“But you were there—”
“Stop! I’m stressed to the hilt—I’m about to lose my business. You need to handle this yourself.”
He folds his arms, straightens his shoulders. “Greta, you know as well as I do, we’re in this together.”
“And you know as well as I do, this is all down to you. Now get out of my house before I tell Susan what really happened last Wednesday morning.”
• • •
Fuming, Jon marches back down Greta’s driveway but stops short when a garda car pulls up outside his own house. A sick feeling takes hold.Calm down.They probably want to speak to Susan again. And knowing that Savannah’s keys are lying at the bottom of a public litter bin gives him some solace. He swallows and pastes on a smile.
As he approaches his gateway he spots Juliette Sullivan walking down her driveway, a box of paper cups in her arms. She slows her step and cranes her neck.Shit. This is the last thing he needs.
A woman in uniform gets out of the garda car and steps toward him.
“Mr. Mullane?”
“Yes. Susan’s not here, unfortunately. She’s at her—”
“It’s you we’d like to speak to.” She nods toward his car. “Is that your vehicle?”
“Yes…”
“Right. Could you come down to the station to answer a few questions?”
“Uh…sure.” Jon takes his car keys from his pocket.
“We’ll bring you in our car. We may need to take yours in for forensic examination.”
Jon swallows, discreetly sliding his keys back into his pocket. The garda smiles.
“Don’t worry, we use a tow-truck.”
His throat bone dry now, all he can do is nod.
85
Susan
Thursday
Thursday afternoon and early evening go by in a haze. Sitting at Leesa’s dinner table, smiling and passing dishes, is excruciating, but just about doable when Leesa doesn’t know the whole truth. Imagine the questions. Jon was having an affair? With the dead girl? He might have been there that morning? Is he a murderer?
I mean, is he?
“Come on, smile!” Leesa’s voice pulls me out of my thoughts. She’s standing, phone aloft, taking a photo of all of us around the table. Reverse camera so she can be in it too. This is very Leesa: no family gathering slips by without photos and no good outfit goes undocumented—she’s in a gorgeous Whistles dress, ready for the Oakpark summer party.
Maeve rolls her eyes. “Donotput that on Instagram.”
“I’ll crop you out.”
“You’re not really putting that up, are you?” I ask.
“Oh, you know Mum, she puts everything on Insta.” Aoife clutches her hands to her heart and mimics her mother. “So blessed!”
Leesa swipes at her daughter. “Well, weareblessed. And we’re all herefor one another.” A meaningful glance at me. “And it’s good to show that to everyone out there too.”
This makes me well up. It doesn’t seem quite the time for social media, but her heart is in the right place.
