LITMIR.BIZ

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not.”

      “Was she a heavy drinker?”

      “I told you she didn’t drink,” Nate piped up, frustrated, simply not buying this particular piece of evidence. “She’d been on night duty, for God’s sake. She drove home early morning.”

      Childe returned to the facts and, punch-drunk with information, I tuned out. Glancing through the window, I noticed people walking into town, heading off for appointments, some carrying bags of shopping. On the other side of the road: loud men with loud music erecting scaffolding. Life churning. Everything the same and yet nothing the same and wouldn’t be again. Oh. My. God.

      I noticed a woman marching along the pavement. Hair scraped off her face and manacled in a ponytail, her complexion spotty and slightly pitted beneath the tan, she had pale blue, luminous eyes and her full mouth curved down, carving deep lines from the corner of her lips to her chin. If anyone could be described as looking murderous, she did.

      Childe followed my gaze. “Jesus,” he cursed, and dived out of the room.

      Taken aback, Nate also looked and we both watched, mystified, as the woman flung open the gate, shot down the path, one hand diving into her handbag, the other clenched into a fist, ready to rap on the front door.

      In strides, Childe got to it first. “Heather, we’re all understandably raw right now —”

      “I’m not interested in what you feel,” she exploded, “I want that bastard inside to know what his slag of a wife was up to.”

      Slag. Should I give her a mouthful? Nate tensed, turned to me and silently mouthed No.

      “Heather,” I heard Childe say sternly. “Go home. Your kids need you.”

      “Damn right they do, and whose fault is that?” Her eyes shot to the window. Automatically, Nate and I shrank back.

      “You’re not thinking straight, love. Sam Holland’s your FLO, right? I’ll give her a call.” I had to hand it to Childe. He was the epitome of cool composure and warm compassion, yet no way was the woman setting foot over the threshold.

      “I have Sam on speed dial,” the woman spat back. “If I need her, I’ll ring for her. Here,” she said. “Give Mr Jay this. It’s all I came for.”

      Next, fast footsteps followed by the gate smashing open and banging against its hinges.

      Childe returned inside. He looked more shaken than he’d sounded seconds ago. “I’m sorry about that.”

      “Who was that bloody woman?” Nate said.

      “Richard Bowen’s widow.”

      I let out a groan, regretting my first instinct, which was to have laid into her verbally. Nate pitched forward, hands clasped over his head.

      “I’m sorry but can either of you identify this?” Childe extended his arm. In the palm of his hand nestled a gold and diamond bracelet.

      It belonged to my sister.

       Chapter 18

      “I’ve never seen it before.” The conviction in Nate’s voice blew me away.

      Like me, he knew it was Scarlet’s bracelet and yet he’d lied. The thought of how it had fallen into Mrs Bowen’s hands made me queasy. Slag, she’d said. Christ, if Scarlet had been involved in a relationship with Richard Bowen, it changed the entire picture.

      “And you?” Childe said, hawk-eyed.

      “Me?” I said.

      “Yes.”

      The muscles in Nate’s thighs, inches from mine, tightened, the sofa complaining under his silent protest. “I can’t be sure,” I lied. Childe’s eyes locked on mine. Buckling under his gaze, I mumbled, “She might have had something similar, but I’m not certain it’s the same one.” It was a pretty rubbish attempt to blur the truth.

      “Okay,” Childe said, in a way that assured me it was not okay at all. He got straight on his phone, all the while glaring at the pair of us. After reporting the incident with Mrs Bowen, he mentioned the bracelet. When someone spoke back, he stepped out into the hallway. I heard him say something about ‘escalating the investigation’, which could only be bad. Nate turned to me, fury in his expression.

      “Why, in God’s name, did you admit it could be hers?”

      “Don’t have a go at me. Why did you lie?” I spat back.

      “To protect my wife’s reputation.”

      “Are you sure it’s not your reputation?” I conveniently parked any suggestions about my sister’s private life. “You’re a hypocrite, Nate.”

      His jaw clenched. At that close proximity, I could almost hear his teeth grind his fillings to dust.

      “According to Fliss Fiander, Scarlet suspected you were having an affair. Hell, she probably knew.”

      “She had no damn right to say such a terrible thing.”

      “Scarlet or Fliss?” I sniped back.

      Nate tensed. Lines carved deep grooves in his forehead and his eyes became angry slits. “It’s none of your business.”

      Given the circumstances, I strongly disagreed, and I was furious with Nate for making me his secret-keeper.

      “How do you think Scarlet’s bracelet wound up in Heather Bowen’s hand –by teleportation?” Nate didn’t wait for an answer. “The woman must have gone through her husband’s things and found it.”

      As one picture smashed in my head, another ugly image revealed itself. The note now assumed new significance. Scarlet was apologising for what she was about to do, not something she had already done. She’d planned it. That note, damn it, demonstrated a degree of premeditation. And Nate had burnt it.

      Tears sprung to his eyes. “Even if she were sleeping with Bowen or having sex with someone else, what the fuck does it matter? She’s dead.” He let out a weary ragged sigh. “Don’t you see that I’m trying to protect her?”

      The sincerity in Nate’s expression made my pulse jive. He opened his mouth to say something else but stopped. Childe was back. Focused. Determined.

      “We’re going to need to conduct a search of the property, Nate.”

      “Why? I’ve done nothing wrong.”

      “We know that,” Childe said, with a modicum of sympathy. “And I genuinely understand.”

      “Do you? Have you ever lost a wife?”

      “No,” he said plainly. “But I have plenty of experience of those who have.”

      “Not quite the same thing, is it?”

      “Nate,” I said, glancing at Childe, desperate to dial down Nate’s bellicosity. “The guy is simply doing his job, trying to help.” It’s what Dad would say.

      “Molly’s right, Nate,” Childe said, flashing me an appreciative look.

      Nate glowered then let out an enormous sigh. “Yeah, yeah. Sorry.”

      “Good.” Childe seemed glad the conversational dynamics had altered in his favour. “Did either of you have laptops or computers?”

      Nate’s pallor turned a shade lighter. “Well, yeah.”

      “We’ll need those too.”

      Nate closed his eyes. “Jesus,” he said, not angrily, as if he was cursed but as if the game was up. Was Nate worried a taste for porn would be disclosed, or concerned that emails to a woman he was sleeping with would be revealed? And what about Scarlet?

      Everything

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