Page 29 of Not That Impossible

“Showtime.” I giggled nervously, and backed out of the drive.

8

Sycamore Close was in one of the more humble, workaday areas of Chipping Fairford. You got the occasional tourist wandering through, looking vaguely disappointed by all the practical little houses on the developments that had sprung up between the 1920s and the 1950s, but not many.

I lived in a similar development on the other side of town. On any other day, Sycamore Close would look like my street. Most of the drives were empty at this time in the afternoon. Bins were neatly lined up and tucked against the house, waiting for collection day. Every now and then someone would stroll by, walking their dog or their toddler.

Today, I couldn’t even turn down the street, let alone park on it.

I drove up to the junction, flipped on my indicator, and got briskly waved on by a policeman wearing a bulky high-visibility jacket. He stood squarely in the middle of the road, flanked by traffic cones, and his expression said he meant business.

I caught a brief glimpse of police cars and a couple of vans clustered in front of a house midway down the road, then had to pay attention to my driving before I rubber-necked my way into the wrong lane.

I took the next left, parked up and grabbed my phone. While I wanted to leap out of the car and rush over to where the action was, I should probably take a moment to find out what the hell was going on. So far, all I knew was that someone had found a dead body at number fifty-two.

I also had a nagging suspicion that Sycamore Close should mean something to me.

I didn’tthinkI knew anyone who lived here? I was a runner. I ran all over town, much preferring to be outside than on a treadmill. As a result, everywhere in Chipping Fairford was at least a little familiar.

It must have been that.

I listened to another two of Ralph’s increasingly irate voicemails, but it wasn’t until I went through his texts that the reason for my unease came clear.

Ray Underwood.

My stomach lurched when I saw his name.

Holy fuckingshitballs, Adam was going to die.

He was going to go into a full decline.

Ray was dead?

Adam was going to mourn like—

Wait. I read more of the text. Okay. Ray wasn’t dead. I slumped in my seat.

The dead body was at Ray’shouse.Ray had called it in.

Thank god. If Ray had been the body then Adam would have—

Oh, shit.

Was Ray a murderer?Did he kill someone?

I mean…

Adam was loyal. He’d visit Ray in prison. He’d be faithful and wait for him to be released, and rehabilitate him and teach him the meaning of love and all about how killing is bad, but still.

He wasn’t going tolikeit.

My thumb hovered over the call button. I moved it away before I followed through on my instinct to let Adam know that Ray was in trouble.

He’d find out soon enough.

And it would be more helpful if I got some actual information first. Otherwise Adam would come running, get fired from the Premier Lodge for leaving in the middle of his shift, and have to take up modelling again to finance his post-graduate studies. He’dhatedbeing a model.

If ever there was a time for me to become the journalist I was born to be, it was now.

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