They emerged onto the coastal path, the wind catching their breath. Instead of heading towards the beach, Helen led Clive along the path and into the village. It was quiet, the village empty apart from the newsagents putting out the morning papers. The bookshop was dark and from the front everything looked as it should.

Clive sat at her feet as she unlocked the front door. The bell jangled as always and she was hit with the familiar smell of paper and leather. She loved that smell. It was comforting, like a hug.

There was nothing on the welcome mat. No envelopes containing yearbooks or photos. But something had changed in the room. She could feel it.

Then she saw it.

Taped in a haphazard pattern across the top of the serving desk were Polaroid photos. About twenty in total. She may not have seen these photos before, but she knew when they were taken. She had been there that night.

She did not know how they had got here.

The person who took them had been dead for thirty years.

Helen started ripping the photos from the desk, her mind whirling, her breath coming in gasps as she fought off dizziness. She spun between various scenarios of how this could’ve happened. But she kept coming back to the same answer.

Maybe she wasn’t dead after all.

*

Hugh had been up all night, thinking things over, trying to find a solution, but the more he sat, the worse it looked. Whiskey coated his tongue and his eyes were husks.

When Helen had knocked and walked in, he had already put his only plan into action, but he didn’t feel any better.

He knew it was risky. He had history with this. It had been the catalyst in the breakdown of his marriage to Francesca, had pretty much pushed her into the arms of tantric Todd.

He reached out and touched the photo frame next to him, drank in the smiling faces of his children, his ex-wife. Ice cream dripping, sunburnt noses, freckles on shoulders.

Yes, the game he was playing was dangerous, but he had no other choice.

As long as Helen didn’t find out, he’d be ok.

It was just for a little while.

He could stop whenever he wanted to.

28

THEN

I toss the last letter aside, my cheeks burning and acid in my throat. I look for later letters, but there aren’t any. I wonder what their discussions were when he returned home to a woman who was in her second trimester of a pregnancy he wanted no involvement in.