Page 7 of Three Widows

‘A good one. Your ex has a history of cavorting with criminals, and as soon as she revealed Sergio’s existence, you flew to Spain to meet him.’ This was a flimsy argument, but she had to calm him somehow. ‘Stop worrying. I bet she only wants money.’

‘Where will I get money? I’m trying to buy a bigger apartment – and don’t say I can move in with you again. You have Rose to contend with now, along with your own three and your grandson.’

‘Intergenerational blended families are all the rage.’ She forced a hopeful smile.

He shook his head without a hint of levity. ‘Thanks for the offer, Lottie, but you have enough on your plate.’

Leaning back, she folded her arms and stuck a foot on the dashboard like a grumpy kid.

‘It’s hard to believe we were nearly married, and now we can’t even conduct a normal conversation.’ She hadn’t meant to sound sharp, but it had to be said.

‘Maybe that makes us like a real married couple.’

‘God knows, we argue enough.’

‘I’m sorry, Lottie. Let me sort this out on my own. Can you do that for me?’

Could she? The pressures of her home life deepened daily. She wanted to have Boyd by her side at home as well as in work, but that didn’t seem like it would be happening any time soon. It had taken her long enough to accept that she loved him, and now she was in danger of losing him. All because of his bloody ex-wife.

She opened her mouth to let fly with a rant, but was saved when the garda radio burst into life.

* * *

Early-morning yoga class normally offered headspace to Orla Keating. Today, she hoped it might rid her of the pain pinging behind her eyes.

As she walked from her home on the cemetery road towards the studio at the other end of town, she kept glancing back over her shoulder. The hairs stood up on her neck. No one behind her. Few people were out and about at this hour of the morning. She liked walking. It helped clear her mind of the things she’d rather not be worrying about. It was a chance for her to use all her senses.

She breathed in and out as she took a detour along the canal path. She had plenty of time. She looked at the sky, then at the flowers and weeds in the hedgerows. She marvelled at the sound of the water rippling and the birds twittering in the trees. Stopping for a moment, she touched the reeds and leaned in to smell the freshness – and then the heavens opened. She pulled up her hood and continued up the incline, over the bridge and onto the street.

Passing Millie’s garage, she noticed two people sitting in a car, eating. How could they eat garage food, especially at this hour? As she walked down Friar’s Street, she once again looked behind her.

Stop! No one was following her. Still, she couldn’t shake the uneasy sensation. Orla knew she was astute and sensitive. So if she felt this way, there had to be a reason.

Shuddering, she moved her yoga mat from one shoulder to the other and straightened the small rucksack on her back with its towel and water bottle. Despite her headache, she felt good this morning in her purple Lycra gear and her new Asics runners. Tyler would have made her send them back because of the price tag. But Tyler wasn’t the boss of her any longer. Today, that didn’t give her the satisfaction she knew she should feel.

That was when she felt it again. Eyes on her back. Swinging around quickly, she thought she saw a shadow pull into the alleyway behind her. Should she stop and wait? Have a look? Should she run? No, she was done with running. That had got her nowhere.

Sirens blared. She watched as two squad cars shot past, splashing through the gathering puddles.

Someone was dead.

She was certain of it.

She felt that tumbling motion in the pit of her stomach that she’d felt the day Tyler had disappeared.

He’d been standing at the sink in their tiny kitchen with his back to her. His shoulders were hunched and she knew his phone was in his hand.

‘Who are you texting at this hour of the morning?’ She’d glanced at the digital cooker clock: 4.05 a.m.

He swung around, his face shrouded in the shadows cast by the dim light bulb hanging from the ceiling. She had forgotten to get a higher wattage.

‘What I’m doing is not your business. And if you want to know, I’m confirming my flight time.’

Cringing, she flicked on the kettle.

‘Did you even check if there’s water in that?’ He glared before turning his back once again, texting one-handed.

The kettle barked and she realised he was right. It was empty. Should she turn on the tap, or would that infuriate him further? Did she even want a cup of tea? No, was the answer to both questions. She could creep out, leaving him to his mysterious texting. Or stand her ground. She shivered and back-stepped towards the door.

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