Page 62 of Carbon

“They weren’t. Mother’s always been a drama queen.”

“I still remember her throwing a fit at one of my grandma’s parties because a waiter served her warm champagne.”

I couldn’t help giggling. “A heinous crime.”

“My grandmother’s fault entirely—she hires the staff based on their looks rather than their knowledge of wine.”

“Like those men serving the canapés at her Wimbledon party last year?”

The more time I spent with Nye, the more snippets from the past I recalled. His grandmother, Ivy, was adorable but a little bonkers.

“And the shirtless waiters at her summer barbecue,” Nye muttered.

We stopped talking as he got to work, emptying out the contents of the drawers and wardrobe, tipping up the mattress, and searching through the bathroom cupboard. When we got downstairs again, he repeated the process in the kitchen and the lounge, although the latter only contained a battered sofa and a television.

“Nothing,” I said. “There’s nothing useful here, is there?”

“I’m more interested in what isn’t here.”

“What do you mean?”

He beckoned me forward and climbed the stairs again, stopping in front of the wardrobe. After searching it, he’d re-folded all the clothes and put them back. Who knew how long they’d sit there? I couldn’t see Mother organising Ben’s replacement in the near future, and Father never got involved with the household staff.

“What do you see here?” Nye asked.

“Uh, shirts? Trousers?”

He pointed to the bottom shelf. “How about there?”

“Nothing.”

“Precisely. When the rest of the stuff is crammed in so tightly, why did he leave that shelf empty?”

“I’ve got no idea. Maybe it was all in the wash?”

“His laundry basket held one pair of trousers, two t-shirts, and a couple of pairs of socks. No underpants. Either he got lax on his hygiene, or he went commando.”

I could confirm it was the latter, but I wasn’t about to tell Nye that. “Do you think he took something with him?”

“Yeah, I do.”

“What?”

“An interesting question. If you were leaving home in a hurry, what would you pack?”

“Uh...”

I wouldn’t know where to start. Angie and I had holidayed in our villa in Barbados twice a year, and Dorothy had always packed for me.

“Come on, hurry up. Time’s ticking, and you’re about to have the police hunting for you. What do you take?”

“My toiletries. Clothes, shoes, a jacket. My MacBook and my favourite stationery.”

“Seriously? Life or death and you’d pick pens?”

At the mention of the word ‘death,’ I choked out a sob, and Nye’s expression softened.

“Sorry.”

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