Page 112 of On Edge

“I didn’t know he was Irish.”

Something shifts in her expression, becoming more guarded. “Well, his family was. Before they came—” She stops abruptly.

I stare at her, my brain working overtime to connect the dots. Kathy already admitted to me that she knew Troy when he was younger. What else is she not saying? “You knew Troy’s family?”

Her hand goes to the door frame. “Ah, no. I just know his heritage.” She won’t meet my eyes now. “From what I’ve heard, I mean. Around the house.”

But her fingers are twisting the fabric of her apron. Kathy is worse than I am at lying.

“I should get back.” She’s already backing into the hallway. “Come down when you’re ready.”

As soon as she’s gone, I stuff the letter inside the book and stash it with the rest of myevidence. Then I fix myself in the mirror. I’m wearing one of my new dresses with an oversized cardigan. Boxes and boxes arrived from London yesterday morning. I should put the clothes away, but somehow that feels like I’m staying, and deep down I know I’m not.

When I get to the kitchen, Kathy tells me she has to run a few errands and leaves me to it. My insides deflate a little. I was coming down to grill her about Troy, but she can’t wait to get away fast enough.

“I’ll be back to check on you soon, but I really must run to the village,” she calls.

Then she’s off, out the door, closing it to keep Ben out. He’s not allowed in the kitchen.

For a few hours, I lose myself in the task of baking; the smell of the yeast, the feel of the dough soft under my hands, and the satisfying ache in my arms as I knead it into shape. Nothing else exists when I’m in the warm kitchen. For once, I’m able to switch off and let my mind become quiet.

Occasionally, my mind wanders to the book and the letter, but it’s like trying to find my way through a labyrinth in the dark. At least, now I know why Nell chose that book. The king in the story is called Sweeney too. She was leaving the letter there for Sweeney to find.

Only he didn’t find it.

Because I did.

A helicopter chops through the silence.

The shadows have shifted across the floor when I look outside. How long have I been baking? The sound grows louder, directly overhead now. Through the back windows beyond the garden, a man jumps from the helicopter on the landing pad and strides toward the house.

Troy Severin.

I’m still watching when he looks up...

I duck out of view and go back to what I was doing, but then catch my reflection in one of the oven doors. Without thinking, I reach up and fix my hair and check that my earrings aren’t twisted.

Then I stop.

I’m making pastry. Why do I need to check my earrings? Why am I even wearing earrings?

The guilt of what I let that man do to me is written all over my face in the glass, but I still look back at the helicopter pad. Troy is no longer walking across it. He’s probably gone to his office.

When the door opens a few minutes later and Ben runs in, tail on the go, I’m expecting it to be Kathy. But when I wipe my brow with the back of my hand, and look up…

It’s not.

Troy is staring at me.

I can’t help but stare back.

Then he glowers. “What are you doing in here? Where’s Kathy?” He absently strokes Ben’s head as the dog fawns all over him.

“She went to the village. I’m helping her make some…er pies and things.” His eyes narrow as he takes me in, and then glances down at my handiwork, several pies, a selection of quiches, and a whole tray of jam tarts. His jaw clenches, but he says nothing. “For the wedding breakfast,” I add.

“Who are you feeding? The whole village?”

“I really like baking.” Okay, that wasn’t even remotely mean. But it’s hard when my emotions are all mixed up.