Page 21 of One Last Gift

Linda rocked back on her heels, a little tentatively it seemed, and Cassie sat up straighter. “I’ve been starting to sort through Tom’s things,” she said gently, and Cassie’s heart gave a painful tug. It was a job she’d given Linda, unable to face it herself. She knew Linda had gone to clear out the flat he’d been staying in, and had gathered some of his things from Amy’s. Everything was in Linda’s office at the moment—so few possessions, really, for a whole lifetime.

Linda held out the envelope. “I found this.”

Cassie looked at it. It had her name in the middle, and a circled number one in the bottom right-hand corner.

It was her first clue.

She set her tea down and reached out to take the envelope with shaking fingers. Tom had set up the treasure hunt before he’d died.

Of course he would have. He hadn’t been due back until Christmas Eve, so he’d have prepared it all beforehand. Did that mean the clues were hidden somewhere, waiting to be found? Waiting for a game that would never happen? She stared at the envelope, at Tom’s handwriting. What had he been planning? Something epic, he’d said, the last time she saw him.

There was a hum under her skin. A distant echo of the excitement she’d once felt when she got her first clue on Christmas Day. It wasn’t excitement she felt now, but there was something there—a realization that there was something of Tom left behind, that he’d offered her, inadvertently, a way to stay connected with him.

But the hum disappeared as his handwriting blurred behind tears, and she set the envelope down. She couldn’t do it. She couldn’t bear it: she didn’t want to see what he’d written, didn’t want to know what the clues led to, because he wasn’t here and that was the whole point—he was supposed to be here to do it with her.

She looked up at Linda. “Thanks, I’ll open it later.”

And when Linda left the living room to start making dinner, Cassie curled into a ball under the blanket, and wept.

Two Months Later

Chapter Ten

“Shit,” Sam swore as he fumbled to do up his bowtie. He tried to start the knot again, but his hands were shaking enough to make it next to impossible. He blew out a breath, staring at himself in the fancy dressing-table mirror, black tie hanging loosely around the collar of his white shirt, which was tucked smartly into his tailor-fitted black trousers.

What the fuck was he doing? He should be ready to go, maybe outside, smoking cigars with his father-in-law to be. Instead he was here, struggling to finish getting dressed, staring at his pallid reflection.

Jessica had insisted on him having a professional haircut and shave yesterday, but he knew he looked awful. The dark hollows under his eyes were proof that he hadn’t been sleeping well for weeks. Months, if he was honest with himself. He could manage no more than four hours at a time, and had gotten used to functioning on that, his brain switching between fog and high anxiety. He was usually good at his job, had worked his way up at a small but well-respected solicitors’ firm in London straight out of university, but he hadn’t been on good form recently—forgetting things clients had asked him to do, missing emails, getting the times of meetings mixed up. His boss had put it down to being lovesick, suggesting it was all excitement over the big day. Sam was sure he was only willing to go along with that because Sam was marrying his daughter.

There had been no suggestion from anyone at work that it might be something to do with the fact that his best mate had died. The grace period for that kind of bereavement seemed to have ended already—he was supposed to have moved on, put Tom to one side. Jessica had been supportive, yes, but she’d drawn the line at changing the date of the wedding. It was all already organized, she’d said, and they’d lose a chunk of money on the hotel. She’d said it would be good for him, to have something positive to look forward to.

Sam braced his hands on the dressing table—smooth, dark wood to go with the wood-paneled room. He could see why Jessica liked this place—the hotel was indicative of the type of lifestyle he’d always aspired to, that you could only get through money. A far cry from the boy who’d worn second-hand clothes.

He tried to breathe steadily. He felt sick, and knew it wasn’t just pre-wedding nerves. He’d drunk too much last night. In his hotel room, alone, ordering up a second bottle of wine through room service. His own private stag party, since he’d canceled the one he’d originally planned. Jessica had tried to convince him to go ahead with it, but it didn’t feel right to without Tom, especially as Tom had been organizing the whole thing.

He remembered telling Tom that he was engaged. He and Jessica had gone out with Tom and Amy for drinks at the Ritz. He’d expected Tom to clock something at that, but according to him, Sam and Jessica were always going somewhere fancy, so he hadn’t thought anything of it. After showing everyone the ring Sam had gotten her—the ring she’d picked out for herself, after looking in four different ring shops—Jessica and Amy had headed off to the bathroom, leaving Sam alone with Tom.

Tom shook his head and clapped him on the back. “Never thought you’d be the one to get married first, mate.”

Sam laughed, shaking his head in disbelief as he sipped his champagne. “Tell me about it.” Especially as Tom had been with Amy for years now, and Sam and Jessica had only been officially dating for six months. But Jessica had been pretty explicit in her hints and he’d known—it was propose, or she’d move on. “Not making you want to pop the question then?”

“All in good time, my friend.” Tom raised his glass in a toast. Then his face grew a little more serious, and he glanced behind Sam, toward where the girls had gone. “I like her,” Tom said slowly. “Jessica, I mean.”

Sam raised his eyebrows. “I sense a ‘but’ in the offing.”

Tom snorted. “In the offing? You’re spending too much time around those lawyer types.”

“You know me,” Sam said dryly.

“Yeah. I do.” Again, that serious face, the one that Tom wore when he had something to say.

“Out with it. You think it’s too quick? You don’t think it’ll last?”

Tom hesitated, then shook his head. “It’s nothing. Forget about it. If you’re happy, I’m happy.” He smiled. “Your mum is going to lose her shit.”

Sam laughed. “I know.” She’d be thrilled, Sam knew, that he was “settling down.”

A wicked grin spread across Tom’s face, making him look younger—more like the teenage Tom Sam knew so well. Sam narrowed his eyes. “What?”