Page 25 of The Good Girl

Chapter Twenty-Four

Molly turned her head, her breath caught. A moment later, Shane appeared, his voice in control, letting everyone know the man of the house had returned.

His eyes were bloodshot, lids puffy, a sheen of sweat on his brow. He looked crumpled, like he’d been driving for hours. His hair was dishevelled, shirt half-untucked. He looked, Molly thought, exactly how a grieving husband who’d driven miles to get home to his beloved family, should look.

‘Oh my God,’ he whispered, voice raw as he scanned the room, his arms limp by his sides.

Then he saw Dee. In two long strides he was across the lounge, dropping to his knees in front of her. Dee broke instantly. Her face crumpling as fresh tears poured down her cheeks. Shane pulled her into his chest, cradling her like a child, stroking the back of her head.

‘Sshhh, sweetheart. I’m here. I’m here now,’ he murmured. ‘It’s going to be all right. Let it all out, that’s it, I’ve got you.’

Molly stood and went to lean by the wall, arms crossed tightly over her chest, watching.

Suddenly she wanted to be away from him, to look in and observe.

Her jaw clenched so hard it ached, but she said nothing.

His performance was flawless. His voice, his body language, the protective warmth in his embrace.

All so convincing. All so wrong. And yet she was complicit in his lie and she hated that so much.

And no, it wasn’t going to be all right. How could anything ever be right again?

He kissed the top of Dee’s head, pulled back slightly, brushing hair from her face. ‘You poor darling. This is so cruel. I can’t believe she’s gone.’

Molly noticed the way his fingers moved with practised ease, gentle yet commanding.

The way his body curved protectively around Dee, placing himself between her and the rest of the world.

It was the same way he’d once touched her, when she fell from a tree house at some country pub, feeling silly in front of all the strangers and giggling kids, his tenderness and reading of the scene had felt like balm, but now, with fresh eyes, it felt like a brand.

He looked over Dee’s head at Molly then, his expression folding with practised sorrow. ‘Molly,’ he said, ‘I… I can’t believe this. I just can’t. Where were you? Were you here?’

It was smooth. Molly caught the slight pause before his question, the almost imperceptible scan of her face, as though calculating what she might say.

Still, she swallowed hard and replied, ‘No. I stayed at The Edwardian last night,’ she said.

‘A last-minute treat. We all went into town spur of the moment. Had a few too many cocktails with the girls and couldn’t drive so hammered the credit card and booked a room.

I came home as soon as the police called. ’

His body language told her he approved of her lie. Then he was nodding, understanding, stepping forward to hug her. The contact startled her. His arms were firm and warm. The smell of his aftershave familiar and cloying, and it annoyed her so much that he’d even thought to apply it.

She imagined the scene after she’d fled.

Did he call room service, order breakfast then have a leisurely soak, maybe watched a film until it was time to make his fake journey home.

The whole scenario that she suspected would be spot on, made her stomach churn.

For the briefest moment, she wanted to push him away.

Wanted to shove him hard in the chest and scream.

But she didn’t. She let him hold her. Because she had to play the game.

The one they were practised at. For now.

‘I’m so sorry, sweetheart,’ he whispered. ‘This is a nightmare. Just a nightmare.’

She pressed her cheek against his shoulder, the fabric of his designer shirt abrasive under her tear-raw skin.

She didn’t hug him back. Her arms hung loosely by her sides.

In her mind, she saw her mother again. The awkward sprawl.

The blood. The glassy eye. The single front tooth lying beside her head covered in pink blood.

Each time she revisited it she saw something new.

Grief was beginning to morph into something else. Simmering rage. Suspicion. Shame. And Shane stood at the centre of it all. Smiling, consoling, fake as fuck. Then came a sound. A cough. Soft but deliberate. They turned.

Standing in the doorway was a tall, broad-shouldered man in a dark grey suit. His hair, almost white, was neatly combed back, and he had the calm gravity of someone used to giving orders. Behind him was another man, shorter, darker, button-eyed and unsmiling.

‘Detective Inspector Yates,’ the tall man said with a nod. ‘And this is Detective Constable Stone.’

Shane straightened. His mask shifted in a blink. Sorrow slid into concern, then quickly back to accommodating.

‘Of course,’ he said, stepping forward to shake hands. ‘Thank you for coming so quickly. This is just, unthinkable, unimaginable.’

