. When you lose your son, it’s hard to really care about anything.”
“You’ve still got one, you know,” said Dermot.
“What?” said Andy.
“You’ve still got a son.” Dermot’s face was blotchy. “The way Mum was talking it sounded like she’d lost her only child. I was just registering the fact of my existence. Here I am. Here!”
He banged himself hard on his chest.
“That’s right,” said Tara. “Here we go again. Let’s make this about you.”
“It’s not making it about me, fuck it. I’m just reminding you that I still exist. Your son. Dermot.”
He was about to cry.
“As if that were ever in doubt.” Tara’s voice was acid with contempt. “Ever since he died, you’ve been going around feeling sorry for yourself. Poor little Dermot.”
A silence suddenly fell on the room; it felt electric with nastiness. Jude stared down at the floor. Dermot stood up and looked at her.
“We should go.”
Jude stood. She had an impulse simply to flee but she had to say something.
“Maybe you need to talk. I can wait outside.”
“I don’t think we need to talk,” said Dermot.
“I think you need to apologize to your mother,” said Andy.
“Apologize to my mother? What the fuck is this?”
Andy slammed his mug down on the table and stood up. His face was flushed. Jude thought for a moment that he was going to punch his son. Tara must have been thinking the same thing. She shouted her husband’s name and then started sobbing. The two men looked at her, both breathing heavily. Jude went across and sat by her on the sofa.
“It’s horrible,” she said. “Horrible for everyone.” She looked up. “I can get a taxi to the station. I really think you all need to talk and support each other.”