At least that’s one mystery fully solved: where the money Nina hid went to.

Camilla names a charity that helps people whose family members go missing abroad as Nina’s preferred choice.

I want to cry. Nina cared for me, even at the end. If she cared about Charlie, she cared for me. I’ve made such a huge mistake in resenting her, hiding away her things, taking over completely.

“Nina was frightened, understandably. She wanted a comforting voice, a listening ear. I provided that,” Camilla says. “I gave her lots of reassurance.”

Meaning that she bullied or manipulated Nina into not airing her version of events.

A rustle startles us both: Stuart, with Goldie.

“I wondered where you’d got to,” he says. “Lulu directed me this way, although I was worried. Deborah said it was an emergency, so naturally, I feared for you and the baby.”

“Sorry,” I say automatically. “I needed some air, a break from all the responsibilities. I’m ready to go back.”

“All okay?” he says.

Camilla doesn’t reply.

“Yes,” I say.

What else can I do? To break the news to him that his wife was responsible for a death (or covering one up) is going to take a great deal of preparation and diplomacy. There’s no way I can keep this kind of thing to myself and no way can Stuart have proof sitting in his safe like a time bomb.

Deborah eyes my stomach suspiciously as we return.

“Everything is okay, I presume?” she says.

“Yes. Thank you for helping out,” I say.

As I open the front door to see her off, my mind still elsewhere, I nearly trip over a bouquet of flowers. Lilies.

“From a fancy man?” says Deborah as I pick them up.

“Must be a mistake,” I say.

Yet the envelope is addressed to The Husband Stealer.

She watches as I slide out the card.

Roses are red,

Violets are blue,

This life isn’t yours,

And everyone knows it, too!

A part of me wants to laugh. Who, over school age, makes up Roses Are Red poems? Still, anger overtakes because it’s not funny, not at all.

“They’re not for me,” I say to Deborah. “I’ll let Stuart deal with them.”

I stand and wave, clutching the flowers to me. I hope whoever delivered them is watching. I hope they can see how blatantly unaffected I appear to be. Who has time for this kind of crap? Who?

Yet I watch, rooted to the spot as she drives off, as though if I can stand still, everything else will stop spinning.

Twenty-Two

I tell Stuart that we need to talk, so he organizes a babysitter for the following evening. It will be good to get away from the house. I’m desperate to escape for a bit. As we walk to the local pub, I can’t shake off the sense that I’m being watched. I crave a drink for the first time in a long time. I choose a corner table for two, so we won’t be overheard too easily.