I take a deep breath. “Jack told me that she died of the cancer.”
Her eyes widen. “Fuck me. He really is the worst human being. Listen, I don’t know how to say this, but I don’t think you’re safe here. I’ve always thought there was something more to her death than they made out, and due to a lack of evidence or—God, I don’t know—they never did anything about it. She ‘fell’ off a footbridge. How easy would it have been for him to push her? She was still weak from the cancer.”
I picture it. Jack, hiding in the shadows, waiting for the right moment. A chilling theory, to think this man who has shared my bed, my life, might be capable of that.
Serena composes herself. “So I’m here to warn you. You’re living with a dangerous man, Iris. I don’t know for sure what happened, but I do know that Alice was scared of him when she died. Really scared. She didn’t know what he was going to do to her if he found out about the affair. So yeah,” she finishes, an anticlimax after that explosive reveal. “I just came here to say that. If he could do it to her, then I have no doubt he could do it to you, too.”
The implication that I’m somehow lesser than Alice isn’t lost on me, and, even despite everything she has just told me, I feel a prickle of anger. To disguise my irritation, I lean forward so my hair falls in front ofmy face, and as I do so the necklace becomes dislodged from the neck of my sweater.
Serena sits up straighter. “What’s that?” Urgent, scared, even. “Is that Alice’s? Her necklace with the ‘A’ on it?” She grabs for it. I hate it when people get into my personal space without asking, but I’ll allow it. Just this once.
“Is this hers?” she says loudly. Too loudly.
I nod. “Yes.”
“Where did you get it?” She’s practically hyperventilating now.
I stare at her. “Jack gave it to me.”
“Fucking hell,” she whispers. “I knew it. He was fucking there. I’ve looked at that picture she sent me a million times, and she was definitely wearing it. I just thought it had come free in the water. She was wearing that on the day she died.”
Forty-four
Serena paces upand down until I’m sure she is going to carve a path in the kitchen flagstones. Her mind is running at a million miles an hour. She throws out theory after theory, forcing the pieces of the puzzle together until—half an hour later—she has a complete story. Jack found out that Alice was going to leave him and tracked her down. In his rage he confronted her, and, when she didn’t deny that there was someone else, he pushed her. “It would be just like him,” she muses frantically. “There’s no way he’d let her get away with it.”
I half listen. She’s becoming hysterical, and this is all moving too fast for me. I need time. If Jack is who she says he is—a controlling abuser—then she’s right. I am in danger. Yet still I grapple with the idea. He thinks I’m special. He has his flaws, but don’t we all? Haven’t we all been driven to the brink by love? Forced to do things we didn’t previously think ourselves capable of? But—a tiny, insistent voice at the back of my mind—doeshe think I’m special? Have I not been modeling myself on others for years? Would he think I was special, I wonder, if I showed him the real me?
“We need to take it to the police.” Serena sits, takes my hands in hers. “This is the evidence we need.”
Her theory has holes. I need to be sure, so I urge caution. “Didn’t Alice die late at night?” I ask. “Is it possible that she took the necklace off? What time did she send the photo?”
“She sent it in the early afternoon, but she always wore it. It was a present…” She tails off and bites her lip. “It was a present from Jack.”
“OK,” I say gently. “Do you think that maybe, if she was planning on leaving him, she might have taken it off if she was going to meet the man she was having an affair with?”
Serena is quiet for a long time. I’ve stumped her.
“We need more than this, Serena. The police aren’t going to reopen a case for a necklace. I’ll have to stay here. See if I can find something else. Then we can go to the police.”
Reluctantly, she agrees. “Will you be safe here?” she says, and I nod.
“I’ve got my ways,” I tell her.
She tells me to take the necklace off. She offers to take it with her and, reluctantly, I agree. She tucks it into her purse. Just before she leaves, she drains her tea, throws an anxious glance around the room, and shudders.
“God, she’s everywhere here. Don’t you feel it? Be careful, Iris.”
And she goes, in a cloud of expensive perfume. The second she is gone, I pull out my phone. Three hours until Jack gets back. Time to get moving.
—
When Jack arriveslater that evening, I am up and ready for him.
He comes straight to me, presses his lips to my temple, and my traitorous body leans into it for a second before I remember.
He steps back, appraises me, and a small line appears between his brows. I’ve changed. I’m not wearing Alice’s clothes tonight. I’ve gonefor something I feel comfortable in, not the tight, tight jeans, the figure-hugging tops. These clothes are my own. Clothes I wear when I’m not modeling myself on someone else. They’re not from a boutique brand, but they are mine.
Jack looks confused—not only are these not the clothes he laid out for me this morning, they’re not Alice’s at all—and he falters, nose raised as though he’s testing the air for scents of food.
