Page 120 of Every Silent Lie
“How cosy.” Isn’t that just lovely? My brother probably always liked this shithead more than he loved his own sister. Even if he’s a cheating bastard . . . and the reason Noah wasn’t safe.
The reason Noah was killed.
Fucking hell.
I hate them both.
“Kiera mentioned something about work, how we met, when, and?—”
“Get to the fucking point, Dominic.”
“Mindy put two and two together and deduced we’d had an affair. She’s given me the chance to tell you before she tells you herself.”
“Right.” I’m waiting for the unbridled rage to send me into a spin, or even the lump in my throat to appear. But all I feel is . . . numb. He knows what tomorrow is. Or is he too wrapped up in his happy little family now to remember? “Is that all?”
“What?”
“I said, is that all?” I walk to the door and swing it open. Mr. Percival is in the corridor, holding his walking frame with one hand and a bulging shopping bag with the other. I quietly scorn the old boy, taking the bag. “Anyone would think you want to injure yourself,” I say, starting to walk him to his door. Dominic emerges from my apartment, his face blank and yet riddled with perplexity, as he quietly leaves.
Mr. Percival cranes his neck. “Who’s that, dear?”
“A ghost,” I murmur, and he laughs, elbowing me in my arm.
“Stop playing games with me.”
I turn a mild smile onto him. “I don’t know who that is, Mr. Percival.”
“You don’t?”
I shake my head. “What on earth have you got in this bag?”
“Oh, the Christmas market’s on,” he says, casting one last look over his shoulder, but he doesn’t push. “I got us gifts.”
I get him inside his apartment and turn to shut the door. Dominic is motionless by the glass door that leads to the street. “What did you get me?” I ask, turning away, knowing that will be the last time I see my husband.
“Here, let me show you.” Mr. Percival claims the bag back and pulls out a bottle of wine. “Orange wine. It’s all the rage, apparently. I thought you might like to try it.”
I accept the bottle, grateful, not only because I need a drink, but because maybe I can get so drunk, I don’t wake up for the whole of tomorrow. “Want to share it?” I ask, encouraging him on.
“Are you asking me on a date?”
“I don’t date, Mr. Percival.”
“Then how do explain Dec Ellis?”
“Him?” I laugh, and the absent lump starts growing. “I haven’t dated him.” I’m struggling to get my words out. “I skipped dating and just fell in love with him instead.”
“I thought as much.”
“You did?”
“Go big or go home, dear.” He chuckles. “And of course, he’s coming for dinner and birthday cake tonight!”
Not happening. I will not celebrate a man who possibly used me and is feeling fucked that his gig is up. “He’s not coming now.”
“Oh. That’s a shame.”
“It’s okay. I’ll eat the cake myself.”
