Page 44 of The Guilty Girl

On the far side of the van, Brontë let out a yell. Richie raced around, the two guards following him.

‘My baby!’ she cried, clutching her tummy, bent in two. ‘I think … Oh God … it’s coming.’

Putting an arm around Brontë, helping her upright, Richie said, ‘We need to get her to the hospital.’

‘Garda Furey will accompany you to town,’ said the stocky female, who seemed weighed down with heavy equipment on her belt.

Richie couldn’t help noticing her soft, clear skin. She was quite good-looking, he had to admit, for a guard.

‘Thanks,’ he said. The baby wasn’t due for another five weeks at least. He hoped everything was okay.

He got Brontë into the van. She threw him a knowing look, but he couldn’t figure out what it meant. He pulled the seat belt around her girth and leaned over to snap it closed.

‘Act the worried father,’ she whispered.

‘What do—?’

‘Shh. Get in the van and shut up.’

He closed the door and sat in the driver’s seat.

‘Follow me,’ Garda Furey said, and began to walk to the squad car.

‘What’s going on?’ Richie asked. Brontë gave him a hard dig in the ribs with her elbow.

‘There was a serious incident at the McAllister property. A young girl was found dead there this morning. Probably murder. Now let’s get this lady to the hospital.’

As Richie reversed the van, stalling it on the grassy verge before succeeding in turning it around, he noticed the good-looking guard write down the registration number. What was her problem? That was when the other guard’s words hit home and he nearly threw up in his lap.

A murder at the McAllisters’ house.

And the guards were all over it. Shit.

The squad car sped along the back lanes before screeching onto the main road, blue and white strobe lights flashing on the roof and grille. Richie found it difficult to keep up. His van belched out diesel fumes when he pressed hard on the accelerator. Brontë was being a bitch about giving him the money for a service. Now, though, he had more pressing things to worry about.

‘Are you okay?’ He glanced over at his wife to find her staring straight ahead, her mouth set in a firm line. ‘Brontë?’

‘I’m fine.’

‘Any more pain?’ He was used to her moods, but she seemed to be entering a new sphere altogether.

‘Duh, there wasn’t any pain in the first place,’ she said, and he nearly slammed on the brakes. She added angrily, ‘Keep fucking driving.’

Gulping loudly, he tried to regain a modicum of composure. ‘Why the act, then?’

‘I had to get you away from them. That guard might have been pretty, but she wasn’t buying your faux charisma. That must only work on teenage girls, because she looked at you like you were a … I don’t know, a pervert? Or a suspect, maybe.’

‘For Christ’s sake, a suspect for what?’ His knuckles turned white as he grasped the steering wheel tighter. It never helped to lose his temper with Brontë. ‘You don’t honestly think I had anything to do with the death of that girl, do you?’

‘I don’t know what to think.’

‘Are you serious? I haven’t a notion about what’s going on, babe.’

‘You sure about that, babe?’ She turned to him then, eyes black pools of anger.

He wanted to curl into himself like a cornered animal. He knew what she was like once she started.

‘I wonder who it is,’ he whispered.