“Don’t be sorry,” Tilly said. “You’ve already been a great help to us.”
I smiled tightly. I didn’t feel like I’d been helpful. I hadn’t contributed anything at all to the cause. The only thing I’d done was steal Henry’s phone months ago. The more Tilly insisted she was grateful, the worse I felt—although that may have been because of what day it was. I couldn’t stop thinking about my mum. Abouthow I hadn’t been able to help her. I had a lump in my throat, and my eyes burnt with unshed tears.
“Kate?”
Tilly was blurry when I looked at her. Shit. I blinked rapidly to get rid of my tears, but it was too late.
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” I croaked thickly. “Everything’s fine.”
“Are you sure?” she pressed, unconvinced.
I nodded and wiped my face with the back of my hand to catch my tears, but they kept falling.
Tilly opened a drawer and wordlessly handed me a packet of tissues. I thanked her and took one. “No need to thank me.” She smiled at me sympathetically, and I had to turn away. I couldn’t bear her kindness.
I sniffed. “Sorry. I’ll be fine in a minute.”
“It’s OK,” she reassured me, and reached across the table to pat my arm. It was a tender gesture, one that reminded me of my mum before the drugs took over. A searing pain shot through me, and I knew I couldn’t stay a second longer without breaking down completely and sobbing. I liked Tilly, but right now, she reminded me too much of my mum. They were even the same age.
I scraped my chair back and stood up. “I think I should go.”
“You’re very welcome to stay.”
“I’m meeting someone for lunch,” I lied, and shouldered my rucksack. Had it become heavier, or had I grown weaker? “Thanks for showing me Hope Harbour, and I’m sorry I can’t help you.”
Tilly returned my smile. “You know where I am if you change your mind. And take these, just in case.” She handed me the tissues.
I pocketed them gratefully and said goodbye.
Five minutes later, I left Hope Harbour, relieved that I hadn’t entirely lost it in Tilly’s presence. I took several deep breaths, trying to get my tears under control, and then I started walking. The only problem was that I had no idea where I could go. I had nowhere to escape my pain and my memories.
43
It was nice to meet Kate yesterday. She seems cool. I don’t quite get what she’s doing with a workaholic buttface like you, but whatever.
Message from Logan to Henry
Kate
I stared at the cast-iron gate. I hadn’t been here since my mum’s funeral. Over the last few months, I had kept vowing to visit her but had never been able to bring myself to go, always finding new excuses to delay my visit. But now here I stood, my heart pounding, holding a cheap bunch of flowers and trying to pluck up the courage to step into the cemetery. The clouds had given way to a steady drizzle shrouding London.
The gate to the cemetery swung open, and a woman dashed off towards the parking lot and her dry car. I wished I could also be somewhere dry. I wished I was at The Darlington. I wished I was with Henry. But I had to be here—there was no way around it.
Determined to get it over with, I opened the gate set into a sandstone wall. It creaked slightly. To the left, there was a small chapel, behind which lay the cemetery. The unpaved paths wereslippery, and the wind had blown the autumn leaves from the trees. I made my way past the graves—some of them new, others so old that the gravestones were crooked.
Although I had only been here once before, I had no problem finding the small, inconspicuous grave at the edge of the cemetery’s grassy area. Since I couldn’t afford the funeral, the city had organised it. Randell had stayed out of it. He hadn’t even had the decency to show up on the day, which made it abundantly clear how much my mum had really meant to him. He hadn’t loved her; he’d loved the way he could control her.
I stopped at her grave and felt the lump in my throat grow bigger.
“Hey, Mum,” I said. My voice was hoarse and barely audible, but that didn’t matter. I could have yelled and she still wouldn’t have heard.
I crouched down in front of the grave and laid the flowers down beside it, although I knew they would probably freeze during the night. There was no headstone, only a wooden cross. It already looked weathered, and I could hardly read the inscription on it anymore, but perhaps that was also due to the tears that blurred my vision. I wiped my eyes, and for a brief moment, the world seemed a little clearer, despite the rain.
Rebecca Hamilton
8th August, 1986—15th November, 2023
