Hope's Vengeance by Ricki Thomas Page A

but the resulting silence was deafening, an uncomfortable wedge driven between the two women.
    Hope cried silent tears, abundantly coursing over her pallid skin, soaking into the leggings at the bent knees. Tugging a tissue from the box, she dabbed at her wet cheeks. “I didn’t kill her.”
    “So what was the threat for last week, then, that’s too much of a bloody coincidence, Hope, and you know it.”
    Hope exhaled slowly, her tone resigned. “When I said that, I meant it professionally. I was going to get my solicitor involved and take some kind of legal action out on her, the publicity would have killed her counselling career.”
    Dawn growled, she punched the back of her chair, then slumped into it, sagging, head down. “Shit!” Her hands tugged through the curls, creating a frizz Hope hadn’t seen before. “I never thought of it that way.”
    “No.”
    It started with a single tear, her face contorted in agony as she tried to retain her professionalism, then her body convulsed uncontrollably, and soon she was howling, unable to contain the grief any longer, guilt now tingeing the sadness. Hope leaned across and snatched another tissue from the box, passing it to Dawn, with a reassuring squeeze on the hand. Seven pent up days of tears tumbled unchecked, sobs coursing through her body as the agony of her bereavement spilled out.
    Dawn, head in hands, was oblivious to Hope silently lifting the bin, reclaiming every scrap of paper from the floor to ensure her secrets stayed in the room. The clock on the wall ticked softly in the background, a rhythmic metronome beating away the minutes.
    Scanning the carpet for any rogue shreds of her memories, Hope replaced the bin, she sat beside Dawn and clutched her hand, mother and child, content that the counselling would be resumed at a later date when Dawn was ready.
    Bereft, overflowing with emptiness, Dawn snuggled against Hope’s maternal heart, her shudders relaxing as the tears subsided, and the minutes passed without words or movement.
    Today, Dawn needed Hope.
     

Session Ten
     
     
    The open grief had gone, and Dawn’s sense of style had returned, the tight black jeans tucked into knee high stiletto boots, a golden, sequin-covered waistcoat covering a black polo-necked cashmere sweater. She sat, a steaming mug of vegetable cup-a-soup warming her hands, awaiting Hope’s arrival. She didn’t have to wait long, Hope breezed into the room, cheery, immaculate, and smiling.
    Dawn hastily downed the dregs of the thick soup, set the mug on the table and stood, gesturing a seat, swift movements indicating a need to get the first word in. “Hope, first of all I really want to apologise for my behaviour last week.” Hope was waving her hands dismissive, vying to get a word in edgeways, but Dawn’s spillage continued unbroken. “I can promise it won’t happen again, and it goes without saying that I won’t charge you for that session.”
    “Dawn, stop it. I don’t mind, okay. As you’ve said before, you’re a human too. It’s forgotten, it’s in the past. Let’s move forward.” Hope’s voice was soothing, and Dawn sat, relaxed. A few moments passed while Hope judged the best way to proceed. She chose upbeat. “There’s been an exciting development I’ve been dying to tell you about.” Dawn leant forward, grateful for the reprieve, and eager to start. “Do you remember I mentioned that Al was being done for fraud?”
    “Al’s husband number…”
    “Three. Bigamist husband, overall wanker and thief.”
    Dawn tried not to giggle but one escaped, swearing seemed erroneous from the smart suited woman before her, hair tied in a neat chignon, prim, the delicate features enhanced by the severe style. “He’d got Helen, the other wife, to transfer the house into his name.”
    Dawn nodded, the wintry sun that flooded through the window, catching the waistcoat and matching curls and showering reflections of shiny droplets onto the walls. “Yes,