Page 71 of You Can't Hurt Me

“So what next? Your own book?” She catches my expression. “I thought that’s what you wanted most of all, so why do you look so horrified at the idea?”

“Right now, I can’t imagine ever writing again.”

“Really, that bad. I thought it was going well with Nate.” Her eyes search mine. “You did, didn’t you?”

I look away, my face burning.

“Oh, Anna,” she says, putting down her wine.

I can’t hold it in any longer, any of it, the secrets I’m carrying. And so I begin to tell her only what I can bear: about Nate and me, the day at the coast, Nate’s confession about Eva, our kiss. How hard I fell for him, how stupid I was to be taken in. Then the doubts, small but sharper by the day. I blink back hot tears. She nods, quietly absorbs my explanation.

I don’t tell her about Eva’s journal. I can’t go there yet, can’t risk Tony getting to Amira. Instead, I tell her about nosing around Eva’s bedroom and finding the pregnancy test receipt.

It is her turn to put an arm around me and I can’t hold my tears back anymore. They slide down my cheek, my mouth twists.

“Anna, you poor thing. Thankfully you found out when you did, before it got more serious.”

She leans forward, her expression grave as the implications of my discoveries sink in.

“But honestly. You could have been in danger. You still could be. Do you think he actually could have killed Eva?”

Even though I’ve tiptoed around that question, it’s the first time I’ve heard it articulated before. Spoken by someone else, it carries extra weight. I struggle to digest the possibility it could be true.

“It sounds fantastical, doesn’t it? I can’t believe we’re even having this conversation.” I roll my eyes at the absurdity of it but notice she’s frowning.

“Why is it so far-fetched, Anna? I’m not sure you’re taking this seriously enough. The guy lied about his timings. He was there the day she died. If that’s the case, you have to tell the police.”

I nod slowly. “You’re right, I probably should.”

“Does anyone else know you have that receipt?” she asks, sternly.

I hesitate. “Only Tony. And Nate.”

“Only?” Her tone is alarmed. “Anna, why did you tell Nate?”

“I wanted to find out if he was really lying, I guess. Part of me wanted to come up with a plausible explanation.”

“And?”

“I just don’t know anymore. He was adamant that he wasn’t there when she died and, honestly, I felt he was telling me the truth. But now I feel cheated, that he’s not who I thought he was. He admitted to hurting Eva, gripping her so tightly that he bruised her, lying to the inquest.”

“What sort of person does that?” she says quietly, and then her fingertips reflexively touch her temple. I wince once more at what I see there, unable to catch her eye.

28

I take the subway into town, weave my way toward a small Italian bar in Covent Garden where Priya has asked to meet me. Film stills of Italian film stars and opera singers fill the whitewashed walls. She tells me she has another appointment in forty minutes and doesn’t remove her coat or scarf. We perch stiffly on stools at the counter. Clearly, she is dreading this as much as I am. She glances down to check her watch, thinking I don’t notice.

“A little something to celebrate?” She eyes up the bar menu.

“Celebrate?”

“You’ve finished, Anna. Come on, you deserve it.”

“Not for me. Water’s fine.”

“Good for you.” Her eyes slip over me, trying to work out what’s changed. “You’re looking...well. Your skin or maybe your hair? You’ve had something done, haven’t you?”

“It’s called exercise, and no booze. Not working on the memoir probably helps.” I let out a small hollow laugh. Something has changed in her too, as if she’s lit from within and I think I can guess why. Everything’s worked out well for her. I’m off the scene and Brand Nate is about to launch in New York.

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