The Beauty of the End by Debbie Howells Page B

abandoned a cat.
    I ignore the cat as I explore further, through a door that leads into a small sitting room with pale, bare floorboards and soft-colored furnishings, my conviction growing. It’s as if April’s just gone out—for a paper, maybe, or to call on a neighbor; as if any minute, the back door will swing open and I’ll hear her footsteps in the kitchen, the sound of her soft, clear voice.
    I skim a bookcase full of titles on various therapies, take in the few photos, of April with groups of other nameless people, of someone I don’t know holding a baby.
    Another doorway leads down the single brick step that’s worn smooth with age, into what appears to be her study. In a corner, there’s a small desk, with two armchairs angled by the window. Possibly a consulting room, if she’s still working as a counselor, which from the books she’s collected seems likely, and I picture her sitting there with her clients. Wonder how it is to inhabit someone else’s world.
    Nowhere is there evidence that anyone else lives here. For some unknown reason, I’m relieved to know that, assume she must have married and divorced, yet kept the name Rousseau.
    I’m halfway up the stairs when I pause, overwhelmed by the strangest sense that I’m not alone, startled by the faintest trace of footsteps treading the stairs just behind me, then turn to find no one there. Frozen, as a ghostly hand I can’t see brushes against my skin, as I think of her unconscious body in the hospital, so lifeless, empty of the energy, the essence of what makes her April, as I consider also that maybe that part of her has come home.
    Another image comes to me, of that last night, of April coming up these stairs, for whatever unknown reason, with no choice, her despair so great it still echoes here. Feeling it crawl under my skin and become my own.
    It’s a picture that stays with me, grows more vivid, so that my heart is thudding as I enter her bedroom. The bedcovers are disturbed, and there’s a tipped-over vodka bottle on the floor. The image of April swallowing pills and vodka flashes through my mind. It’s followed by another of the police arriving, having traced her address as soon as they found her phone, the sound of them breaking in, then the urgency in their voices as they find her. Was she unconscious, already floating somewhere else, as they carried her body down the stairs?
    My thoughts are broken by the cat, leaping onto the bed, looking at me expectantly. This time, when I reach out my hand, it blinks back at me, as if reading my mind, then comes over and rubs its head against my hand.
    â€œI know how you feel,” I tell it, listening to the throaty purr. “Come on, buddy. Let’s find you some food.”
    * * *
    I find a box of dry cat food down in the kitchen and tip it into an empty bowl, watching while the cat wolfs it down, then hear the phone ring in another room. After three rings, my ears prick up as it goes to voicemail.
    â€œ Hello, you’ve reached April Rousseau. Please leave your name and number and I’ll call you back. ”
    It’s unmistakably April’s voice. There’s a brief pause before a woman speaks.
    â€œHello? April, it’s Sadie Westwood. We had an appointment today.... I don’t know what happened, but I was hoping you could fit me in, tonight—or maybe tomorrow, if it’s easier.... Can you call me, please?”
    The voice wavers, almost tearful, then the caller leaves a number and hangs up. I frantically look around for a piece of paper, repeating the number to myself, and then jot it down before I forget, guessing she’s almost certainly a client, but not wanting to play the message back, or leave any other trace of my presence when the police come here.
    Realizing there are likely to be more clients like Sadie Westwood, who have appointments, who ought to be told, I go back to April’s study, where in