Chapters (81)
- Cover
- About the Author
- Dedication
- Prologue
- One
- Two
- Three
- Four
- Five
- Six
- Seven
- Eight
- Nine
- Ten
- Eleven
- Twelve
- Thirteen
- Fourteen
- Fifteen
- Sixteen
- Seventeen
- Eighteen
- Nineteen
- Twenty
- Twenty-one
- Twenty-two
- Twenty-three
- Twenty-four
- Twenty-five
- Twenty-six
- Twenty-seven
- Twenty-eight
- Twenty-nine
- Thirty
- Thirty-one
- Thirty-two
- Thirty-three
- Thirty-four
- Thirty-five
- Thirty-six
- Thirty-seven
- Thirty-eight
- Thirty-nine
- Forty
- Forty-one
- Forty-two
- Forty-three
- Forty-four
- Forty-five
- Forty-six
- Forty-seven
- Forty-eight
- Forty-nine
- Fifty
- Fifty-one
- Fifty-two
- Fifty-three
- Fifty-four
- Fifty-five
- Fifty-six
- Fifty-seven
- Fifty-eight
- Fifty-nine
- Sixty
- Sixty-one
- Sixty-two
- Sixty-three
- Sixty-four
- Sixty-five
- Sixty-six
- Sixty-seven
- Epilogue
- Acknowledgments
- Read More
- Prologue
- One
- Two
- Three
- Four
- Follow Merilyn online
- Dedication
I lie with my head on her stomach and listen to her tell me stories before sleep pulls me down. As I drift away I make her promise to read every night. She strokes my hair.
‘Sure thing, dumbo.’
‘I don’t mind you calling me “dumbo”,’ I whisper.
And when I wake in the morning, Aoife strewn across me like a rag doll, I realise it’s the very first night in my life I haven’t wet the bed.
Eighteen
Gerry walked back into the canteen carrying a brown envelope. Taking his seat, he pushed it across the table to Carla.
‘We’ve had six letters in total. Started six months ago and there doesn’t seem to be a pattern as to when they’re delivered.’
‘Posted?’ Carla pulled out a pile of paper.
‘No, arrived by hand.’ He pointed to the first letter in the pile. ‘That was the last one Eve got, until the new one. Four weeks ago.’
‘Are they threatening?’
‘More …’ he searched for the right word, ‘… a warning. No explicit threat or I’d have made her go to the police,’ he added. ‘Go on. Read one. Let me know what you think.’
Carla picked out a typewritten page, noted the same typeface, the same font size as the letter in the office.
Dear Eve,
I want you to know I understand and that your husband has reminded me of the reasons why you’ve behaved as you have. These are clear, but, of course, I can’t excuse what you’ve done.
I wanted to tell you the death you struggle with will never go away. But you can’t continue to use it to attack others. Your grief must find its own course, find whatever way it needs to expunge the anger it creates, but I won’t be the recipient of your anger, no more than I should be anyway.
Carla stopped reading. ‘They say they met you?’
‘I know. I’ve gone over and over it and I can’t think who it could be. I’ve never spoken about Eve with anyone.’
Why were his eyes averted? Why was he tapping the plastic spoon on the table?
‘So I wondered if they’d got the wrong person, but the tone suggests they know Eve. At least on some level.’ He looked at her. ‘Could it be a stalker? That sort of thing?’
Carla knew he didn’t believe it – or expect her to. The references were too specific. Whoever was writing these knew Eve, knew her life, and knew it well, even without taking into account the O’Brian reference in the most recent letter.
‘They mention Eve’s “situation”,’ she said. ‘Any idea what that refers to?’
Gerry shook his head. ‘No. There is no situation, not that I know of anyway.’
‘And Eve is OK?’
Gerry leaned back, folded his arms. ‘In what way?’