Page 105 of Every Silent Lie
“Oh? Do I need to deploy my alpha streak and mark my territory?”
“Maybe. He’s seriously wooing me.”
“I’ll be having a word.” There’s laughter in his voice.
“Did you have a nice time with your sister?”
“I did. She’s very excited to meet you.”
I’m suddenly more awake. And nervous. “You’ve told her about me?”
He laughs. “Are you freaking out?”
“Not at all.”
“Sure,” he chuckles. “Listen, get back to sleep. I’ll call you tomorrow, okay?”
I pout. “Okay.” And brace myself for the words that’ll send me back to sleep peacefully.
“I love you.”
I can’t contain my smile. “I love you,” I reply, a fuzzy warmth radiating through me. “Goodnight.”
“Goodnight.”
I hang up and snuggle down, content.
Smiling.
Not scared to go asleep alone.
December 17th
As I stand in my kitchen, munching my way through the last bit of Mr. Percival’s cake, replaying Dec saying those three words over and over, I hear the intercom chime. I make my way to the door, and there’s a knock as I answer the phone. “Hello?” I say as I open the door.
“Delivery for Camryn,” Mr. Percival declares.
Just as someone down the line says, “Tesco delivery for number five.”
I frown and poke my head out the door as I hang up and see a man with a few stacked crates wedged up against the glass door. “Tesco?”
“See!” Mr. Percival sings. “And now everything is delivered to your door. No need to even step foot outside the house!” He makes his way to the door on his walking frame. “It’s a wonder he made it in the snow.”
More snow. Loads of it. I follow and hover behind Mr. Percival as he hauls the door open, knocking his walking frame. “This way,” he says, making way for the Tesco delivery driver. “I’ll show you where you can put it.”
“Thanks, geezer,” he rumbles, struggling down the corridor with the crates.
“For Camryn Moore?” I ask, following him.
“That’s right. There are two substitutes, and I recommend eating the strawberries today as there’s a short shelf life on them.” He finds his way to my kitchen, courtesy of Mr. Percival, and dumps the crates on the table, pulling out the paperwork. “No apple and ginger shots, so they’ve substituted with cloudy apple juice. Seems a bit stupid to me.” He laughs. “This ain’t no shot.” A litre bottle of apple juice is held up in his hand. “And the bananas are to be ripened at home, so they’re a little green. Sign here, please.” He thrusts his little digital device toward me.
“I didn’t order a Tesco delivery,” I say, signing anyway.
“You’re Camryn Moore?”
“Yes.”
“This is flat five Park Way Crescent.”
