Page 65 of Pretty Mess

“Not at all,” Mac says quickly. “Wes was just admiring the contours of the hall.”

The older man glances at me, and I immediately try to look like I’m enthusiastic about hallways.

He grunts. “Hurry up, please. I don’t have all day.” He vanishes around the corner again.

“Maybe he’s the exception to your money rule,” I murmur.

Mac shrugs. “He’s not. I happen to know he needs the money, so that will hopefully tip the balance.”

“How did you know that?” I ask.

Ignoring me, he ushers me ahead, his hand at my back as usual. I love the gesture. It’s almost old-fashioned but still very nice. I feel safe and appreciated, even if it’s all an illusion.

Mr Corvin pauses by a door and flings it open. “Study,” he says and gestures for us to look in.

I gasp in delight. It’s a large room with a view over the river through the multi-paned window. Shelves line the room, but they’re largely empty apart from a few lonely-looking books, and the carpet is pink and stained in places.

Mac looks at me curiously. “You like it?”

“Oh yes. I can imagine you working here with the river in the distance. It would be so peaceful for you.”

Mr Corvin clears his throat, and Mac starts as if he’d forgotten the older man. “Sorry. This is a delightful room.”

Mr. Corvin shrugs. “It was my study before I retired. Now I rarely venture in here.”

“That’s a shame,” I say, softly, wandering to the window. The garden is overgrown, but the scents coming through the window are lush. I can see the remains of an old shed, but it looks likethe garden is reclaiming it along with the old summer house. “I think I’d be in here all the time,” I say dreamily. “All these bookshelves.”

Mac looks at me. “I didn’t know you liked reading—” I widen my eyes, and he jerks as he remembers what we’re doing. “That much,” he finishes rather lamely.

Luckily, Mr Corvin isn’t paying us any attention. He gestures us out, shutting the door behind us, but not before I direct one more longing gaze at the bookshelves. When I look up, Mac is watching me with a wry look on his face. “You’re as full of surprises as ever,” he murmurs as Mr Corvin once more strides ahead of us down the corridor.

“Why? Because I can read?” I say crossly. “I bet you thought I’d been raised in a zoo.”

“God help the other animals. They’d have escaped after twenty minutes of conversation with you.”

He laughs as I elbow him.

Mr Corvin opens another door, and we find ourselves in a long lounge that’s incredibly light due to the patio doors and two-stained glass windows that look onto the front garden. The sunlight through the glass sends red, blue, and green stripes on the old carpet. The room is dated, with chintzy furniture and a huge seventies-looking brick fireplace. It smells strongly of damp, but it has a certain charm despite that. It feels rooted and solid.

“Lovely,” I say with emphasis.

The old man’s face cracks into a smile that’s all too brief. “Yes, it was my wife’s favourite room. She spent a lot of time in here.”

The silence stretches, and I look at Mac, waiting for him to say something. He’s watching the man with a strange look in his eyes, his face a cool mask.

“I’m sorry for your loss,” I say quickly when it becomes evident that Mac isn’t going to talk.

The man shrugs. “Don’t be. It was a long time ago.”

“Some losses mean something via their absence, don’t you think?” Mac says suddenly.

I stare at him. What the fuck did that mean?

Mr Corvin’s face creases in confusion. “I suppose,” he says slowly. “She was a very quiet woman.”

He’s spoken as if he’s given his dead wife a compliment. It’s very odd and somehow sad—like he thinks it was a virtue that she was quiet? I’m sure that “compliment” would never appear on my gravestone.

Mac turns away carelessly and walks to the patio doors. Beyond them is a wide, cracked patio with an old table and chairs, the wood rotten, and the parasol a faded pink. “Was this your family home?” Mac asks, touching the door gently. It’s warped, and a pane of glass is cracked.