Page 79 of You Lied First
‘Has he ever hurt you? Physically?’
Margot doesn’t mean to pause, yet she does, then she realises she’s lost the chance to lie, so she remains silent. Herhead is suddenly swimming with thoughts. Ideas. A possibility. Flynn swallows and Margot sees his jaw clench.
‘What? What is it?’
‘You know it’s not just you?’
‘What?’
‘You can’t ever tell him I told you this, but do you remember those bruises on my arm? When we got back from Oman?’
The four fingertip-shaped bruises. Flynn’s uneasiness when Margot saw them. ‘What? What are you saying?’
‘That was him. I asked him why Celine joined our holiday. I asked if he was fucking her. Sorry for the word but it’s what I said. He grabbed me and shook me. I had matching bruises on the other arm, too. He told me never to talk about her like that again.’
Margot takes Flynn’s hand and looks into his eyes. All she sees there is anxiety.
‘I’m so sorry, Flynn. Thank you for trusting me with this. I promise I’ll make sure he never touches you like that again. I don’t know what else to say.’
‘What if he killed her?’ Flynn said. ‘What if he’s a murderer? And we’re living in the house with him?’
They stare at each other, then the key turns in the front door.
‘Did you see the news?’ Guy yells from the hallway. He comes crashing up the stairs and shoves open the studio door so hard it rebounds off the door stop. ‘They’re saying she was strangled!’
63
SARA
Breaking: Celine Cremorne STRANGLED
Authorities in Oman confirmed in a statement today that injuries found on the body of British expatriate Celine Cremorne are consistent with death by strangulation. Detectives have launched a murder hunt and are urging anyone with information to come forward. Police are focusing on leads within the community. Further updates will be provided as the case develops.
Ithrow my phone down. Of course they’d be able to tell. Even after being buried. After I’d dragged Celine back to her tent and positioned her on the mattress, I’d closed her eyes and used her scarf as best I could to hide the bruising that I realised might come out on her neck. I’d cleaned the sand off her face, but there wasn’t anything I could do about the sand she might have inhaled. Thankfully, that morning the Forrests had been too shocked and then too preoccupied to notice anything amiss.
When Margot and I had heaved her to the grave, I’d deliberately taken the head end, making sure the scarf stillcovered any marks on her neck. Perhaps it had got worse after we’d buried her, too – I really wasn’t an expert on the patterns of blood coagulation after death by strangling, and it’s not something I dared to look up online. I’m sitting at my dining table thinking all this, not to mention worrying how the news is going to go down with Liv, when Margot calls to invite me over ‘urgently’ for a chat, which sends me straight into a clammy-handed panic. Has she already figured out that it was me who did it? If she accuses me, will I admit it?
I drive over in contemplative silence, and Flynn lets me in with a nod towards the stairs.
‘She’s in the studio. Up the stairs, first right.’ And so I head on up.
I knock on the door of the room Flynn’s specified and stick my head around.
‘Yoo-hoo!’ I call, trying to lighten the situation. Maybe it would be my last chance to make a joke.
Margot claps a hand to her chest as if she’s seen a ghost. ‘Oh my God! Sara! Jesus! Did you have to do that?’
She’s sitting at the desk on a swivel chair, with an array of fabrics laid out on a large work bench in front of her. To one side stands the frame of an impressive house.
‘So this is where the magic happens,’ I say to hide my nerves.Why am I here?‘It looks amazing! You’re very talented.’
‘Thanks. It just takes an eye for detail, good eyesight and nimble fingers, that’s all. But look. Enough about me. Can I get you a coffee or tea – or a snifter of something stronger?’
I see she has a cut-glass decanter and a half-drunk glassof something golden on the table. Her bloodshot, puffy eyes make me think it’s something strong.
‘I’m fine,’ I say. ‘Is Guy joining us?’
‘He’s not here,’ she says. She gets up and closes the door with a click. ‘There’s something I want to talk to you about on your own, actually. Sit down.’ She points to the sofa, so I take a seat, sitting politely – nervously – on the edge of it and Margot sits on her work chair, facing me. She closes her eyes and takes a juddering deep breath in through her nose then lets it out slowly, her hand on her heart. My own breath is shallow in contrast.
