Page 121 of Every Silent Lie

Mr. Percival takes a moment, obviously reaching the right conclusion. “About that drink,” he says softly.

“You know, do you mind if we defer until tomorrow? I don’t think I’ll be much company.” The mention of Dec has apparently kick-started all the feels.

“A problem shared is a problem halved, dear.”

“I won’t burden you with my tragedies.” I dip and drop a kiss on his wrinkly old cheek. “Thank you for the wine.”

“Welcome, dear,” he says, thoughtful, as I let myself out. “You know where I am.”

I get inside my apartment and close the door, taking in the newly spruced-up space, before wandering to the kitchen. The table is laid for two. Ingredients I need to make a coq au vin are on the counter, the chicken in the fridge with wine. Wine that I carefully selected to match the meal I was making, rather than wine for the sake of getting mindlessly drunk.

Which is what it will be used for now.

He was having an affair. My baby is dead because he was having a fucking affair.

I didn’t plan for it to happen. It just . . . did.

Such utter fucking bollocks. When will the blows stop coming? I thought Dec was healing me. I never dreamed he could be using me.

He’s slashed his offer, and then I found out he’s seeing you. Coincidence?

No. Probably not.

“God damn it,” I yell, slapping the counter. Why now? Why this month? This week? This fucking day?

I set the orange wine on the counter and pull out the chilled white from the fridge, retrieving my newly bought corkscrew to remove the cork. No screw caps in sight. I pour a large glass and sip it as I put away the ingredients, then head into the lounge to the cabinet by the window. The framed picture of my boy sits there alone, tilted ever so slightly so he can see the snow.

It comes over me like a tidal wave, my muscles giving way, folding me down to the floor.

And I sob.

Silently.

I sob my fucking heart out. “I don’t want tomorrow to come,” I say to him. “Mummy doesn’t want to do this anymore.” Wake up each morning and have that brief moment where everything’s okay before reality swoops in and reminds me of what I’ve lost. And the agony starts all over again. A never-ending cycle of pain, momentary relief, and realisation, setting off the pain again. Dec provided respite. My job was a distraction. The pain was dulled. Not gone—it will never be gone—but it was manageable. Just. Neither Dec nor my job can help me anymore.

I look at my glass. But wine can.

I need to feel that familiar numbness.

I sniff, wiping my eyes, and get to my feet with effort, heading for the kitchen as I neck it, but a light thump on my front door pulls me to a stop on the threshold, and I look at the ceiling, taking in air.

Finding strength.

I go to the door and push my forehead into the wood. “I can’t take anymore today,” I say quietly through the wood.

“And I can’t leave knowing what tomorrow is,” Dec replies softly. “Open the door, Camryn.”

My lip wobbles, and I bite down on it viciously to stop it. Tomorrow. The nineteenth of December. Three years since Noah died. “Go away,” I murmur, squeezing my eyes closed, rolling my head on the wood.

“No.”

“Leave me alone.”

“No.” His soft thud on the door vibrates through my head. “I will never leave you alone, Camryn.” Another thud. “Do you hear what I’m saying to you?”

I’m hearing. And I don’t want to believe it. It would be dangerous to believe it. He lied to me. I push my palm into the wood and lift my head with effort, taking the knob and pulling the door open, finding Dec standing on the other side, tall and impassive.

And painfully beautiful.