Could he be any more patronizing and pompous?

“Thanks for sharing your wisdom, but it takes two. I did not take over—what a ridiculous description—and even if I did, Stuart is capable of making his own decisions.” I pause. “We love each other,” I lie. “We can offer each other comfort. What Nina’s death taught us is that we can never know what is around the proverbial corner of life. We’re grabbing onto a second chance with both hands, and in the process, those children have someone—me—in their lives who loves them like no other woman ever will. If that makes me a bad person then...”

My mind goes blank.

Greg stares. Oh my God, it’s him.

“You’re the person behind the threatening messages.”

I didn’t mean to blurt it out loud.

“What messages?”

I briefly tell the story, all the while studying his expression.

Again, he looks baffled, yet my instinct is telling me to be wary. I don’t trust people who say they’re transparent and can’t put on an act. They’re either lying, deluded or plain sneaky. Any one of us, under the right circumstances, is capable of putting on an Oscar-worthy performance. I think that in order to find out what someone is really like, it’s best to talk to the people they don’t have to impress.

I lose patience.

“Forget it. You’re hardly likely to admit that you’ve been creeping around the village at night trying to intimidate a pregnant woman. It’s not something to be proud of.”

I stand up and hoist my bag over my shoulder.

He shakes his head. “I’ve no idea what you’re on about. But be careful, Marie. I know it’s already too late, but keep your mind open. Nina did say one thing that always struck me as strange, and I never got the opportunity to fully work out what she meant by it.”

“What did she say?” I ask before I step out of his office.

“She said that Stuart was her penance and that she could never leave him.”

Twenty-Seven

My mother’s words come back to me.

Didn’t want to marry him.

Doubt slithers into memories. Did she have suspicions, too?

I scroll through all the pictures I took of Nina and Stuart’s wedding. I study every expression, all the special moments, and it’s like an optical illusion. Where I saw happiness, I’m pretty sure I now see wistfulness. It’s like pulling off daisy petals: she loved him, she loved him not. She was happy, she was not. Yes, no, no, yes.

Goldie’s barks cut through my confusion; she needs a walk. I shove a tennis ball and some poop bags in a small handbag.

We have barely entered the woods when Stuart calls. This is a rare occurrence. We communicate by messages. Sometimes, at night, when he’s asleep and I’m lying awake in Nina’s old bedroom, I get up, open the curtains and stare up at the dark sky and think about our messages crisscrossing the networks and wonder if it’s the only way we’ll ever properly connect.