Yates offered a small, sympathetic smile.

‘We’re very sorry for your loss, Mr Jones.

I’ve spoken to my colleagues who’ve brought me up to speed but I’m afraid I do need to ask you a few questions, just to go over the sequence of events prior to Mrs Lassiter’s death. I’d like to start with you, if I may.’

Shane looked at Molly and Dee, his hand resting on the back of the sofa. ‘You’ll be all right for a bit?’

Molly nodded, tight-lipped. Her heart was pounding so loudly she was afraid they could hear it.

Dee sniffled and gave a small, miserable nod.

Magda just glared. As Shane followed the detectives into the dining room, Molly’s shoulders slumped as she turned to Dee, who was hunched over again, arms crossed tightly around herself, tears still falling.

Molly went and sat beside her, gently brushing the hair from her sister’s damp cheek.

Dee looked up at her with wide, glassy eyes.

Molly wanted to repeat what Shane had said and promise her everything would be all right.

Wanted to see past the horror of the day.

Yet she remained trapped, like time had stood still and would never let her go.

Words caught in her throat because nothing was all right.

And deep down, she feared nothing ever would be again.

The thought landed with a punch to the gut.

Molly bent over, pressing the heels of her hands into her eyes.

Her breath came in shallow waves. Her chest actually hurt so bad she wondered if she should call 999.

She would never hear her mother laugh again.

Not the real laugh, the one that escaped unexpectedly at some ridiculous joke when they watched The Big Bang Theory or Schitt’s Creek .

Never hear the way she used to call Molly by her full name when she was in trouble, not Molls or Molly-Moo.

Or feel the press of her hand on her shoulder during moments of reassurance.

Molly thought of the chasm that had grown between them, perhaps subliminal, or something she’d manipulated so her mum would stay at arm’s length.

Not pick up signals or clues, probe too deep, ask too many questions and join the dots.

Molly had traded the once close relationship with her mother for her precious love affair with Shane.

Her fear of being rumbled, her obsession with him, outweighed loyalty and blood.

Molly had been snappy and standoffish, secretive and sly, blaming her moods on exam stress and nerves and throughout her mum had said she understood.

Trod on eggshells, made excuses for Molly and had forgiven her time and time again.

And now there was no time to make it right.

Guilt crawled under her skin like maggots.

She stood abruptly, pacing the room trying to shake the feeling off.

Her mind felt fractured. Her thoughts wouldn’t line up.

Images collided. The blood on the tiles, Shane’s arms around her, Dee’s distress, her mother’s blood-stained robe.

This was her house. Her mother’s house. A family home. And now it was a crime scene. Molly wasn’t ready for this role. Of someone who had lost her mother. Who had a funeral to plan. Who had to keep a sister from falling apart. Who had secrets to guard and suspicions to hide. But here she was.

From the dining room, voices drifted in, words intelligible, tone sombre. Shane was talking to the detectives, probably spinning his web of concern and confusion, playing the grieving widower like it was second nature. And the worst part was he was good at it.

Molly’s eyes rested on the kitchen table and there, hooked over the back of a chair was her mum’s cashmere cardigan, the one she used to slip on in the evenings to fend off the chill.

She needed something familiar so paced across the lounge and into the open-plan kitchen, grabbing the cardigan like it was prize.

The scent hit her, Calvin Klein Eternity.

The irony of her mum’s favourite wasn’t lost on her.

She pressed her face into it and wept. Blonde strands clung to the wool and Molly stared at them, fragile threads of DNA, a link to her mum, and her breath hitched again.

She leant against the patio door frame, staring out onto the lawn as she clung onto a piece of her mum, and in doing so she was able to summon a spark of clarity.

They would have to tell people. The nice police lady had rung Nancy when Magda and Dee had been too distraught but there was still a list to compile of family and friends.

Princeton. She would have to write an obituary.

Choose a coffin. Oh God, a coffin. Stand by Dee at a service filled with people who would all be staring at them from behind.

A burial, a wake. Molly inhaled the cardigan again and calmed a notch.

It would be the performance of a lifetime, more so because she had a secret to keep and a sister to protect, grief and shame to juggle.

Because while they sang hymns and said prayers there would be two people in the congregation that shared a bitter truth.

That while their wife and mother was lying dead at the bottom of the stairs, alone and battered beyond recognition, they were having goodbye sex.

And for that alone, Molly would never forgive herself.