Page 69 of You Lied First

T he meeting on Cleeve Hill leaves me feeling even more uneasy than I felt after I left Margot’s house.

The Forrests are up to something, I’m sure of it.

I can’t get past why Guy, who knows himself that he didn’t do it, doesn’t want to know if it was me or Margot.

And then there’s what Margot said. I’m still reeling from her suggestion that the murderer confess to save the others.

There are two things to unpack from that.

The first is that she’s so desperate for this to end that she thinks it’s worth taking the risk of implicating all of us if one of us confesses to the police.

And the second is that she’s willing to sacrifice either Guy or me to a life in jail in order to bring an end to the situation.

I think about that again: either she knows it was me, or she’s potentially willing to lose her husband to a life sentence. So which is it?

Does she actually think that Guy did it?

Celine’s words come back to me again in a way that makes me queasy.

If Celine was right, the Forrests don’t like me.

I’ll never be one of them, she said. So why would they have any loyalty to me?

Maybe Margot was bluffing that day at her house; trying to lead me to believe she thought it was Guy.

I sigh as I go over it all again in my head.

She’d seemed scared to ask Guy if he did it.

I didn’t think that was an act. But what if it was?

What if the two of them had discussed it rationally and honestly and had realised that I was the one who killed Celine?

That little chat in her studio had been designed to keep me feeling safe while they decide whether or not to hand me in themselves.

Technically, they could do that and come out of this smelling of fresh air if not roses – and that must be a tempting thought.

Margot, I saw today, is desperate for this to end.

But, if they were to hand me in, would it be better for me if I’d already gone to the police myself, voluntarily?

I could make up a story about it being a drunken accident.

Celine somehow got her scarf caught on something and tripped and hung herself by accident.

Maybe I saw it and covered it up because I was scared, but I didn’t do it. I don’t know; something.

It all comes down to Guy. Who is he? The charming, jovial man I saw on the holiday, or the bully that Margot’s hinted he might be at home? Is she really scared of him, or is she in cahoots with him? My head sinks into my hands. A counsellor? I’m a disaster. I can’t even manage my own life.

The ring of my phone jolts me. It’s Michael. I pick up the phone wearily.

‘Hey,’ he says. ‘How are you?’

‘Oh, fine,’ I lie. ‘You?’

He talks for a moment or two then gets to the point. ‘Look, I want you to know it’s not from my end, but Liv’s asked me to let you know that she won’t be coming to yours this weekend.’

‘Oh. Right.’ I mean, I knew she wouldn’t, but it still hurts to hear it out loud. Then a more pressing concern. ‘Did she, umm, say why?’

Michael sighs. ‘Not really. She said something about wanting to work and being able to concentrate better at ours. But I’m not sure. She was very vague and she hasn’t been herself the last few days. Really quiet, just in her room. Has anything happened?’

I swallow. ‘Nothing I can think of. Maybe problems with Flynn? Or just school pressure? It’s a tough year.’

‘Hmm. Maybe. Anyway, look, thanks for understanding. Hopefully we’ll be back to normal by next week.’

‘Yeah. I hope so. I miss her. Give her my love.’

I hang up and then the tears come. My baby doesn’t want to see me.

If only she knew that everything that’s happened has happened because I love her.

Meeting the Forrests and going to Oman. My fight with Celine.

Us covering up Celine’s death – everything was done for Liv yet all I’ve succeeded in doing is driving her away.

She’s moved out and she doesn’t even want to see me.

My efforts to love her, make her happy and protect her have left me in a worse position than before the stupid holiday.

Everything I’ve been bottling up since the moment I pulled that scarf around Celine’s neck and ground her hateful, drunken face into the sand comes out – everything.

The pressure, the worry, the anxiety, the nightmares.

The ever-shifting sands of the cover-up and the stress of living in a world of murder and subterfuge.

It all comes out in one huge, sobbing mess.

And, when I can cry no more, I open a bottle of wine and sit staring mindlessly at the television, balled-up tissues scattered around me as my body calms back down after the maelstrom.

I’m not aware of what’s on the screen. I mute the sound and I drink and think, and drink and think, while my mind runs in circles.

That meeting on the hill was weird. Something was really off.

Maybe I’m paranoid, or maybe it’s my suspicious nature but, despite all their talk of sticking together and keeping quiet, I don’t think I can trust the Forrests not to hand me in if it gives them a chance to save themselves.

If that’s the case, my best chance of coming out of this with the least possible damage is if I go to the police with my own story before they get there.

I don’t want to spend the rest of my life in jail, and neither do I want to abandon Liv, but what choice do I have?

It’s the best thing I can do for Liv. If I step forward, she’ll be free to get on with the rest of her life.

Margot will get the end she’s craving – and Liv, eventually, might even come to thank me.

The more I think about it, the more I realise that I actually have no choice but to go to the police.

Tomorrow , I think.

Tomorrow I will.