‘I think Pam went for Heather,’ a middle-aged woman in a pink skirt suit says. ‘Yes, she has dementia, but she was always pretty savvy. I mean, who could blame her? The woman was marrying her husband, for God’s sake.’

‘Ex-husband,’ the man standing beside says.

‘How would she know that? She couldn’t possibly have consented to the divorce; she’s not exactly of sound mind, is she?’

‘Which one is it, Daph? Is she savvy, or not of sound mind?’

‘Both!’ Daph sounds indignant. ‘Savvy but not of sound mind. Shut up, Greg.’

‘It could have been one of the daughters,’ Greg says. ‘Trying to take out the wicked new stepmother.’

Greg is enjoying the drama a little too much, and apparently Daph thinks so too because she elbows him in the guts and he makes an oof sound.

‘I hear Rachel made the wedding cake,’ another guy in the same group says. ‘So it won’t be her. If she wanted to kill Heather, she could’ve just poisoned the cake.’

‘But then she would’ve poisoned everyone, you dill.’

‘Oh yeah.’

‘The poor bloke probably had a heart attack,’ Greg says. ‘All that sex with a younger woman . . . gotta be bad for the heart.’

‘Greg!’

‘What? It would be ironic, wouldn’t it? Heart surgeon dies of a heart attack?’

All around me, people are having similar conversations. The consensus is that it was either the bride or groom who was injured. Most people blame Pamela, and it is, I suppose, the logical assumption. She has dementia, she may have got confused or violent. But I don’t think it was Pamela. Not that she wouldn’t have had cause to do it; I myself was certainly tempted, more than once. But I’m starting to think it was the daughter, the one who bakes. She was the glue that held the family together. Walking down the aisle, she looked like she carried the weight of the world on her shoulders, and little wonder after the pressure cooker they’ve all been in this past year. Yes, my money is on her.

30

HEATHER

Heather sat on the edge of the bed with her elbows on her knees, staring at the floor. Her head throbbed, despite the two ibuprofen she’d taken. Stephen must have put her to bed last night, because she didn’t remember how she’d got here. His side of the bed was made, so clearly he’d slept somewhere else, but she knew he was in the house. She could feel him.

She’d packed a small overnight bag – toothbrush, toothpaste, pyjamas, a change of clothes – and it sat at her feet. She had to leave. What choice did she have? The irony was that this was exactly what she wanted to avoid. This was why she’d re-created herself! For a nicer life, yes; a life where she didn’t have to worry about money. But more importantly, for a life where she didn’t have to be afraid in her own home.