“Pollard knows about those things too,” I say quietly.

Dom looks past me into the middle distance, as if listening intently to someone behind me that I can’t see or hear. I’ve got a strong feeling that person is begging him not to lose his temper.

“You’re right, Beth. Pollard knows everything that’s happened, he’s been to the house, and the net result of all that is what I’ve just told you: he’s satisfied nothing more needs to be done.”

“And so we should be too? Did he go to Thomas’s school? Did he talk to Lou Munday?”

“I don’t know. He didn’t say anything about the school.”

“Course he didn’t go to the school,” says Zannah.

“Did he find out if Georgina Braid is dead or still alive?”

Dom looks puzzled—as if this is the last question he’d have expected me to ask. “He didn’t mention Georgina at all.”

“And you didn’t either?”

“No, I didn’t.”

“Did he speak to any of the Caters’ neighbors? Did you tell him about the shoes?”

“The . . .” He looks puzzled. Then he remembers. “No, I didn’t tell him about Thomas Cater’s fucking shoes!” Dom snaps. “I’m sick of this, Beth. Do you want to know why I didn’t ask all the questions you wish I’d asked? I don’t care anymore! Whatever the Braids are up to, I don’t give a shit, as long as I can get my life back—the life that didn’t involve talking about the Braids and the Caters every waking second of every day.”

“That’s understandable,” I say. Now that he’s lost his temper, I feel calmer. “I’ve been expecting you to share my level of obsession. It wasn’t fair of me. I’m sorry, okay?”

Dom eyes me suspiciously.

“I promise I’ll stop talking to you about this soon,” I say, knowing he won’t notice the “to you,” or think about what it might mean. “I have one more question: did Pollard say anything else, apart from what you’ve told me? Anything at all.”

“Yes.” Dom looks trapped. I know how he feels. I also know I’m not prepared to feel it for much longer. “He told me Kevin Cater admitted lying to us about his children’s names. Cater told him he’d been reluctant to reveal the real names because he was worried you had a strange obsession with his children.”

“Did he or Yanina admit that they both pretended she was Jeanette when we went around?”

“I don’t know. That wasn’t mentioned. And that was a second question. You said only one. I mean it, Beth. You can let this take over your life if you want, but I’m not letting it take over mine. If you want Pollard to do something else . . .”

“I don’t want him to do anything.”

“He spooned it.” Zannah’s voice rings with contempt.

“I’m the one who needs to find out what’s going on,” I say, thinking about Pam Swain’s podcast exercise: you imagine that each choice goes amazingly well, and then you choose which of those ideal outcomes would be the most ideal. It doesn’t work at all. My choice number two was leaving it up to Pollard to do what needs to be done. That’s the one I chose, in my head, and look how it’s turned out.

Or maybe Pam’s exercise works brilliantly . . .

Yes. It does. You can’t choose between two alternatives without thinking realistically about the people involved.

With Pollard being who he is, with his level of interest and care, and doing things in the way that he does them as a result, choice number two has already gone as well as it could have. For it to go any better, you’d need to replace Pollard with someone more determined, more obsessed, more willing to do whatever it takes—ideally, someone who once loved Flora Braid and her children.

I’d need to replace him with me. Which means choice number one is the right answer. “I have to do it myself,” I tell Dom. “I’m the only person who can or ever would.”

“What does that mean?” he asks. “Please don’t say what I think you’re about to say.”

“It means going to Florida.”

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From: [email protected] To: [email protected] Hi Dom,

I’m at Heathrow. My plane’s delayed by two hours—great!

I don’t think it’s ever happened before that I’ve left the house with you refusing to speak to me or say good-bye. For what it’s worth, I don’t think it’s fair. We’ve never disagreed about anything serious before, not once in our whole marriage. About this one thing we disagree, and that ought to be fine. Married couples don’t always have to agree about everything.

You think a trip to Florida is an unnecessary expense. I don’t. I need to do this. I think Flora and her kids might be in real trouble, and I can’t just ignore that fear. No, she’s not my friend anymore, but if I hadn’t been so blinkered and pig-headed twelve years ago, maybe she still would be. I have to do what I can, and either I’ll be able to help or I won’t. Or I’ll find my help isn’t needed and I’ve been wrong about everything. Either way, I’ll be glad I tried. And if I’m creating drama where there’s no need, if I find out that I’ve been totally wrong to make a fuss, then I’ll be relieved—and it will have been worth the money to find that out, because you’re not the only one who wants their life back. I do too.

I wouldn’t force you to go to Florida and spend more time on this, knowing you didn’t want to. That wouldn’t be fair. Can’t you see that you trying to stop me when I feel I need to go is unfair too? I don’t think it’s irresponsible of me to go. I think it’s the opposite.

All right, I’m going to stop now because I sound like a two-year-old: “It’s not fair!” I’ll be back as soon as I can, and the kids will be fine. Work will be fine. I sent a nice email to all my regulars and they all got back to me saying they understand completely, even though I hardly told them anything. I don’t think I’m going to lose a single client. Zannah says she’ll help around the house while I’m gone, and Ben won’t worry as long as you don’t panic him by making him think I’ve done something crazy. Instead, you could tell him that you support my decision to go to America, or at least that you understand it.

I’ll ring you when I get to my hotel if it isn’t too late.

B xxx

From: [email protected] To: [email protected] I’m glad you emailed. Sorry I was off with you when you left. I’m just worried. But, yeah, I could have expressed it better. At the risk of sounding like a selfish twat, your safety is all I care about, not Flora’s, and I don’t like the idea of you walking up to Lewis Braid and calling him a liar to his face. The guy’s not right in the head. He never was. We just didn’t care because we were young and undiscriminating, and he threw great parties and was fun to hang around with (except when he wasn’t). But I’ve been thinking—imagine being Flora all these years, having to live with him and deal with his bad side as well as his good side. He was always dead set on getting his way, and that tendency’ll only have gotten worse as he’s aged. For me, that explains why Flora’s stressed and miserable, and why she ran away from you. If she feels trapped, if their relationship has turned ugly and she’s too scared to leave him, she might not want you to see that. Neither of them would want you to see it.

Maybe I’m being over the top. I heard something on the radio this morning about coercive control in relationships. Some of the behaviors that were discussed sounded a bit like Lewis even as he was before, even without the getting-worse-with-age factor. That might have influenced me. Just don’t meet him alone in any secluded places, okay? He might make a pass for all you know, and not take no for an answer.

This memory has just come back to me, a second ago: Lewis and I were having a drink at The Baron of Beef once and I said, “I wouldn’t put anything past you, Braid” (I can’t remember what made me say it) and he said, “You’d be right not to, Rom-com Dom.” I still don’t think he’d harm any children, though. That’d be a step too far even for him. But you’re right: we can disagree about that. I just want to know that you’re fine. Stay safe and come home soon.

D x

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