Page 194 of Every Silent Lie

“He’s not napping yet?”

“No.”

“I’ll see him when we get back,” I say, checking my phone. We’re pushing it for time already.

“Just go say bye to him,” Dec says, encouraging me toward the lounge. “You know how he is.”

How he is? “How is he?” I ask, letting Dec push me on.

“Just say goodbye.” He practically shoves me past the doors. “We’ll wait in the car.” He grabs Albi, and they disappear, and I shake my head in exasperation, finding my email confirmation for my collection as I go to the couch where Mr. Percival’s sitting, armed with the remote control.

“Bloody marvellous thing this is, isn’t it?”

“What?” I ask, watching as he flicks through the channels.

“Look! Every episode of Dad’s Army. Bleeding heck, I can watch them all together.”

I laugh and dip to kiss his cheek. “Take your nap, we’re popping to the shops. Need anything?”

“Got my brandy, dear,” he says, tapping the breast pocket of his tweed jacket where his hip flask is tucked in the inside pocket. “Oh dear, you’ve got your shoes on.”

I look down at my boots. Dec’s fault. I turn to hurry out. “See you—” I freeze, eyes locked on the wall above the fireplace, where the collage of photos of Albi and Dec hang. “Oh my God,” I whisper, trying to take it all in. Not the photos of them, as I see them every day. Smile at them every day.

But today there are more. Beautifully framed portraits, all black and white.

Of Noah. Of me and Noah. Of me and my mum. Me and my dad. Noah and my mum and dad. And me with Dec and Albi.

I let out a choked sob, my eyes welling to the point I have to quickly brush them clear so I can see. I approach slowly, rapt. I can hardly breathe through my utter awe. I see them every day. In my mind, in the pictures I have on my bedside cabinet.

But this?

“Do you like it?”

I whirl around, sniffing back my emotion, but I can’t stop the flood of tears. “I love it,” I choke, pointing back, as if Dec doesn’t know it’s there. “Look.”

“I see, baby,” he says, coming to me. “And did you see this?” He puts an arm around me and turns me back to the fireplace.

“Oh God,” I whisper. I have a stocking. And so does Noah.

“I found it in the garage,” Dec says. “Albi really wanted to put it there.”

I can’t talk. My throat’s too tight. The tears are streaming.

Dec takes me in his arms, hugging the shit out of me. “He’s a part of you, Camryn, so he’s a part of me and Albi too.”

I nod, sniffing. “Thank you.”

“Shut up.” He pulls me out and wipes my face. “Albi put a gift in Noah’s stocking. Will you humour him?”

I laugh a little through my sniff and go to the stocking, smiling at his name as I peek inside. I gasp. “He gave Noah his Spitfire?” I face Dec, shocked deeply. And then I notice something. Mr. Percival’s on the couch still, with a front-row seat. He’s paused Dad’s Army and is smiling fondly at us.

“Need a drink?” he asks.

“Not yet,” I say, laughing.

“You will do, dear.” He winks. I frown. And then Dec rolls his eyes. “I’m meant to give you this.” Mr. Percival reaches behind him on the couch and pulls something out. “Here.”

It’s my desk calendar. The one Dec bought for my home office. Every day, he leaves some words for me, a memory of our lives. Sometimes they’re deep and emotional, a declaration of undying love and appreciation. And sometimes they’re less emotional, more carnal, like yesterday. When I flipped the day and saw what he’d written, I nearly choked on my coffee.