Most of the guests have disappeared, getting out while the going was good. Maxwell leaves in the back of one ambulance, Marnie and Allain in the care of another.
“I’m sorry I bullied you. Sorry I hurt you until you had to run away.” The guilt is debilitating, admitting the truth against the backdrop of her actual situation rather than the one I believed to be true is agonising, but it’s lost in the confusion of her laugh.
“Oh, sure. Big man.” She gets caught in a fit of giggles so bad she curls her legs up, turning to the side as the last of her breath wheezes out of her.
“Careful. Keep laughing at me and I’ll get insulted.”
“Fragile ego, much?”
“Hardly fragile. It’s supporting this giant chip on my shoulder if you hadn’t noticed.”
Another blast of laughter comes, and I hold her tight, enjoying the sensation of her body shaking within my arms. Finally, she tapers off, becoming serious.
“I didn’t leave because you hurt me. I left because I would’ve told you if I stayed and neither of us were ready for that.” Her voice is thoughtful as she expands on the answer, like she’s thinking through everything for the first time. “Sometimes it’s like you see me more clearly than I do.”
“Sebastian’s truth serum,” I mutter ominously into the delicious curve of her neck.
“Something like that.”
We continue to watch as the fire crew gets the blaze under control. By late afternoon, little pockets occasionally burst into life but are quickly damped down again. There’s a weird haze in the air that the light wind can’t blow away.
Cars come and go from the popular parking spot, singles and couples nodding to us as they join in the lollygagging. Even in this age of constant entertainment, fire still has a mesmerising draw.
“I wish I smoked,” Esme says. “This feels like the kind of scene where I should calmly stroll back down the hill and light a cigarette off the burning wreckage.”
“Or just pretend and avoid the lung cancer.”
“Oh, yeah.” She giggles again. “Maybe I’ll do that.”
A few frantic texts come through from my mother, a reintroduction to the idea there’s a reality out there that we’ll have to return to.
But not for a few hours yet.
I send a quick summary, assuring her that when we return to civilisation, she’ll be the first port of call.
The smoke turns the deepening sunset into a vibrant light show, the low clouds helping to refract and reflect the light. It’s the second prettiest thing I’ve ever seen, and I stare out at it in wonder while I hold the most beautiful within the circle of my arms, hoping against hope I never have to let her go.
CHAPTERTWENTY-SIX
ESME
My mind isas hazy as a dream as Seb steers us down from the hilltop, skirting around the industrial estate, before turning into the driveway of his mother’s home.
I wipe my palms against my dress, the fabric still stinking of Marnie’s spilled red wine. They’re sweaty with nerves, my stomach in a knot. I reach into my pocket for a tissue to wipe them clean and find the knife still smeared with drops of Richard’s blood.
“Woah,” Seb says, taking it from my numb fingers. “I know my mum and you have some history, but there’s no need to come equipped.”
I stare as he shuts it away in the glove box, still feeling the unreality of a day that started with my intention to commit at least three murders—one of them mine—and is ending with my dreadful faux parents in an ambulance and me sitting next to the boy I love.
“Maybe I should get a hotel room,” I whisper, not sure if my credit cards still work or, if they do, for how long. “I’m sure I’m the last person your mother wants to see.”
“Hardly. My mum’s met some atrocious people in her time. Half her client list, for starters.”
Seb’s voice is full of warm good humour, but it doesn’t crack the ice casing holding me in place. The last time I saw his mother was the night I fed my false accusations to the police while standing in her living room.
Since then, she’s had trouble finding work, struggled to pay the rent, sacrificed a lot to ensure her son could gain his scholarship, and now, here I am again, turning up like a bad penny, about to walk inside and tell her his future’s trashed.
A hotel room sounds a thousand times nicer. A room without a hint of personality, a blank box to store myself in until I’m able to face the world again.
