Page 82 of Making Home with You
Sarah stares up at me, an unreadable look on her face.“Yeah,” she says, almost hesitantly.“Just work stuff.”
“Wanna talk about it?”I ask, because it’s clearly bothering her, whatever it is.
She tries for a smile, but I can tell it’s forced.“It’s good, seriously.I don’t want to ruin our night with my work drama.”
“You’re not,” I tell her.“I want you to talk to me.”I tuck her hair behind her ear, offering a smile of reassurance.“Seriously.”
Sarah takes a deep breath.“I know, Finn,” she starts.“Just like I want you to talk to me,” she continues, as though she somehow knows I’m hiding something; that I haven’t told her everything that Carla’s said or done.
And she’d be right too, but not because I don’t want to tell her, but because I don’t want to burden her with this shit.To have her worry about stuff that I know is beyond her control.
“I know, babe,” I say, kissing her forehead.“And just so you know, I did report the incident with Carla confronting you.They may want you make a statement if that’s okay?”
“Of course,” she says immediately.“Anything I can do.”
I smile.“Thank you,” I say.“Now, are you sure there isn’t anything I can do about your work situation?That wasn’t your boss on the phone was it?”
Sarah shakes her head.
“And he hasn’t done anything to you still, right?”
She shakes her head again.“Nothing I can’t handle.”
“But you’re still reporting him, aren’t you?”
She stares up at me now, almost as if she’s trying to work out what to say.Just as I’m about to repeat my question, stress the importance of what she needs to do, she says, “Yeah I am.I’m going in tomorrow to do that.”
I feel my body sag in relief as I let out a breath I didn’t realize I was holding.“Good, I’m really glad,” I tell her, kissing her lips this time.
She offers me a sad smile and for some reason it makes that uneasy feeling return, as though there’s something more she isn’t telling me.Just as I’m about to ask her what it is, she glances around the kitchen, laughing a little before saying, “Think you might need some help with dinner here, Chief?”
And even though I know I should push her to tell me what’s obviously still on her mind, I don’t.Instead I let it go as we start trying to pull something together for dinner.
The next day at work, I fire off an email to Detective Greenwood letting him know that Sarah is happy to talk to him and make a statement about what happened with Carla outside my house two nights ago.He replies quickly, just a single line to say thanks and he’ll be in touch.
Figuring there’s no point in telling him I can take Sarah’s statement myself because he’ll only tell me to stay out of it, I don’t reply and instead focus on my own work.
The day passes relatively quickly and by five, I’m packing up and heading home, grateful that it’s been a day without drama, especially of the Carla variety.
My good mood quickly disappears however, when I get home.
From the outside, my house appears normal, exactly as I left it this morning when I dropped Sarah at the train station before heading into work.But the second I walk inside, I notice it, the overpowering stench of perfume.Perfume that I know Sarah doesn’t wear.
“Fuck’s sake,” I say, dropping my bag on the floor.
My hand automatically goes to the gun on my hip, although I don’t remove it.It’s been a long time since I fired my weapon and although I have no idea who or what is in my house right now, I’m trying to avoid doing anything stupid.
Without making a sound, I move through the house, systematically checking the living room, the kitchen and adjoining laundry before making my way toward the back.The two spare bedrooms and bathroom are also clear and it’s not until I reach the master bedroom that I see what she’s done.
My bed, which I know Sarah made this morning after we got up, is now a mess, as though someone has thrown back the covers and rolled all over it.
The duvet is on the floor, along with a couple of pillows, but the sheets, which are crumpled on the mattress still, are covered in Polaroids.There must be hundreds of them, thrown all over the bed.
Stepping closer, I take a look at what they’re of, my stomach turning when I see photo after photo of every room in my house, from all angles, as though she’s walked through and photographed everything.There’s no one in the photos, though, like they’ve been taken today when Sarah and I were both at work.
But mixed in amongst them all are other pictures, photos of outside my house, photos of my car, my workplace, the train station and even outside the pub.
And in every single one of those pictures, are Sarah and me.
