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CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

T he reddish-brown granite blended with the cluster of twigs littered in the background. Around it, the world moved – feet scraping against concrete, the odd snap of a camera, hushed voices. Yet Robert didn’t join the dance of the living. He stood still, ice-cold like the stones around him, staring at the golden words. I will not forget you… I have held you in the palm of my hand.

A tear broke free, streaking its way down his cheek then splatting against the ground.

The day he’d met Anne had been overcast like this one. He’d been tasked to go from door to door, asking about an alleged attack on a female who’d phoned the police for help the previous night. Dickheadson had relegated him to doing the paperwork and knocking on doors. In a neighbourhood where uniformed officials were treated like Napoleon, Robert’d had more doors slammed in his face – and nearly a fist – than he could keep a track of.

So after his shift, he’d banged his head against his locker and cursed his job, society and the people who preyed on the vulnerable. And when DCI Shaw had seen him like that, he’d offered Robert a spot in his upcoming enquiry into a sudden rise in cases of violence against women in their area. His mood had turned, and Robert had gone to the pub and met Anne.

Three months later, when the team for the enquiry had finally formed, Robert had given his excuses and refused DCI Shaw’s very alluring offer; Anne didn’t want him risking his life more than he had to.

Robert crossed his arms across his chest. The memory still stung. But the pain hardly compared to what he’d felt when he’d pieced it all together in the pub.

In November 2021, DCI Shaw had asked him again if he’d like to join his team. And a week later, after a year of trying, Anne had told him she’d fallen pregnant.

In mid-December that year, Robert had stood in front of this reddish granite for the first time, lost and grief-stricken.

I will not forget you… I have held you in the palm of my hand.

He’d read the words, he’d demanded his mind forget them because… he hadn’t held the bairn. Hell, he hadn’t even felt it kick or heard its heartbeat. The doctor had shared the statistics, said the first three months in a pregnancy were the riskiest…

Robert had done his best to be there for Anne. But he hadn’t been enough.

In July 2022, DI Clark had taken over the enquiry and reached out to Robert with an offer. Ecstatic, Robert had rushed home to tell Anne, but she’d beaten him to the good news: she was pregnant again.

But in August 2022…

I will not forget you… I have held you in the palm of my hand.

Another tear trickled down his other cheek and joined the previous one on the ground.

And then, two years later, Anne had died. Only now Cheryl said they hadn’t found a body, only frozen blood.

Wasn’t it ironic that Anne had disappeared from his life just as unexpectedly as she’d arrived? As ironic as a cop who dealt with criminals every day not seeing the signs that his marriage had been a farce.

A month into a pregnancy, you didn’t have evidence of a bairn on the way. You didn’t have a bump to show.

Had she lied about their bairns?

The world collapsed into a pool of colours; no matter how many tears cascaded, he couldn’t see anything.

Lies. Lies. Lies.

She’d taken his hopes and dreams, dangled them in front of him and led him a merry dance. And fuck had he danced to her tunes. Say no, stay in your lane, come home early, do the chores and never upset the wife, because what if she leaves?

A snort of laughter spilled through his teeth, jerking him out of his haze.

Aye, Anne had tried to leave; she’d faked her death. Only with the evidence inside the camera, she couldn’t yet leave this life behind her.

No, this game Anne had begun wasn’t over yet. They weren’t truly over yet.

Robert whipped out his phone and texted the number that had once been first on his speed dial. ‘I figured it out. Meet me at our favourite place. I’ll bring the hot chocolate… and the camera.’