“I’m going to change into my PJs. Don’t top up my glass any more just yet,” she says. “And by the way, I know how much is left in the bottle. I’m not that far gone!”

“Don’t worry, I promise not to get you drunk enough to push you down the stairs.”

Shut up, I tell myself. I’m waffling. I’m going to give myself away.

I wait for a few seconds before I follow her up. It isn’t easy doing it quietly—the stairs creak. My heart hammers. I remove the key from the pocket of my maternity jeans and turn her bedroom door lock.

I spent far too long overthinking the whole situation. When, in the end, it’s usually the simple solutions that work best.

Thirty-Four

Camilla wastes no time in pulling on the doorknob.

“Marie, this isn’t funny.”

I pull a chair out of Felix’s old room and make myself as comfortable as is possible, given the circumstances. “I agree. Tell me what really happened to Charlie, and I’ll let you go.”

“I have told you.” She yanks some more. The door shakes.

“I don’t believe you.”

“Marie! This is bloody ridiculous. Really, what do you think you’re going to achieve?”

“I want the truth.”

She kicks the door next, the pounding echoes. My poor baby kicks, too. I stand up.

“Desperate measures,” I say when she gets bored of trying to smash the door down. “This is your fault. We can do this quickly or slowly.”

“Aaaaah!” she screams.

Her phone rings downstairs. It’s still ringing by the time I reach it. I snatch it up off the counter.

Greg.

I open the back door and walk outside. The bashing noises subside.

“Hi, Greg. It’s Marie. How are you?”

The sun is setting. How can it not be dark yet? This day has gone on forever and if Camilla remains stubborn, it’s only going to get longer. Golds, yellows and oranges streak the horizon. It reminds me of Ibiza. It’s a sign; it strengthens my resolve.

“Where’s Camilla?”

“Getting into her pajamas.”

“Can I speak to her?”

“I get the impression she’s going to be a while. Shall I get her to call you back?”

“Tell her I’ll be there by tomorrow lunchtime. Are you two having the catch-up you wanted?”

“Kind of. Thanks, Greg. I appreciate you giving us the time.”

“Bye then.”

I nearly ask him about Nina, but now is not the time. I want to see his face when I do pick my moment.

I hang up, slide the phone into my pocket and as I return to Camilla, a strange resolve descends. I have to do this. For my own sanity and for Charlie’s memory. And for the baby we didn’t have. It motivates me to keep going. I crouch down (it’s not easy given my size) and peer through the keyhole. It’s dark. Realization dawns that it’s because her eye is peering back. It’s freaky. I yank my face away and sit back down on the chair.