“Matt’s seven. Susie’s ten next month.”
“Tempus fugit.”
“That it does.” Chris pulls up and puts the car into park.
“And Kirsten’s well?”
“She’s good, thank you.”
Boxes ticked. I suppose I should say more, but I feel so damn awkward, discombobulated from the flight, fleeing Alex, the fact that Carol has already texted me to say he’s come knocking.
“Let’s get you inside and find you a cup of tea,”Chris says. “I’m sorry, I haven’t had a chance to clear the playroom out for you, but we can get that done.”
But I don’t move for the door. “I’m disrupting your lives, aren’t I? Is Kirsten really okay with this?”
Maybe I should find a hotel. Put it on my business account. Spend some of the seed money that’s now legitimately mine, because I gave in and went to Alex’s damn ball. Money that makes me feel dirty to have it in my account, let alone the thought of spending it.
“Vicky, Kirstenencouragedme to go get you. Shewantsyou here, safe. Now. Tea? Bath? Peace?”
I nod once, then again with more certainty. “All right. Thank you.”
“And no thanks are necessary.” He opens his door. “You’d do the same for me.”
I spend the weekend with my nephew and niece, playing Lego, and helping to re-order dolls. (I get it wrong every time, and have to re-order them again.)
Kirsten is nothing but warm, politely asks no questions, and brings me so much tea I’m constantly running to the bathroom. Chris is easygoing, unbothered.
My ass feels better by Sunday, and it no longer hurts to sit. To my shame, I almost miss that warm ache, the reminder of my night with Alex.
I go for a run with my AirPods, determined to puthim from my mind. No success.
Monday, I pull myself together and get my laptop out. The kids are at school, Chris is at work, and Kirsten’s in her home office on calls. I set up on the dining room table, enjoying the quiet of their house.
Over the next three days, I finish off the deeper checks my wealthy client instructed me to do for his daughter’s love interest, pull it all together in a report, and send it over. It fills my time and it’s productive, but it’s really procrastination.
Avoiding thinking of Alex. Avoiding working on Lucy’s case—because I can’t, anyway. From the dance, I have Amelia’s number, but I don’t know her well enough to call her up for a chat.
Our evenings are filled with family. Dinners, easy conversation, a glass of wine after the children have gone to bed. Kirsten doesn’t let me retire to my playroom-bedroom to free them of my company, but insists we watch movies or sit and talk. A game of Cards Against Humanity results in too much laughter and disturbs the kids.
Come Friday, I’m alone at the dining room table with nothing to do and bored of spider solitaire, when the freedom of information request comes back from the medical examiner’s office on Van Wyk’s prior spouse.
A one-week turn-around—not bad. I click it open, scroll past the basic information, straight to the summary.
And freeze.
Cause of death: Sharp force injury of the neck.
Manner of death: Suicide.
Incised wound measuring 9.4 cm in length located on the anterior aspect of the neck, extending from just left of the midline at the level of the thyroid cartilage and transecting the underlying structures.
She killed herself. With a goddamnknife. Into herneck.
Who stabs themselves in the neck?
I’m still rattled when Kirsten knocks off early as it’s a Friday afternoon. She does a double-take when she sees me.
“More bad news?”
