At the house Oli showers again, washing the smell of Mary’s cigarettes away. Dean calls, and she lets it go to voicemail, not ready to speak to him yet. Clad in the bathrobe he bought her for Christmas, she wanders around the house. She finds a photo album on the bookshelf in the lounge and spends almost an hour poring over the pictures of Isabelle, Dean and the twins. The perfect family. Closing the album, Oli sits still, letting the sharp corner of the cover dig into her thigh.

Maybe they were going to see the lawyers together; perhaps they had mutually decided to call it quits. The twins must have been hard to manage when they were little, and Dean and Isabelle had busy, stressful jobs. It’s not unusual. And Dean wasn’t the perfect husband—Oli knows that first hand. But even if this is true, he’s still lying to her. Keeping things from her.

Returning upstairs, she does her hair and gets dressed. Checks the news. The police have now completely dismissed Melissa Warren’s scoop and confirmed there are no developments concerning the death of Alex Riboni. The ABC is reporting that her private funeral will be held on Wednesday.

Oli has eighty new emails, and a text from TJ: You in the office today? We should chat. She rolls her eyes—he still hasn’t mentioned the podcast, which feels deliberately obtuse.

She grabs a jacket from her wardrobe. It’s nestled next to one of Dean’s blazers, and his aftershave hits her nostrils as she pushes it aside. She’s dizzy, out of sorts, like it’s a new day rather than three in the afternoon. Her engagement ring glitters in the soft light. She should call Dean back, but she can’t, not yet. The tulips on Isabelle’s grave surface in her mind. Did he put them there? And what if he did? He is allowed to mourn his murdered wife. But when she pictures him visiting Isabelle’s grave in secret, the thought burns. Does he go there out of sadness? Or guilt?

Even if Dean and Isabelle were having problems, he didn’t want Isabelle gone. He didn’t want her dead. He didn’t know what was about to happen.

But Mary’s words push their way into Oli’s consciousness until she lets out a little cry of frustration. Groping for her wrist, she counts the beats as the panic surges then subsides.

A cool breeze swirls around her, and she flinches. Glances around the bedroom. A draft? She looks outside, but the trees are completely still. After shoving her feet in her shoes, she bolts down the stairs.

CHAPTER THIRTY

CHAPTER THIRTY