‘A priest?’ repeated Henry. ‘I’m not the devil.’
Imogen let out a tiny sob.
‘I never thought she’d be like this,’ said Cynthia worriedly. ‘I should phone my husband.’
‘What does he mean though, not dead?’ asked Faye cautiously.
Oh, good, thought Henry, someone with sense enough to ask a question. Imogen filled her glass with wine and took a long gulp.
‘It’s not Henry,’ she said sharply. ‘How dare you come to my house and say all these things.’
‘It’s upset her,’ explained Cynthia. ‘I’d better phone John.’
Chapter Thirty-Four
The wind rattled the windows and blew sheets of rain against the panes.
‘I’m chilled to the bone,’ said Cynthia. ‘There must be a draught somewhere.’
Imogen sat with a throw around her shoulders, her legs tucked beneath her. She shot Faye a look.
If daggers could kill, thought Henry.
‘It’s not true what you said.’ She wiped roughly at her tears with a tissue.
Cynthia nuzzled her hair.
‘Let me turn the heating up.’
‘I shouldn’t have come,’ said Faye, hurriedly packing away her things.
‘I’ve never seen Imogen this distressed,’ said Cynthia worriedly.
Faye stared at the stack of coasters on the coffee table.
‘Shall I make us a cup of tea?’ she offered.
Imogen shook her head.
‘Shall I help you to move that back?’ Cynthia pointed at the coffee table.
‘I can take one end,’ offered Faye.
‘No, don’t worry,’ said Imogen.
‘It’s alright darling,’ soothed Cynthia.
‘Can you sense him?’ Imogen scanned the room, her eyes wild.
‘No, darling, I can’t.’
Henry noticed that Faye kept quiet.
Imogen reached down for the bottle of wine.
‘Do you think you should dear?’ asked Cynthia. ‘It’s a depressant, you know.’
Imogen continued to cry.
