to weasel his way back in. I’d have risked everything not to let that happen. Even my business. Now, it was Phoebe and I who were doing Europe together, not Phoebe and Flynn.
That guy would have hurt her over and over again.
By the time Phoebe realised she was pregnant, she was already two and a half months in. She was terrified, but from my point of view, things couldn’t have worked out better.
We married in England in the spring, in a little stone church in the countryside. My parents, Sass, Kate, and Pria flew over for the ceremony. I offered to pay for Phoebe’s grandmother, but she said she’d only be persuaded to fly to the ends of the earth for a funeral.
15. PHOEBE
Thursday morning
BRINE THICKENED IN THE AIR AS I made my way down to the docks.
The fog had barely eased, still hanging fast at nine in the morning. I didn’t like the fog. It hid things from me. Pushing my hand into my coat pocket, I closed my fist around the notebook. After six whole months, today was my first day of pushing back. I’d keep notes on anyone who looked vaguely suspicious. Including Bernice.
A woman dressed in mismatched layers stepped inside the café, carrying an umbrella with a carved duck’s head on the handle. Bernice. She always dressed herself strangely.
I crossed the road to the café, giving Bernice a minute first to order her tea. I knew what Bernice always ordered. Straight-down-the-middle tea with milk and three sugars.
There was an unusual amount of tables empty by the window this morning. As though no one wanted to stare out into the mist.
I made a beeline for the noticeboard.
There were just the usual notes and brochures. Nothing else.
I went to grab a coffee, wondering if any of the staff who were here today knew about the envelope that had been on the board yesterday. The police must have spoken to them by now. The young girl wasn’t here today, nor the other two staff I’d seen.
A woman with brassy blonde hair served me a coffee and cake. I didn’t want the cake, but I could pretend to pick at it. I seated myself at the same table as last time, where I had a good view of most of the patrons.
Bernice was sitting with her back to me. She had her umbrella looped over her chair, the wooden duck’s head of the umbrella handle staring at me. She often had umbrellas with her, even if there was only the barest hint of rain. Maybe she’d melt like a pillar of salt if she got wet, I thought darkly.
Taking out my notepad and pen, I wrote down today’s date. No one would question me writing in the book. There were often writers here—some of them pompous looking, some of them serious looking, either jotting things down with a pencil or tapping away at a keyboard.
I scanned the patrons, looking for someone to start with.
The person who’d written the letters could be anyone. I couldn’t make judgments. I had to keep my eyes open for the I-never-would-have suspected-them person.
I noticed an angry-looking young girl stirring her coffee. I’d seen her in here before. She always looked that way. I’d start with her. I began writing:
Girl with dyed black hair and dove tattoo is looking especially fierce today. Sits close to the wall, like she’s protecting herself from attack from behind. Stirs her coffee like she’s mixing poison. No jacket or warm clothes despite the chill. She’s either someone who doesn’t feel the cold, or she’s the typical young person who pretends not to feel it.
She was twirling the spoon in her fingers now, her lips set hard together. She drank the liquid down fast, with an expression of distaste in her eyes.
The girl left abruptly. I could hear Nan’s voice in my head: Boyfriend trouble . According to Nan, all girls had boyfriend trouble . Boys never had girlfriend trouble . Boys and men held all the cards, in Nan’s eyes.
I finished writing up my notes about the girl.
Sipping my coffee, I looked around for
That guy would have hurt her over and over again.
By the time Phoebe realised she was pregnant, she was already two and a half months in. She was terrified, but from my point of view, things couldn’t have worked out better.
We married in England in the spring, in a little stone church in the countryside. My parents, Sass, Kate, and Pria flew over for the ceremony. I offered to pay for Phoebe’s grandmother, but she said she’d only be persuaded to fly to the ends of the earth for a funeral.
15. PHOEBE
Thursday morning
BRINE THICKENED IN THE AIR AS I made my way down to the docks.
The fog had barely eased, still hanging fast at nine in the morning. I didn’t like the fog. It hid things from me. Pushing my hand into my coat pocket, I closed my fist around the notebook. After six whole months, today was my first day of pushing back. I’d keep notes on anyone who looked vaguely suspicious. Including Bernice.
A woman dressed in mismatched layers stepped inside the café, carrying an umbrella with a carved duck’s head on the handle. Bernice. She always dressed herself strangely.
I crossed the road to the café, giving Bernice a minute first to order her tea. I knew what Bernice always ordered. Straight-down-the-middle tea with milk and three sugars.
There was an unusual amount of tables empty by the window this morning. As though no one wanted to stare out into the mist.
I made a beeline for the noticeboard.
There were just the usual notes and brochures. Nothing else.
I went to grab a coffee, wondering if any of the staff who were here today knew about the envelope that had been on the board yesterday. The police must have spoken to them by now. The young girl wasn’t here today, nor the other two staff I’d seen.
A woman with brassy blonde hair served me a coffee and cake. I didn’t want the cake, but I could pretend to pick at it. I seated myself at the same table as last time, where I had a good view of most of the patrons.
Bernice was sitting with her back to me. She had her umbrella looped over her chair, the wooden duck’s head of the umbrella handle staring at me. She often had umbrellas with her, even if there was only the barest hint of rain. Maybe she’d melt like a pillar of salt if she got wet, I thought darkly.
Taking out my notepad and pen, I wrote down today’s date. No one would question me writing in the book. There were often writers here—some of them pompous looking, some of them serious looking, either jotting things down with a pencil or tapping away at a keyboard.
I scanned the patrons, looking for someone to start with.
The person who’d written the letters could be anyone. I couldn’t make judgments. I had to keep my eyes open for the I-never-would-have suspected-them person.
I noticed an angry-looking young girl stirring her coffee. I’d seen her in here before. She always looked that way. I’d start with her. I began writing:
Girl with dyed black hair and dove tattoo is looking especially fierce today. Sits close to the wall, like she’s protecting herself from attack from behind. Stirs her coffee like she’s mixing poison. No jacket or warm clothes despite the chill. She’s either someone who doesn’t feel the cold, or she’s the typical young person who pretends not to feel it.
She was twirling the spoon in her fingers now, her lips set hard together. She drank the liquid down fast, with an expression of distaste in her eyes.
The girl left abruptly. I could hear Nan’s voice in my head: Boyfriend trouble . According to Nan, all girls had boyfriend trouble . Boys never had girlfriend trouble . Boys and men held all the cards, in Nan’s eyes.
I finished writing up my notes about the girl.
Sipping my coffee, I looked around for
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