me cork crowns and necklaces, and I would pretend to be a princess.
I’m busy looking down at my feet to make sure I don’t fall, but something like a shadow high above makes me look up. It isn’t a cloud or the moon or the stars though. Instead, a tall, skinny man at the top of the stairs is smiling down at me. He’s funny-looking. He has three bushy black eyebrows, the third resting on top of his lip, his skin is white like a ghost, and when he smiles, I can see that one of his crooked front teeth is made of gold. I scream. I didn’t mean to. I remember that I was supposed to be quiet, but I’m so scared the scream comes out all by itself. I try to turn back down the stairs, but Maggie is in the way and won’t let me pass.
“Stop that noise at once,” she says, twisting her hand around my arm so tight it feels like a burn. I don’t want to go any farther up, but she won’t let me go back down, so I’m left feeling a little bit stuck. I don’t want to be here, wherever this is. I’m tired and I want to go home.
I look back at the man standing at the top of the stairs. He’s still smiling, that gold tooth of his twinkling in the darkness like a rotten star.
“Well, hello there, little lady. I’m your new dad, but for now, you can just call me John.”
Thirteen
London, 2017
“You can just call me Alex,” she says with a childish grin.
“Thanks, but I’d rather stick with Detective Croft, if that’s okay,” I reply.
She’s waiting for me outside my front door when I get back from my morning run. They both are. Her middle-aged sidekick says very little as usual, making the kind of mental notes that are so loud they can almost be heard. It isn’t even seven o’clock.
“I have a lot to do today,” I say, fumbling for my keys and opening the front door, trying to hide us all inside as soon as possible. I don’t know my neighbors, I couldn’t tell you any of their names, but I’m of the belief that while the opinions of strangers shouldn’t matter, they often do.
“We just wanted to update you, but we can come back another time—”
“No, sorry, now is fine. I have to be at Pinewood in an hour, that’s all. It’s the last day of filming, I can’t let them down.”
“I understand.” Her tone makes it clear that she doesn’t. “Did you run far this morning?”
“Not really, 5K.”
“Impressive.”
“It’s not very far—”
“No, I meant it’s impressive the way you’re just carrying on like normal: running, working, acting.” She smiles.
What the fuck does that mean?
I hold her stare for as long as I’m able, then my eyes retreat to the face of her silent partner. He towers over her, must be twice her age if not more, but never says a damn thing. I wonder if all her bravado is just her way of trying to impress this man, her superior.
“Are you just going to stand there and let her speak to me like this?” I ask him.
“Afraid so, she’s my boss,” he replies with an apologetic shrug.
I look back at Detective Croft in disbelief and notice that her smile has disappeared.
“Have you ever hit your husband, Mrs. Sinclair?” she asks.
The hallway feels smaller, seems to turn a little, catches me off-balance.
“Of course not! I’ve never hit anyone. I’m very close to making a formal complaint—”
“I’ll get you a form from the car before I go. We went to the Indian restaurant you said you visited with your husband the last time you saw him…” She reaches inside her bag and takes out what looks like an iPad. “The place has security cameras.” She taps on the screen a couple of times, before holding it up. “Is this you?”
I look at the frozen black-and-white image of us, surprisingly clear and crisp. “Yes.”
“Thought so. Did you have a nice time?” She taps the screen again.
“How is this relevant—”
“I was just wondering why you hit him?” She turns the iPad around again, her childlike finger swiping and scrolling through a series of images. They show me slapping Ben across the face before leaving the restaurant.
Because he accused me of something I didn’t do and I was drunk.
I feel my cheeks burn. “We had a silly row, we’d been drinking. It was just a slap.” I’m mortified by