I’ve been blessed with a miraculous second chance. Admittedly, having a baby with a prisoner who’s probably getting a ten-year-stretch added to his current sentence isn’t quite the second chance past me would have aimed for.
Not as good as say… a boat to a tropical island paradise.
The same type of charter I’d made up when I talked to police but I wish now was very much real.
To distract myself from my relentless hunt for information, I researched the cost of self-sail holiday yachts online. The prices are eye watering but, at the same time, not as much as I expected. For a woman whose lifestyle is well within her means—it’s not an unthinkable amount.
Not when I can list a freehold house in a seller’s market.
Now Josh has given his blessing, it’s about time I turned this relic into cash. My husband’s corpse tied me to this place for far longer than I wanted. The horrible tranche of memories has eaten like rust stains into the walls.
After researching the charter yacht, I grabbed a notebook and searched online for everything else I could think we’d need. The short list soon expanded to encompass all necessities. Then expanded again with nice to haves. And again, with pure luxury.
And now, in the day’s fading light, I walk into the back garden with a pick and a shovel.
The police never dug up any ground. There were the messy remnants of a search inside the house and in the garden shed, but since they were pursuing a connection that didn’t exist prior to the abduction, nothing incriminating was found.
They don’t have any suspicions. No one is surveilling me right now.
No one’s going to care if I do a spot of garden renovation.
The thought of what I might find down there is frightening, nauseating. But whatever Rod is like in death, it’s always going to be a fuck of a lot better than he was in life.
Singing along to a pop song under my breath, I heft the pick over my head and slam it into the edge of the concrete foundation.
CHAPTERTWENTY-ONE
KAI
When I shuffleinto the court for sentencing, I see Nadia sitting in the third row. Even when my lawyer clears his throat, a reminder to move, I can’t tear my eyes away from her. My heart beats out a tattoo of welcome in my chest until I feel giddy, lightheaded.
After spending so much time with her in my head, to see her in person feels like a missing part of me is made whole. My body still feels as attuned to her as it did on the day I last saw her.
My mind is suddenly rich with memories, the scent of her in my nostrils, my skin alive with her touch.
I step towards her and am jerked back onto the correct path. If Nadia notices she doesn’t react. Her hands stay neatly folded in her lap while her eyes fix on the bailiff at the head of the courtroom.
She doesn’t so much as glance my way. A situation that sends a dagger into my heart but at least I can feast my eyes without her noticing.
I catalogue the changes. Her hair’s shorter and she’s dyed the grey to match her natural chestnut, with a few highlights thrown in for good measure. She has a touch of makeup, but the rosy tan of her lips is a far cry from the bright crimson she wore when I barged into her car.
Her face appears calmer, the stress lines radiating out from her mouth have disappeared.
The glow in her amber eyes is unchanged, just as vibrant as the last time I saw her, glaring at the officers as they cuffed her wrists behind her back.
A wave of guilt runs through me.
I called them, then ran away and left her to it. Yes, all the reasons I had to do that remain, but it still rankles.
Given that she won’t even glance in my direction, it might have left its lasting impression on her, too.
Or the woman I thought I was getting to know was just a mirage, shimmering in the intense heat of being held hostage and used to fulfil my needs. The more time I’ve had to think back—and that’s a lot of time over the past ten weeks—the more I realise our interactions must have been false. She was trying to stay alive. The feelings that appeared reciprocal were likely nothing more than a performance to mitigate her risk.
In prison, I hoped she would get in contact. Would write to me or ask for a visit. I’d even approached Josh, but that came to nothing. He’s now got an advance guard of men around him, still working his way to the top of the prison pack.
Insisting he talk to me about my real-or-imagined relationship with his mum will never be a safe choice.
His men stopped my approach two metres out.
