Savannah looked at her quizzically. “Why aren’t you on maternity leave?”
“What?”
“You said you have to go to work—why aren’t you on maternity leave?”
“Because I, well, the hockey camp is my own business and—”
Susan was really floundering now.
Savannah’s eyes went to her hand, to her left ring finger.
And suddenly it all made sense.
“You’re not Susan, are you?”
And the woman with the red hair sat back down.
95
Maeve
Thursday
The ground is warm beneath Maeve’s cheek, but she can’t feel it. She can’t feel anything. She’s lost consciousness from the impact. Not from the impact of the car, but because her head hit concrete when she landed, six feet away from where Nika mounted the footpath and hit her. Maeve doesn’t know that she’s been knocked down. She doesn’t know she’s unconscious, that if someone doesn’t get her to a hospital, her chances of survival will dwindle to nothing. She’ll die. Maeve’s mother thinks she’s still babysitting. Moira Fitzpatrick had told her to text when she’s home, but in the way of people since texts were invented, Moira forgets to look out for the message. Aoife is wondering if Maeve will be home soon and checks Snap Maps, but Maeve’s got her location switched off. Nobody knows where she is. And in the shadow of a tall oak, Maeve doesn’t know that she’s dying.
96
Savannah
Last week
“You’re not his wife.” Savannah shook her head, surprised that she hadn’t copped sooner. “Who are you?”
“Oh, for god’s sake.” The red-haired woman clicked her tongue. “This was the most stupid idea ever.”
“I knew it. This is all to stop me telling his real wife. There’s no open marriage, is there?”
Silence.
“I actually can’t believe he did this. Well, that’s it—I’m going to the other 26 Oakpark.”
The red-haired woman shook her head. “You can’t.”
“Just watch me.” Savannah stood and slipped on her newly purchased silver ballet pumps that were ridiculous with her shorts and tank top, but she was way past caring. She walked toward the hall then stopped and turned. “Who are you, anyway? Another girlfriend of Jon’s?”
The woman rose from the table now too. “I’m Greta, Susan’s sister. And furious as I am with Jon right now, none of this is Susan’s fault. She’s going through enough already.”
“Oh, poor Susan,” Savannah said in a mock-pitying tone, very aware how childish she sounded. “What ispoorSusangoing through?” She walked toward the front door. The woman followed.
“She’s dealing with a pile-on because of a stupid message…well, it doesn’t matter, but someone smashed their window last night, because of it.”
Savannah started to laugh.
“What’s so funny?”
“That was me. I smashed the window. What message did she think it was linked to?”
“Forget the message—what the hell were you doing, throwing a brick at their window? Bella’s cot is right there—she could have been badly hurt!”
