“I’m sure there’s been a misunderstanding.”
Moira is shaking her head. “No misunderstanding. I went out after Maeve because I accidentally gave her two fifties for the babysitting.” Her cheeks color slightly at the admission. “I didn’t know what I was seeing at first—one figure leaning over another. When I got closer, I realized it was Cody and that Maeve was semiconscious on the ground. Maybe from one of those drugs people put in drinks…”
Celeste suppresses an eyeroll. This woman is an idiot. “Moira, Maeve was babysitting in your house, not out having her drink spiked. And Cody was here most of tonight; he wasn’t out putting drugs in anyone’s drink. He’s fifteen—he’d hardly be in a pub.”
“Heremostof tonight, but out for a while, you mean?”
Who does she think she is—Columbo?“I’d better go and find out what’s going on. Thanks for letting me know.” A tight smile.
“No problem.” Moira’s smile is wider. She turns. “Oh, here are the guards now.”
Celeste’s heart thumps as headlights beam from the end of the driveway, momentarily blinding her. Two car doors open and close.
Moira steps back to make room at the porch but doesn’t leave.
Two gardaí loom out of the darkness, both in uniform. The taller one speaks.
“Mrs. Geary?”
“Yes?” Celeste keeps her face neutral. Inside, she feels sick.
They introduce themselves, but Celeste is numb, taking none of it in. Nothing until one of them says something about a car.
“I’m sorry, I missed that, could you repeat it?”
“I said, we’d like to take a look at your car.”
“My car?” The fear starts to lift. This must be some kind of misunderstanding. Cody doesn’t drive. This has nothing to do with him after all.
“Yes, we’re investigating a hit and run. A young woman in a vehicular incident here in Oakpark.”
Moira’s hand goes to her mouth. “Oh my god, he knocked her down!”
“Don’t be ridiculous, Moira,” Celeste snaps. “Cody is fifteen. He’s never driven a car in his life. And anyway, Nika had the car tonight.”
Oh.
Oh god.
101
Susan
Thursday
I’m standing in my kitchen, shaking, light-headed, struggling to process what I’m seeing. The woman—Venetia—the woman I met in the cottage, is here. Felipe’s wife. Aimee’s sister. She’s here in my kitchen, and she’s holding Bella. Why is she in my kitchen and why is she holding Bella, and why isn’t she holding her properly, like you’re supposed to hold a baby? She’s holding her by her arm, one arm, and Bella’s just dangling. Like a ragdoll. Is she…she’s not…but Bella’s eyes are open, wide and puzzled. She’s OK. But she’s not OK—what is this woman doing in my kitchen? Where’s Greta? I look about wildly. Greta is here. She’s on my kitchen floor, in a crumpled heap. My eyes dart from my daughter to my sister and I move toward my daughter.
Venetia catches Bella around the waist with one arm then holds up her other hand.
“No you don’t. Stay put or I’ll show you what would happen if I hold her by the legs and slam her head against a wall.”
I stop still. “Please,” I whisper, “what…what do you want?”
In my peripheral vision, I see Greta move. Then a small groan.
“Greta, are you OK?” My eyes don’t leave Bella.
“She’ll be fine. It’s only a whack on the head.” Venetia nods toward a heavy metal rod on the worktop, about a foot long with a crook at one end. A tire iron, I think. Not mine…So she brought it with her? To hurt us.Oh god.
