“Did you know Aimee well?” he asks, and I get the sense he’s uttered the same words to dozens of visitors since Wednesday. He gestures for me to take a seat on the couch and I do. He moves toward the far end, more than polite space between us.
“I didn’t know her well, no. I just met her at the bar that one night.”
He looks a little confused now, wondering no doubt what I’m doing here. Venetia has glazed over; I don’t think she’s listening to what I’m saying. WhatamI doing here? It’s time to leave these people in peace.
“I didn’t mean to intrude, I just wanted to say I’m sorry. I’ll go now.” I stand.
“Of course. Thank you for coming.” Felipe stands too, shakes my hand. “It was good to meet you—I’m sorry, what was your name?”
“Oh, of course, I’m Susan.”
Venetia sits up straight, focused now.
She stares at me. “Susan.” The room is deathly quiet. My heart rate speeds up, my throat tightens. “What’s your surname?”
“You know, I really should go. I didn’t mean to interrupt.”
“You’re Susan O’Donnell.”
Oh god, I should never have come here. I move toward the living-room door, my legs shaking.
“You sent the message about Aimee.”
I turn back to face her, it’s the least I can do. She stares at me, speechless now.
“I’m so sorry,” I whisper. “I never meant to hurt anyone’s feelings.”
Her mouth works as though she’s trying to find words.
“Feelings?” she says eventually, in a low voice. “You’re worried about her feelings? My sister isdead.”
Felipe walks over to her, hunkers down and pulls her into a half-hug, rubbing her back.
Over his shoulder, Venetia stares at me, eyes red-rimmed and disbelieving. Angry. Desperately sad.
“Get out of my house.” She says it so quietly, I almost don’t hear her.
Felipe stands to face me, one hand on Venetia’s shoulder.
“Venetia is having a very difficult time, she’s…”
He trails off and closes his eyes briefly, his face washed with pain and something else I can’t decode.
“Of course. I’ll go. I really am so sorry.” I let myself out.
25
Susan
Saturday
When I get home from Venetia’s house, shaky and sick, Greta is in the kitchen with Jon, huddled in close conversation. They spring apart as I arrive, and it’s clear from the guilty faces that they’re talking about me, the message, the mess I’ve made. And they don’t even know what’s just happened…I pull up a chair and sink my head into my hands. They listen wordlessly as I tell them about the visit to Venetia and Felipe. At the end, I peer through interlaced fingers.
Jon is shaking his head in what might be disapproval.
Greta, ever practical, is on her phone, poised for action. “OK, what are Felipe and Venetia’s surnames?”
“I don’t know. Why?”
