Page 68 of Every Silent Lie
“Okay.”
“Done.”
“That was quick.”
“It’s amazing how fast I work when there’s something special waiting for my attention.”
“I’m not waiting for your attention.”
“No, you’re not. You have it.”
His phone rings in his hand, Dad lighting the screen. Dec rejects the call. “I thought you said your father’s dead,” I say, confused.
“He is.” He kind of shrugs, kind of sneers. “To me.”
“Wow,” I blurt, withdrawing. “There’s something we need to unpack.”
“There’s not much to unpack. Bank it and ask me another time.”
I mentally file my questions away for a more appropriate time, turning my attention to our joined hands. His fingers are weaving languidly through mine, easy and slow. “Is it far to your home?”
“Fifteen minutes, depending on traffic.”
“Twenty-four,” Ron says from up front. “Can I offer any ambient music?”
“No,” Dec says slowly, seriously, his eyes narrowed Ron’s way. “Just get me home as quick as you can.”
“Right, boss.”
* * *
Exactly twenty-four minutes later, Ron slows down outside a line of Georgian houses and eventually stops, and I lean forward in my seat. I can’t exactly see the top of the low box hedging lining the front garden, but if there wasn’t a sheet of snow hiding it, I know I’d see it’s impossible pristine, not one leaf out of place. Two snow-topped bay trees, cut into perfect spheres, flank the central stone steps that lead to the front door. “You live on Ilchester Place?” I ask, trying not to sound intimidated.
“I believe that’s where home is, yes.” Dec steps out, and I shuffle along the seat, taking his offered hand. “It’s slippery, be careful.”
My neck cranes to look up the face of the house. “Jesus, Dec,” I breathe, losing my battle. “You live here?”
“That’s what I just said.” He dips when Ron lowers the driver’s window. “You can knock off now, unless Lynette needs to be anywhere.”
“She’s good, I checked in with her an hour ago.”
“Good man.” Dec slaps the side of the Defender. “See you in the morning.” I’m still taking in Dec’s home, a beautiful Georgian double-fronted townhouse, every detail in keeping with its era—the symmetrical sash windows, the cast stone door surround, the pediment, the hipped roof with three dormers. Iconic. And right now, under a thick blanket of snow, it’s also magical.
“This is so gorgeous,” I muse, feeling a bit foolish. And wholly inadequate.
“I’m glad you like it.” He pulls me on, leading the way, which is good because my eyes are still up, not looking where I’m going.
“How long have you lived here?”
“Ten years. Watch your step.”
I peek down and get my bearings, taking the first of seven steps up, feeling grit under the soles of my boots. There’s a short expanse of flat area before three more steps to the front door. Light shines out from the downstairs windows, the black cast iron lanterns, mounted either side of the door, lighting the way too. Dec slips a key into the lock and opens the door, and I step in, rendered mute, taking in the endless, exquisite detail. A crystal chandelier hangs proudly from an ornate ceiling rose, and elaborate cornicing frames the high ceilings.
“Dec,” someone says, a woman, snapping me from my admiring.
“Lynette.” Dec throws his keys into a gold-leaf bowl on a white console table that has a huge dumpy glass vase rammed full of clipped white roses, then kicks his shoes off, prompting me to do the same. “This is Camryn. Camryn, Lynette.”
Lynette smiles, and it’s such a warm smile, her brown eyes shining. “Hi, Camryn.” She tucks her mobile into the back pocket of her jeans.
