It is me.
It is I.
I have no shame.
My Jayney believes the experiences we’ve had in our past are so terrible that they bind us, and she entertains the delusion that we can heal one another, that we can remake ourselves and move on from this but it’s laughable. We’re not soulmates, no matter what she believes.
And while I have to accept a lot of imperfection in my life, I can no longer accept this. I’m looking for the sort of love that doesn’t ask questions, that doesn’t require change. I want to be who I am and be loved anyhow.
It’s the pure kind of love a daughter can bring you, because you share blood. And blood ties cannot be broken.
It’s a forever bond.
Toby glances toward his Honda. I know what he’s going to do before he does it. In fact, I step aside, out of the way, as he dashes past me.
He wrenches open the car door and gets in. He thinks the keys are still in the ignition and I smile as he reaches for them.
He didn’t see that I took them from Imogen; he doesn’t know that they’re in my pocket.
The police arrived at Emily’s house within half an hour of her calling them. She’s talking to two officers in the kitchen. A man and a woman. Jayne sits in the room next door. She can hear everything.
Emily tells the officers how nobody has heard from Paul since he texted his driver yesterday. She’s beside herself.
Jayne has been working her phone as they talk, trying to call Edie, and Paul. With no success.
“Did they have any kind of relationship with one another, Paul and Edie?” Jayne hears the policewoman say.
“No,” Emily replies.
“I’m sorry. I have to ask.”
Jayne wants to leave; she’s got no desire to babysit Emily, even though Emily’s distraught, even though she’s going through something terrible. Jayne feels guilt about that, and a nagging sense that there’s something wrong with her own self, that she’s not maternaland should be. The only person she’s interested in supporting is Mark. She hasn’t heard from him and she’s worried. What if he’s encountered Edie? What if she’s dangerous?
When Emily’s finished giving her statement Jayne will ask whether she has any family members who might be able to come and sit with her, although there are no photographs of anyone Jayne can identify as such in the house, and she remembers Emily’s wedding was very sparsely attended on her side. But still, there must be someone.
Jayne was shocked by Emily’s description of how Toby lunged for her and how he’d become violent when she fought him off. He’d wanted to stop her calling the police, Emily said. No, she didn’t know why.
Jayne didn’t tell Emily she thinks she knows why Toby didn’t want police involvement. If what Ruth suspects about him is true, he will not want that kind of attention on their group. But she doesn’t want to share this yet. She wants to talk to Ruth about it when Ruth is sober.
The voices from the kitchen sound more fraught. Emily is getting upset. “You have to find him,” she says. There’s hysteria in her voice.
Before John Elliott’s death, Jayne had hoped that whatever happened at the barn might fade from memory once they were all home, but it will be hard to recover from feeling involved, however tangentially, in the suicide. And very hard to recover from this. Because it doesn’t feel as if it’s ended yet. The aftershocks are still happening.
And things may have gone too far now, for Ruth and Toby. Only she and Mark, she thinks, have a chance. Paul and Emily, perhaps, depending on where he’s been.
Otherwise, the repercussions are going to play out for a while.
“We’ll call you with any information,” the policewoman tells Emily. “And please call us immediately if you hear from your husband.”
They’re getting up, putting on coats. Jayne stands and intercepts them in the hallway.
“Will you be interviewing Edie Porter?” she asks. She feels vehement, suddenly, about Edie taking responsibility for what she’s done, for triggering this chain of events.
“We’ll be talking to any persons we think are of interest,” the policewoman says. Her tone is calm and even, professional. Jayne bristles at being handled.
She shuts the door behind them and rejoins Emily who is in the kitchen, still hardly able to move without feeling sick and dizzy. Her leg is extended, resting on another chair, and it looks grotesque in silhouette in contrast to her slim form.
“Can I get you a tea? Or some food or anything?” Jayne says. Her tone sounds hard, cruel almost, under the circumstances, she knows, but she’s exhausted and stressed and considers it a fault she can’t fix just now.
