Page 57 of Every Silent Lie
He snorts, chucking more salt around my feet. “I was being a good neighbour. What’s his name?”
Grit sprinkles my boots as I make my way up the path. “Mr. Percival, your aim is terrible. Dec. His name’s Dec.”
“Dec? And how old is Dec?”
I frown. “I don’t know.”
He laughs. “You don’t know? He’s bought you those beautiful flowers and you don’t even know how old he is?”
“I don’t know how old you are,” I point out.
“I didn’t buy you flowers.”
“No, but you made me a cake.”
His grin is epic, and impossible not to return. “I did, didn’t I? Was it good?”
“Delicious,” I admit.
He drops the bucket by his walking frame. “There. It should be safe now.”
“Thank you.”
“Wel—” Mr. Percival stands up straight, his old eyes suddenly as alert as his posture.
“What is it?” I ask, looking over my shoulder. “Oh no.” Two kids, the same little shits that pelted me with a snowball to the face, are at the end of the path, each with a perfectly formed, fucking massive snowballs in their gloved hands. “Don’t you dare,” I warn.
They smirk, draw back.
“No!”
And fire.
One gets me square in the face, the other in my chest. The power behind their missiles would be impressive if I wasn’t the target. “God damn!” My curse comes out on a garbled snort, diluted by a mouthful of snow. I can’t see, can’t talk, and dare not move, but I can hear a mixture of old chuckles and young, boisterous laughs.
I spit out the snow and wipe my face with my spare hand, my flowers safe in the crook of my arm. “This is victimisation.”
“Come on, dear. It’s safe in here.”
I risk releasing the railing and dusting myself off, seeing the two little shits running off down the road. “Little fuckers.” I move slowly and carefully toward the door as Mr. Percival titters, moving aside to let me through. “Now, I’m no detective, Camryn, as you well know, so I’m working on intuition and nothing else.”
“And what’s your intuition say?”
“It says this Dec bloke is fond of you. What do you think?”
“I think you might be onto something.”
“Me too.”
We walk down the corridor side by side. “He’s a very lovely man,” I say quietly, my mind returning to our second kiss, my smile discreet, my lips still warm from his mouth on mine.
We make it to Mr. Percival’s flat first, and I hold back to make sure he makes it inside safely. “Christmas,” he says, wistful, hovering on the threshold. “What a wonderful time to fall in love.”
“Who said anything about love?”
“You did.”
“I did no such thing.”
