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‘I’m working on that.’
‘We can’t leave her where she is.’
‘I know.’
‘Something else I’ve been thinking about,’ he says. He takes a deep breath. ‘I think I should defer. Go to St Andrews next year. It won’t make much difference, not really. And if I’m at home I can make sure that—’
‘No. There’s no reason for you to be here.’
‘But, Dad—’
‘I said no. You’ve worked too hard. And it wouldn’t achieve anything, anyway. Better for us to carry on exactly as planned.’
Traffic is light on the way home. When Joseph pulls into the driveway he sees, parked in front of him, a white Mercedes he doesn’t recognize.
Max frowns. ‘Whose is that?’
‘I’m not sure.’
‘Is Erin back from London already?’
‘Maybe,’ Joseph says, remembering the text he received outside the police station.
‘Did she say anything about having visitors today?’
He shakes his head. Conscious of how it might look if they remain in the car too long, he opens his door and climbs out. As he walks past the Mercedes, he peers inside. On the centre console and the interior glass are stickers barring occupants from smoking. It might be an Uber, dropping Erin home – but if so, where’s the driver? Could it be a police pool car?
Joseph goes to the front door and slides his key into the lock. In the hall, Erin’s travel case stands near the stairs beside her discarded heels. ‘Hello?’
‘In here.’
He opens the living-room door. On the sofa, one foot tucked beneath her, sits his wife. In the armchair opposite sits the dead man.
TWENTY-FOUR
The room tilts. Joseph freezes in the doorway. If this is a hallucination, it isn’t dissipating. The dead man watches him, fingers steepled in his lap. Somehow, his terrible facial injuries have healed. No blood, no broken bone, no shattered teeth.
Joseph blinks, tries to unstick his muscles. Slowly, he turns his gaze towards Erin. Despite her relaxed pose, he sees a noticeable tension in her expression, a tightening of the muscles around her mouth.
‘Joe,’ she says, uncurling her foot from beneath her. ‘I’d like you to meet someone.’
Joseph turns to Max, behind him, and flicks his head towards the stairs. ‘Give us a few minutes,’ he says, and closes the door before the boy catches sight of their guest.
The dead man stands, extends his hand. There’s no grave dirt beneath his nails. No indication that he clawed his way out of the pit Joseph dug last night. There’s no stink of putrefaction rolling off him. His palm, when Joseph shakes it, is cool but not cold.
‘Joe, this is Gabriel Roth. Gabriel, this is my husband, Joe,’ Erin says. ‘Gabriel’s here about his brother.’
Joseph’s ears pop, then roar with equalizing pressure.He sways on his feet, tries to anchor himself. Not a hallucination, then. Nor some kind of demonic reanimation. But that still doesn’t explain Gabriel Roth’s presence in his living room. Joseph retrieves his hand, tries to focus.
They have to be twins. There’s no other explanation. Standing this close to a duplicate of someone he so recently buried is too hideous to bear. He goes to the sofa, sits beside his wife, runs his tongue around his mouth and tries to work up some moisture. ‘Your brother?’
Gabriel’s eyes are unsettlingly intense. ‘Angus Roth,’ he says, enunciating the name as if it’s a deity. ‘I take it you’ve met?’
Joseph tries to slow his breathing. He wonders if anyone’s noticed the rapid rise and fall of his chest. ‘I don’t believe so. At least, not that I recall.’
‘Gabriel’s concerned about his brother’s wellbeing,’ Erin explains. ‘Apparently, nobody’s heard from Angus since Thursday. And he hasn’t returned any of my team’s calls.’
Joseph tries to digest that last comment, but it sticks in his throat like a fishbone. He turns to his wife, confused. ‘You know him?’