Wednesday
On Wednesday morning, I pretend to be asleep when Jon leaves for work. It’s not difficult; I’m shattered and headachy from the wine with Felipe last night. My dreams were a montage of the three murder victims, the inscription on the bangle and Felipe’s statement that Aimee’s death was his fault. He had rushed to reassure me that he wasn’t saying he’d actually killed her, but that something he’d done had triggered a chain of events. I nudged a little to find out more, but he just shook his head and said it didn’t matter. We’d parted ways soon after. Instinctively, at the entrance to Bar Four, I hugged him goodbye. His arms closed around me and we stood there for a moment, locked in a strange, unspoken connection, my face buried in his collar. His skin was warm, his smell old tobacco and fresh laundry. The hug, different from Jon’s, comforted and saddened me both at once, reminding me of everything I was losing. We pulled apart, promising to stay in touch.
• • •
Bella, who was up three times overnight, is snoozing peacefully in her crib. I pad over to peek at her skin and a huge weight lifts—she’s back toher pale-as-milk little self. And realistically, she couldn’t have burned in that short space of time. But I still can’t believe I left her so close to the edge of the umbrella or how quickly the shade moved. If anyone knew—especially after the supermarket drama and the baby-monitor mix-up—they’d think I’m losing it. I flop back on the bed, staring at the ceiling, trying to order my thoughts. Am I losing it? Am I imagining things? The murders were real. The texts were real. The broken window was real. And Jon’s affair is real…
Before I know what I’m doing, I’m over the other side of the bed, pulling open Jon’s night-stand drawers. The gloves are off. There are too many elements of my life out of my control right now—at the very least, I need to know who he’s seeing. There’s nothing in his night-stand, so I try his wardrobe next, going through his suit pockets once more. Nothing. I’m down on the floor now, running my hand across the bottom of the wardrobe where he keeps his shoes. My fingers close around a coin, a paper clip, and then a crumpled piece of paper. I pull out the paper and smooth it on my lap. A receipt.
Dinner in Peronique in early July. French onion soup and mussels to start. Fish special and filet steak for main. Pepper sauce on the side. That’s Jon. The fish, needless to say, is not me. Nothing against fish, just that I’d remember if I’d had a date night with my husband any time in the last four months. Dessert—one chocolate bomb. Two spoons, no doubt. I feel like throwing up. A bottle of Croatian rosé, organic. Two espresso martinis. And then something that stops me cold.
Now I know who she is.
53
Nika
Wednesday
Nika walks into the clubhouse, wiping sweat from her brow. Jess, breathless from the morning session, follows close behind. Jess is a good player, but not quite as fit as Nika, which is why they can be such good friends. Jess is also one of the few people who didn’t join the Ariana-gate pile-on. Nika takes a slug of water from her bottle, pushes open the changing-room door and makes her way past the first bank of lockers. It’s quiet this morning: only she and Jess have come in during break; the others are still on the pitch. She turns the corner to the second bank of lockers and stops. There’s someone there, crouching on the floor. Nika freezes, startled. Then confused, as the person on the floor looks up.
It’s Greta O’Donnell. And she looks…panicked?
At first, Nika can’t make out what she’s doing on the ground. Then she spots something familiar. Her hockey bag—bright pink and brand new—open on the changing-room floor. And her lunchbox, also open, beside it.What the—Inside the lunchbox, Nika can see the granola bar and the brownie she packed for herself this morning. The brownie looks different though, like there’s brown sugar or…sand on it? She steps forward totake a closer look, but Ms. O’Donnell slams the lid back on and gets to her feet, clutching Nika’s lunchbox.
Confused and indignant, Nika reaches to take it.
“Leave it.” Ms. O’Donnell’s face is bright red.
“What are you doing?”
“Just…leave it.”
Jess is shoulder to shoulder with Nika now, still breathless.
Nika reaches again to take the lunchbox, and Ms. O’Donnell takes a step back.
“Why can’t I have my lunch?” This isbizarre.
“It…it might be dangerous for you. Your nut allergy.”
It dawns on Nika now. A familiar grainy flour she’s seen inside packets in the baking aisle.Not brown sugar, not sand. “It was ground almonds.” Nika’s eyes widen. “You put ground almonds on my lunch?” She turns to Jess, then back to Ms. O’Donnell, mouth open. Nika enjoys a drama and is very happy to ramp up the theatrics when needed. But there’s no ramping up needed now. She’s genuinely shocked. “Oh my god, Ms. O’Donnell, are you literally trying to kill me? I need to phone my mum.”
54
Celeste
Wednesday
Celeste had missed four calls from Nika on Wednesday morning before phoning her daughter back and, at first, she couldn’t make any sense of what Nika was saying. Now, standing in the changing room of Whiterock Hockey Club, missing an important meeting, she still can’t make sense of it.
Greta O’Donnell, who runs the summer hockey camp, is standing by the wall, arms folded, doing her very best to look calm and firm, but Celeste can tell she’s worried.
Nika is sitting on a bench, crying. Her friend Jess is rubbing her back.
“Mum!” Nika gulps a sob. “We need to call the police. Ms. O’Donnell tried to kill me!”
A sigh from Greta. “Nika, I didn’t. This has all gone too far. I think we need to calm d—”
