Page 10 of Between the Lies

For fuck’s sake! ‘I’m not a bloody invalid!’ Robert roared.

Cheryl strode out, the sound of her footsteps muffled by the carpeted floors, but the rage in her eyes flamed. ‘You’ve just lost your wife. He’ – she pointed at Joshua – ‘said he was keeping you stocked.’

‘I’ – Robert thumped his chest – ‘am dealing with it.’

‘You haven’t made coffee and have no food in your kitchen save for the containers I’ve been bringing you. You haven’t had any breakfast.’

Robert’s stomach growled again.

‘And,’ Cheryl snapped, ‘you haven’t showered. Opening windows doesn’t mask that stench. Plus, you haven’t slept and are working the case!’

‘I have to do it because the cops won’t!’ Robert threw his arms out.

‘Oh aye, the cops.’ Cheryl matched his decibel level. ‘I heard all about that. You stupid, stupid prick! Pricks!’ She pointed at Joshua. ‘I’ve had it with your masculine bone-headedness.’

Cheryl flapped the papers she’d snatched from Robert. ‘You forget that I’m a detective inspector. And I wouldn’t have let Dickinson classify this as an accident. It wasn’t. There are so many holes in his report, you’d think a rat went to town with it! But instead of talking to me, trusting me, you went and performed that wee show. You fucking…’

When words failed her, Cheryl marched up to him, took hold of Robert’s collar and said, ‘I was here to drop off food and tell you I have an eyewitness. But you don’t deserve a break. You want justice for your wife? Then get your act together.’

Still holding on to his collar, she dragged Robert into the other room and shoved him into the loo. Two seconds later, the door smacked into his face.

‘Take a shower. Now!’ Cheryl bellowed from the other side of the door. ‘Or I’m sending Joshua in to give you one. I told you, Josh: make sure he’s taken a shower. Is that hard to understand? Look at this house! Do you call washing fucking socks doing the damned laundry?’

Joshua’s answer was far muted and thus incoherent, but Cheryl…

‘No! You put the washing on. I’m making us breakfast,’ she barked. Then a fist smacked on the bathroom door, startling Robert. ‘Robert! Shower, now!’

Aye, Cheryl would’ve made for the quintessential 1940s wife with her excellent cooking skills and obsessive need to clean – but also a great villain in a superhero movie. If he was being level-headed, he’d admit her insistent bullying was her way of taking care of him. And instead of Joshua’s laissez-faire approach, hers was at least spurring him into action.

Robert peeled off his clothes and stepped under the rush of water, shuddering at the warm stream hitting his body. The pale skin on his stomach burned red.

He pumped some soap into his palm and froze when its scent hit his nostrils. Anne’s favourite. They shared a soap, and every time he’d leaned in to kiss her after a shower, she’d smelled of sweet strawberries. It wasn’t a masculine scent at all. But he’d used it first because he’d forgotten to keep his own stocked, and then because he liked feeling close to his wife, especially when he was on the night shift and missing her. He’d ensured they always had an extra bottle in the supply closet.

Now sweet strawberries were the only thing he had to feel even slightly close to Anne.

Feeling guilty for finding peace under the warm shower, he rubbed the soap off his skin and stepped out.

They didn’t have a radiator in the loo. Standing there butt naked, he shivered from the cold. But this discomfort, the slight bite as the water cooled on his skin, soothed him. Life without Anne didn’t have smiles, comfort or strawberry-scented soap. It was cold, overcast and harsh. Every breath would be painful.

It might seem dramatic. Petty even. But he’d vowed to protect her – when he’d proposed, when they’d wed and every time they’d lost a child.

Robert shut his eyes and banged his head on the wall. It hardly mattered anymore.

Anne was dead, and she’d taken all his hopes and dreams with her.

CHAPTERFIVE

‘Expect your life to be thrown off-kilter at a moment’s notice, and be prepared.’

The words echoed in Nina’s head, like the Gayatri mantra on repeat.

Fifteen years ago, Blake Weatherby, a famous investigative reporter, had imparted these words to a too-naive-for-her-own-good Nina. Ever since, Nina had prepped an overnight bag with cash (she added two per cent of her monthly income to it every month), a burner phone, personal documents and a spot for her laptop, and stashed it at the back of her utility closet.

After rushing home from the airport, Nina had stuffed the items from her overnight bag into her backpack – if she needed to stay nimble, the backpack would be easier to carry – and hightailed it out of there. She’d managed to stay hidden for over two and a half months sincethatnight, yet somehow the thugs had found her at the airport… they must have followed her from her flat.

So she’d been careful. She had replaced her personal documents, securing a new ID – thanks to a young techie she’d interviewed for an article on underage alcoholism. Then she’d used that ID to rent a new flat.

It had hurt to leave her old place with all her things – books, shoes, cosmetics, memorabilia, gadgets, favourite blankets…

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