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‘I’m not asking you to repeat it. Just whether that’s what you’re referring to.’
‘That was it.’
‘And that’s your reason for drowning Fin and Billie Locke? Your son and your stepdaughter?’
Daniel lifts his chin. He stares again at the ceiling-mounted video camera. ‘Is this going to be on the news?’
‘You want to be famous? Is that it?’
‘You know what? I want a solicitor. That’s what I want. This conversation is over. I want a solicitor and I want to speak to my wife.’
It’s a waiting game now.
I’m far, far calmer than I was. I never appreciated, at the start, how deeply this would affect me. How emotional I would find it. How traumatic.
The police will believe what they hear, or they won’t. It doesn’t really matter. What matters is you, Lucy. Your purification and renewal – the erasure of the hurtful creature you were; the creation of something beautiful.
I know you’ll be splashing about, desperately trying to keep your head above the water. What lies have you told yourself? How long will you avoid the truth?
No one I’ve met has more talent for self-deception. But the longer you maintain hope, the harder this will be. What you’ve faced so far is just the start.
You’ve bewitched this town, Lucy. I see that. You’re loved by everyone in it. But soon you’ll see how easily perceptions can sour. Especially once the lesser-known points of Lucy Locke trivia come to light.
Because you’re not innocent, are you? You’re not the virtuous, home-baking, child-raising, life-affirming, Skentel-businesswoman-of-the-year creative soul you make out.
You deceive. And you cheat. You thought I didn’t know but I do.
Have you received my email yet? I have to apologize for its tone. My emotions were running pretty high. Lately, my head hasn’t been as clear as I’d like.
Just remember; this isn’t bitterness, or sour grapes. This is a tragedy written entirely for your benefit. An opportunity for redemption, should you wish to take it.
TWENTY-TWO
1
Sitting at her desk, staring at the subject line of Daniel’s email –Over and Out– Lucy falls into a memory.
Saturday night, a week ago. She should be at home, helping Billie with her college work. Instead, she’s standing in darkness, halfway up Skentel’s wooded slope. The hood of her sweatshirt is raised against the rain. Water has soaked through it, matting her hair to her scalp.
Through the trees, she sees glimmering lights.
Lucy glances over her shoulder to the darkened lane at her back. No way she can risk being seen. Shivering, she starts walking.
The house is a world away from the whitewashed buildings on Skentel’s main street. It’s ultra-modern in design: all glass, aluminium and silvered wood.
The front door – a single glazed panel – is flanked by two topiary trees in black planters. Lucy presses the ringer. Moments later, light spills into the hall. Nick Povey appears, holding a whisky tumbler.
He hesitates when he sees her. Just for a beat. Then he comes forward and opens the door. Warm air, laced with cigar smoke and Nick’s citrus cologne, wafts out.
They examine each other for long seconds. Then Lucy says, ‘I’m not sure this was wise.’
Nick takes a sip of whisky. ‘Probably not.’
When he steps back, she walks in. With the door closed, the tension between them intensifies. Rainwater drips from Lucy’s clothes. ‘I’ll get you a towel,’ he says. ‘And a dry top.’
Nodding, she kicks off her soaked trainers. Then, seeing the puddles they’re making on the hardwood floor, her socks. Nick returns and leads her to the living room.
It’s an impressive space, conspicuously masculine. Logs crackle brightly on a circular stone-built firepit at its heart, sending smoke up a suspended copper chimney. A huge TV on one wall offers the only other source of light. Its screen is frozen partway through a boxing match. A black leather couch is arranged opposite. Cowhides and reindeer skins cover sections of the floor.