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Back The Widow
Chapters (92)
  1. Cover
  2. Dedication
  3. PART I
  4. 1
  5. 2
  6. 3
  7. 4
  8. 5
  9. 6
  10. 7
  11. 8
  12. 9
  13. 10
  14. PART II
  15. 11
  16. 12
  17. 13
  18. 14
  19. 15
  20. 16
  21. 17
  22. 18
  23. 19
  24. 20
  25. 21
  26. 22
  27. 23
  28. 24
  29. 25
  30. 26
  31. 27
  32. 28
  33. 29
  34. 30
  35. 31
  36. 32
  37. 33
  38. 34
  39. 35
  40. 36
  41. 37
  42. 38
  43. 39
  44. 40
  45. 41
  46. 42
  47. 43
  48. 44
  49. 45
  50. 46
  51. 47
  52. 48
  53. 49
  54. 50
  55. 51
  56. 52
  57. 53
  58. 54
  59. 55
  60. 56
  61. 57
  62. 58
  63. 59
  64. 60
  65. 61
  66. 62
  67. 63
  68. 64
  69. 65
  70. 66
  71. 67
  72. 68
  73. 69
  74. 70
  75. 71
  76. 72
  77. 73
  78. 74
  79. 75
  80. 76
  81. 77
  82. 78
  83. 79
  84. 80
  85. 81
  86. 82
  87. 83
  88. ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
  89. MORE FROM VALERIE KEOGH
  90. ABOUT THE AUTHOR
  91. The Murder List
  92. About Boldwood Books

Allison dropped her eyes to her plate. She’d given herself less than a quarter. It was unlikely she’d eat even that. ‘If I manage this, I’ll be happy enough.’ She twirled spaghetti around the tines of her fork and dexterously transferred it, without sauce flying every which way, to her mouth. She expected Jo to make a mess or, sacrilegiously, cut the strings of pasta into more manageable lengths. Instead, to her surprise, Jo ate the pasta with as much skill as Allison did.

She must stop underestimating her strange new friend. She couldn’t afford to make a mistake now; she’d too much to lose.

36

Jo swirled the spaghetti around her fork with a skill she’d acquired working in the kitchen of an Italian restaurant in her teens. It wasn’t the only thing she’d learnt in the year she spent there. She’d learnt that in the dark, it didn’t matter what you looked like. Through that long, endless year, at one stage or other, she’d serviced most of the staff in the windowless storeroom at the back of the restaurant.

Too many years had passed, and she hadn’t recognised the word ‘vongole’, relieved to see they were nothing more exotic than clams. Those she could eat. She’d have eaten cuttlefish too, but with a lot less gusto.

Allison, she noticed, was eating little. She looked pathetically pale too. Almost as if she was really grieving. Maybe she was. People never ceased to surprise her. Jo’s eyes flicked around the room. She was finding it hard to conflate this décor with the woman she’d been following for so long, whose appearance she’d tried at one time to emulate with little success. Nothing, she decided, could turn a pig’s ear into a silk purse. Not the expensive plastic surgery or the wig. It was all the same in the dark.

The beer was gone. It was tempting to ask for another, but it was stronger than she was used to, and she couldn’t afford to risk getting loose-lipped and letting her secrets tumble out before it was time.

Pushing her empty plate away, she leaned back and folded her arms. She’d heard the back door opening and shutting and wondered why Allison felt the need to go outside. Something she didn’t want Jo to see, perhaps. She wondered what it could be.

‘That was delicious,’ she said. ‘You haven’t eaten much.’

Allison put her fork down. ‘No, I’m afraid I just can’t seem to stomach it.’