Chapters (55)
- Cover
- ANNA WHARTON
- Dedication page
- 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
- ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
- Praise
- THE IMPOSTER
‘Right, what was I going to do tonight? That’s right, I got some sausages out of the freezer.’
And with that, the kitchen at Elm House breathes easily again.
Back in her bedroom, her cup of tea beside her in bed, Chloe goes over Josie’s visit. She can’t remember ever seeing Josie’s name mentioned in any of the cuttings. She curses herself again that she doesn’t have her complete archive here in Low Drove. She could go to Nan’s and collect it – the cuttings that are still in one piece – but then she pictures the place: the loneliness hanging behind curtains that she’d forgotten to draw in her haste to leave; the post piling up behind the front door, the curtain still hanging from the back of it, trailing on the carpet. Not so long ago that place had been a home, Chloe and Nan’s home. Now it stands empty, neglected.
On the end of her bed is the top Maureen gave her this morning. Chloe pulls it towards her, tracing a finger along every stitch. The thought that Maureen made this for her warms her blood. She stands up and slips off her jumper, pulling the blouse on over her head. She stands in front of the mirror, twisting this way and that as the last of the evening’s pink sky falls through the windows onto the mustard-yellow sunflowers.
She had a friend who had a blouse like this when she was little. Or was it her own? She has a vague memory of the colours – or is it the pattern? She can’t place it. The day is muddling up everything in her head, but the blouse feels familiar and it fits perfectly. And it was made for her – just for her – and that is enough.
She sits back down on the bed in the blouse and fishes the pale blue notebook out from her small archive buried deep under the bed. Picking up a biro, she takes the lid off and opens the next blank page. She pauses, chewing the end of the pen, then flicks back a couple of dozen pages, filled with notes in various shades of blue and black ink. She knows she has so much to write in here today: there was the walk with Maureen, everything she told her about the day Angie disappeared. There was the spare room and all its contents – a neat list of everything she saw in there should fill two pages alone. But instead, she returns to the blank page and writes, Josie dislikes/suspicious of Patrick. Why? Police tip-off? Look into this. She circles that last bit, as if to highlight its importance.