“Nothing!” Breezy. She’s definitely hiding something. She squints, leaning closer. “AreyouOK? You look a little…wild-eyed?”
I tell her about the supermarket. And horrible though it was, it’s much easier talking about this than everything I’m not telling her about Jon’s affair and my resurfacing fears of hurting Bella.
“Oh god,” she says. “I remember the baby-brain days.”
“I don’t know if it was baby brain…what if someone moved her on purpose?”
“Eh, why?”
“To scare me, maybe, like the broken window and the texts?”
Leesa bites her lip. “You know me, I’m up for any kind of conspiracy theory, but that sounds a bit…” Her raised palms finish the sentence.
A bit nuts. A bit out there. A bit paranoid.I know.
“Look,” she goes on, “I did stuff like that all the time when Maeve and Aoife were babies.”
I know she’s right. But I feel like I’d know if it was me, if I was the one who moved her to the next aisle and then forgot. Wouldn’t I? Leesa is looking at me now with a worried expression.
“Yeah. Maybe another customer got confused and wheeled the trolley…Anyway, she’s safely home with Jon now and I’m free to hang out here for a bit.”
“What did Jon say about it?”
“I didn’t tell him.”
“OK, well, actually…thereissomething I have to tell you. Now don’t kill me, OK?”
I knew there was something. “What did you do?”
“So…I texted Moira Fitzpatrick, the woman whose son got hurt when Cody Geary was minding him.”
“I didn’t know you were on texting terms?”
“I’m not, but Maeve babysat her kids a bit when they were smaller, so I have her number. Anyway, I messaged her when we were talking about it, explained that we’re worried that the Gearys are sending you threats and—”
“Leesa! You can’t say that. We don’t know who’s sending the threats.”
“I know, but she’s not their biggest fan, so I figured it would get her on side. And it did. I’m due to call there shortly. Want to come with? Here, I’ll text her to say you’re coming too.” She’s already on her phone, typing.
I hold up my hand to stop her.
“Just give me a sec to think. I don’t know if I should go. It might fan the flames.”
“Oh, sorry.” A grimace. “I’ve already pressed send.”
I’m really not sure about this. A huge part of me just wants to know. To figure out who’s so upset by my message they’ve started targeting me. But still.
“Look,” Leesa says, “we can ask her not to mention to anyone we were there. It’s not going to make anything worse, is it?”
I stand there, immobile with indecision, until Leesa looks down at her phone again. “OK, Moira’s already replied, she says she’d love to talk to you—a big uppercase ‘love’ by the way, so come on, there’s nothing to lose.”
She’s probably right. If Moira doesn’t tell anyone, it can’t hurt. And if nothing else, it’s a distraction from the rose-gold bracelet.
• • •
The Fitzpatricks live a few roads over from where we are in Oakpark. Like Celeste’s, theirs is one of the five-bedroom homes with larger gardens and longer driveways. Moira Fitzpatrick answers the door and greets us with an easy smile. In her late thirties, she has long blonde hair loose around her shoulders and a tan that looks more tennis court than Marbella. She’s wearing white shorts with a coral tank and gold flip-flops and she invites us through the house and out to the back garden. From the living room comes the strain of a TV show, something high-voiced and animated.
“Cannot believe they’re indoors on a day like this,” Moira says, gesturing back to the house as we take seats around her garden table. “Ilivefor the sun. Hope it lasts till Thursday now—you’ll both be at the Oakpark summer party, won’t you? Down on the big green? We have fireworks this year!”
