“Where are you going?” Felipe asks, and Venetia startles. She hadn’t heard him coming into the room.
“Just out.” She goes through to the hall, and he follows.
“I’ll come with you. A walk will be good.”
“No. I’d rather go alone.” She needs a break from Felipe minding her, watching her.
He opens his mouth, as though searching for something to say. A way to insist.
“I won’t be long,” she tells him before he finds the words, and she opens the front door. “There’s no need to worry.”
“I can’t help worrying,” he says miserably. “After everything we did…”
“Nobody knows. We’re safe.”
“The detective today. Kellerman. She knows something.”
“She’s just doing her job. It doesn’t mean anything. You were there, you heard me—I told her Aimee and Rory were good, and that we didn’t know Savannah Holmes.”
“Why tell them Aimee and Rory were good, I don’t understand.”
“Because the less we knew, the better. Think about it.” She throws up her hands. “This is all so messed up. We’re being visited by the guards and worrying about questions and grieving my sister, and who’s interrogating Susan O’Donnell? Nobody. She’s just living her life, not a care in the world, and she killed my sister.”
“Rory killed your sister.”
“Yes, but if it wasn’t for Susan O’Donnell’s message, she’d still be alive.” She sighs, exhaustion and grief briefly replacing anger. Her voice cracks. “And I still don’t gethowhe saw it. He isn’t even on Facebook. Stupid, ignorant people sharing screenshots without thinking of the consequences.” She moves out to the front step. “Anyway. Stop worrying, we’re safe, nobody knows.”
“But what if the detective asks where we were on Tuesday night last week?”
She stares at him. “We were here. Together. As long as neither of us says anything different, we’re OK. And neither of us will say anything different, will we, Felipe?”
He dips his head, but in resignation not agreement. She’ll need to keep an eye on Felipe.
60
Venetia
Last week
Venetia, tired from her short but draining evening shift at Bar Four and still mulling over her visit to Aimee, slipped out of the pub and began her walk home. The idea that she’d had to escape out the back door of Aimee’s house to avoid Rory…if that didn’t hammer the message home, nothing would. Aimeehadto see that wasn’t normal? Tomorrow. Tomorrow everything would change. Aimee would leave and Venetia would take care of her and they’d never see Rory again. Venetia yawned. Tuesday nights weren’t usually busy, but there’d been a football-club table quiz and she was exhausted—exhausted pulling pints and looking at happy, healthy, club-joining types. Crossing the road, she pulled out her phone to check her messages. A text from Felipe asking what time she’d be done. Same time as every night, she replied in her head as she swiped it away. A bunch of Facebook notifications, mostly from Freecycle, Buy and Sell and local area groups posting about lost dogs and traffic problems. Nothing from Aimee. Tomorrow though. Tomorrow Aimee would escape.
Another text from Felipe, checking she was OK. It was endearing atfirst, the way he looked out for her. But over time, it had become cloying. Was it still worth the rent he paid, the tea he made, the company? It had been on her mind more and more this year. They’d be married three years in December, and after that, if they split, he could still hold on to his visa. And with Aimee moving in now, space would be tight. Maybe it was time for a conversation.
Lighting a cigarette as she walked toward Coal Place, she scrolled through Facebook. A post in Blackrock Locals caught her attention, a screenshot of a WhatsApp message. There’s always something open-the-popcorn about a WhatsApp screenshot.
Those were the words going through her mind as she read the message. Her eyes focused on one sentence:
her husband wrapped around the PR girl at the opening party for Bar Four.
Bar Four. The PR girl. Aimee. A husband wrapped around Aimee. Venetia dropped her cigarette on the ground, re-reading. Who…what? Rory, Aimee’s husband? But no. That’s not what the screenshot meant. It was a message about someone called Celeste, according to the caption. A message about Celeste’s husband and Aimee. In the comments, the husband was identified as Warren Geary. Aimee and Warren Geary. And the message had gone viral. More than six hundred likes, and eighty-four shares. Venetia began to run.
61
Celeste
Wednesday
Celeste stirs the dal makhani and sips her wine, watching out of the corner of her eye as Warren sidles into the kitchen. She can already guess what he’s going to say.
