Page 79

Chapter Nineteen
Hallie
I take my case up to my apartment, wheel it into the center of the room, then stand there, looking around. It’s dark and cool, and feels devoid of life and happiness. I really need to move. Even if it’s only a room in a shared apartment, anything would be better than staying here. It holds too many unpleasant memories, and I need to move on.
My eyes prick with tears, but I know it’s not really anything to do with the apartment or Ian. I miss Fraser. He’s never set foot in here, but I feel his absence so strongly that it’s almost painful.
I press my fingers to my mouth, fighting against letting the tears fall. I’m not going to cry over him. I knew it wouldn’t lead to anything, and I can’t now bawl my eyes out because I’m alone again.
It’s time I prioritize my wellbeing. It makes sense to spend some time alone and concentrate on healing. Ian has scarred me, and although being with Fraser made it better temporarily, I can’t rely on a man to make me whole again.
Equally, I can’t blame Ian for everything. My lack of self-confidence and the feeling that I’m unworthy of love began long before I met him. That’s what I need to deal with, before I even think about letting a man into my life again.
And I know where to start.
Mum works most days, but she has Thursdays off, so I text her and ask her if I can call in. She replies of course. So leaving my case in the center of the floor, I head out of the apartment and call for another Uber. She lives out in Ngaio, in a granny flat built to one side of a larger house that the owners rent out. It’s not where I lived when we first came to Wellington, but as soonas Dee and I left home, Mum sold that place, saying she didn’t need three bedrooms on her own. I suspect she might have had financial issues, but she never spoke to us about them, and still doesn’t, so I don’t know if she continues to have money worries.
She’s always been a private person. I guess it’s not surprising considering what happened, but sometimes I wonder whether she was like that before, and if it’s one reason why Dad did what he did. Even if that was the case, though, I don’t blame Mum for it. No other person was responsible for the terrible crimes he committed except himself.
I get out of the Uber, walk up the path, and knock on the door.
It opens after ten seconds, and Mum gives me a big smile and steps back to let me pass her. “Hello, darling,” she says, pecking me on the cheek. She’s never been a hugger. Again, I wonder if that was ever an issue in her marriage.
“Coffee?” she asks.
“Please.”
We go through to the kitchen, and she starts making us both a cup.
I sit on one of the stools at the breakfast bar, looking around as she sets the espresso pouring and then steams the milk. As far as I know, there’s never been another man. There’s certainly no sign of one in the house—no masculine magazines left on the table, no men’s sweater thrown over the chair or slippers by the fire, no scent of male cologne. She leads a busy life—she works at the local supermarket and has worked her way up to a management position, she’s a member of several clubs, she goes to yoga and plays badminton, and she’s out several times a week meeting friends. She seems happy. She doesn’t seem to feel the cloud of the past hanging over her.
“So where were you last night?” she asks, as I told her on the text that I’d been away.
I tell her about the ball and the letters, playing down Fraser’s role in the story. Either it works or she picks up that I don’t want to talk about him, and she just nods and asks questions about what I was wearing and what kind of food was served.
When the coffee’s ready, she sits across the breakfast bar, and we sip our drinks. The house is opposite a primary school, and I can hear the laughter of children in the playground in the distance. It brings a lump to my throat as I remember the moment I thought about having a baby with Fraser.
I’m not going to think about him now.
“Mum, I need to talk to you about something,” I say. I’ve thought about how to broach this subject many times, and in the end I decide to just come out with it.
“Oh?” She lifts her eyebrows.
“I’ve had a letter from Dad.”
She stares at me. Then she lowers her cup into the saucer carefully.
“Two, actually,” I continue, “and it wouldn’t surprise me if there was a third waiting for me when I go to work this afternoon. Because they were sent to the museum. He saw the article about its reopening, and he said he recognized me. And Dee said it’s because you’d sent him photos of us.”
She looks at her cup. Then she rests her elbows on the breakfast bar and puts her face in her hands.
“Why?” I whisper, terribly, terribly hurt. “Why would you do that?”
She lowers her hands, and her eyes are filled with tears. “Because he’s your father, and he asked.”
“He wants to see me,” I tell her. “He’s asked me to call the prison and arrange an appointment.”
She puts her face back in her hands again.