“I need to go,” Sally tells him.Need and want.Mark is the last person she wants to think about at the moment. It would take toomuch precious energy to drum into him that, as far as she’s concerned, it doesn’t matter if all the Lamberts eat nothing but cold baked beans out of tins for months on end as long as the Gaveys don’t succeed in having Champ murdered. “I’ll be back in about half an hour, probably,” she says.
“Okay.” Mark sounds satisfied. “And you’ll make dinner then?”
Why do women have husbands by choice?Sally wonders. Surely it was a false economy, when you considered not only money but also time, effort, and emotional energy expended. “No,” she says. “If you and the kids are hungry, there’s plenty in the fridge you can eat.”
“Sal, for God’s sake—”
“Mark, I’m not a—”
“Wait. Listen. I know I’m capable of feeding me and the kids, if that’s what you were going to say, and I will. But I’m worried about you. You’re acting like there’s a huge emergency, and…well, there isn’t. Nothing’s happened yet apart from one visit from the police, and if they aren’t already clear on the fact that Champ can’t possibly have—”
“I’ve got to go, Mark. Keep the front door locked. Don’t let anyone in and don’t answer your phone.”
“Sal, for crying out loud—”
“Bye.” Sally ends the call.
“What was he saying there at the end?” Corinne asks. “‘Don’t trust Corinne, everyone knows she’s a ruthless monster’?” She grins. “It’s okay, you can tell me. I enjoy collecting slanderous comments about myself.”
“Not at all.” Sally is surprised. “He was trying to persuade me everything’s fine and life can go on as normal. He didn’t say anything about you.”
“And everything isn’t fine—correct?”
Sally nods.
“Tell me,” says Corinne. So Sally does. As her words echo around the immaculate wooden-floored, white-walled room, she decides there’s a strong chance that if she’s being taken seriously in such a beautiful, important-looking setting (and she is; Corinne is rapt as Sally explains what’s happened today as well as the whole sense-defying backstory), then her predicament must be noble and important, because…look at the richly colored oil paintings on the walls, and the elaborately carved legs of most of the chairs, and the navy-gray-painted wooden shutters at every window. This is the kind of lounge you might have if you were the chairman of the board of directors for a world-famous art gallery.
“Oka…ay,” Corinne says thoughtfully when Sally finally falls silent. “The first and most important thing to say is that we’re absolutely going to make sure no one kills Champ. We simply won’t allow that to happen, so you can stop worrying.Really,” she underlines, when Sally doesn’t look convinced. “All we need to do is start immediately. Tonight—because you’re right, time is of the essence. Don’t worry. I have an idea.”
Sally wishes she felt reassured, but somehow Corinne’s positivity and certainty feel too extreme. How can she have a plan already? Sally has only just finished telling the story.
“We need to go to your house and get Champ now,” Corinne says. “Let’s do that, and we can talk on the way.”
“On the way where?” This is happening too fast. What if Sally can’t trust this woman? Is there something innately suspiciousabout Corinne’s eagerness to drop everything and spring into action to help a stranger?
“I don’t understand why you’re still sitting there.” Corinne’s on her feet, car keys in hand, even though her house is no more than two minutes’ walk from the Hayloft.
That’s right—because she’s planning to take me and Champ somewhere. And I’m expected to follow and comply without knowing the eventual destination.
It didn’t feel okay, didn’t feel safe.
“We have a huge advantage if we act quickly,” says Corinne. “No one will be expecting you and Champ to go anywhere tonight. Do you know why? Because people in your situation never do what we’re about to do. Or rarely—the kind of rarely that everyone’s happy to call never. Most people, however much they love their dogs, would sit around feeling helpless and hoping for the best. And most peopledon’tlove their dogs quite enough to ditch their entire lives and go on the run when there’s a good chance it might not even prove necessary. Whereas youdolove Champ that much. You decided you’d do anything to save him, soon as you heard what that cop had to say.”
Sally nods.
“I understand that,” says Corinne. “I’d be the same. You don’t sit around crossing your fingers and waiting to see how things work out, not when it really matters. Not when the people in charge of the things areother people.” She says this with distaste. “I’d go on the run to save my children’s lives, and for you, Champ is your kid—just like…whatever your other kids are called.”
“Rhiannon, Toby, and Furbert,” says Sally. “Furbert died, buthis spirit is very much still…” Sally stops there, wanting to avoid getting into a wrangle for which she lacks the proper theological vocabulary. How, she wonders,can Corinne be a woman living in Swaffham Tilney and not know the names of everyone’s children?The men generally don’t. Mark knows the names of the oldest children in most households, but not subsequent ones. He says things like, “I just think of all three as Evie, even the boys”—but all the women do. Except, apparently, this one, whose grown-up children, Sally knows, are called Rory, Niall, and Bryony.
Go on the run.Is that what Sally is about to do, with Champ? She’s been thinking of it as getting him safely out of the village, that’s all. Being on the run sounds as if it might be a huge and complex undertaking, potentially lasting for months, but maybe it’s just two different ways of saying the same thing. Corinne seems to think so: She thought she was just repeating Sally’s stated intention back to her when she said, “Go on the run.”
Corinne puts her hand on Sally’s arm. “Listen. Normal working hours are over for the day, which means the cops won’t be doing anything else until tomorrow at the earliest. I promise you, they’re not all sitting around now saying to each other, ‘I wonder if the Lamberts and Champ are a flight risk.’ This is a dog bite, not a—”
“No, it isn’t! Champ didn’t—”
“An alleged dog bite, I mean. Sorry.” Corinne holds up her hands. “I only meant there’s no string of sadistic murders involved, no loudly ticking rucksack in a packed concert hall. We can be reasonably sure the authorities won’t be back on the case until tomorrow at the earliest, which means we have a significant time advantage, and we need to use it because what if Detective Whatnotcomes back tomorrow morning and says he’s got a warrant to take Champ away?”
“You’re right. You’re right.” Still, Sally can’t risk standing up. Panic swirls in her stomach and she very much doesn’t want to throw up all over Corinne’s immaculate lounge floor. And…what if this is a cruel trick? What if, secretly, Corinne is Lesley Gavey’s best friend? She’s ruthless enough to lie if she has to; Sally doesn’t doubt that, and she knows Lesley has tried to persuade more than one person that Sally is nasty and unstable.
