Page 53 of Carbon

“Why don’t you sit down and have some soup?” Mary asked. “You need to keep your strength up.”

I didn’t have much choice. After all, where else could I go?

There was one empty space left at the table, and my heart lurched when I realised who normally sat there. Beau. And these people had spent more time with him than me recently.

“Did the police ask you questions?”

They all looked at each other. Bernie shifted uncomfortably in his chair, and Mary broke the silence by placing a bowl of Scotch broth in front of me.

“It’s not a good idea to talk about that.”

“But I want to know what’s going on, and nobody else will speak to me.”

“The police didn’t ask me much,” Bernie said. “But I was out visiting my sister last night and missed the whole thing. They just wanted to know how well I knew Beau.”

“And what did you tell them?”

“The truth. That he kept himself to himself.”

“I don’t think any of us really knew him,” Dorothy said. “He ate with us some days, and he always lent a hand if we were short, but he lived out in that little cottage, and that’s where he spent most of his time.”

“Although I’ll admit it surprised us when we heard what he’d done,” Mary put in. “Never saw him as the violent type, but I’m not the best judge of character—that’s why I’ve got two ex-husbands.”

I took a spoonful of soup, which tasted of nothing. “I only spoke to him a few times, but he was always pleasant.”

“You never can tell,” Dorothy said. “At least your Mr. Fitzgerald is a true gentleman.”

Gregory may have been a gentleman, but I was a bitch, because when he phoned me the next morning, I diverted him to voicemail, stuck my frilly, little-girl pillow over my head, and tried to go to sleep.

I failed.

Every time I closed my eyes, the events of Saturday night played over and over, a porn film followed by a snuff movie. A dream turned into a nightmare, and when finally I could take no more, an overwhelming feeling of loneliness swept through me as I got dressed in yesterday’s clothes.

Of course, Mother noticed. Not my aching sadness, but my outfit.

“Didn’t you wear that Donna Karan dress yesterday?”

“Yes.” And the day before.

The pen from Ben still lay in the pocket, and I clasped it as if it could ward off evil spirits.

“Well, you need to change before you eat lunch. What if we have visitors?”

“They wouldn’t have seen me wearing it yesterday.”

“That’s not the point.”

“Leave the girl alone, Carolyn,” my father told her.

“We’ve got enough scandal in this house already without Augusta dressing like a bag lady.”

Father’s eyes met mine. “Just leave, sweetheart. Carolyn, give me the glass. You’ve drunk quite enough today.”

I slipped from the room, but I couldn’t help listening from the other side of the door. My parents rarely argued, mainly because my father always left for the office at the slightest sign of conflict, and I wanted to hear how he handled it.

Because sooner or later, it would be me left to deal with her tantrums all day.

“I’m not drunk,” she snapped.

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