Chapters (79)
Edward was walking through the back door as she entered the kitchen, and Catherine froze, uncertain how to talk to the man she’d trusted for so long. A part of her wanted to demand answers from him. Why had he called Eliza? What had she said? But after overhearing him on the phone, their marriage felt as fragile as river ice. Now, seeing him in the warmth of their home, brushing the snow from his hair, her heart squeezed with a painful kind of love.
His hands were empty.
‘Where’s the milk?’
Edward looked startled but recovered quickly. ‘Sold out,’ he said. ‘The shelves were bare.’ He laughed awkwardly. ‘It’s the snow. There’s been a run on bread too.’
Half an hour ago, she would have believed him.
But it was a relief he’d walked home the back way, along the towpath, past the farmer’s field and through the gate in their rear garden. Whatever else was going on, it was clear he hadn’t been accosted by journalists. Yet.
She took a deep breath and was about to ask if he’d like a glass of whisky or a cup of tea – anything to prolong their connection and find a way to raise the difficult subjects of his phone call to Eliza and the reporter outside their house – when his eyes slid from hers and he turned to hang up his coat.
‘I’m tired,’ he said. ‘I’m going to read in bed.’
Catherine watched him take off his scarf and hook it on the peg, arms hanging by her sides, pinned in place by a sense of impotence. Most nights, her husband fell asleep quickly with a book across his face. Once under, he was a heavy sleeper. But what if he looked out of the window and noticed the unfamiliar cars outside? She needed to prepare him.
‘Ed—’ she began. But he was already on his way out of the kitchen. As he passed his wife, he bumped her shoulder with his own and swung around to face her, closing his hand around her wrist so she couldn’t pull free.
‘You wouldn’t lie to me, would you?’ he said.
His fingers were grinding her bones against each other, bruising the paper-thin skin. In twelve years of marriage, he’d never used his strength against her. She wanted to cry out because he was hurting her, but she deserved it, didn’t she?
A few minutes earlier, as she had kissed their daughter goodnight, Catherine had made a promise to herself. She would confess to Edward – as soon as possible – the truth about her parents’ murders. The whole truth and nothing but the truth. But in the glare of his contempt, her vow of honesty turned to ash.
‘Of course not,’ she said, the denial spilling from her as easily as blood from an open vein.