Page 51 of We Live Here Now

Three birds in the sky, slashes of black stabbing at the endless gray canvas overhead. Ravens, one with a shard of white in a damaged wing. It’s flying beautifully though, perhaps even better than the others. After a moment, the damaged one and the larger bird, maybe the male, break away into a pair, pirouetting around each other, and there’s suchjoyin their movements that I can’t look away. The other bird is forgotten, the two cawing and darting and diving so fast and so close they should collide, but they don’t, as if they’ve done this dance a million times before and can anticipate each other’s moves, but there is nothing of dull routine about it, only complete and absolute joy.

Oh, for that joy. I’m exhausted.

I start the car, eager to get the heating working, and lean my head against the headrest. The bees buzz and my toes are still icy, and even Emily curled up close behind me last night couldn’t warm me up. She was squeezing so hard at times I couldn’t breathe.

I look back at the door where she’s waving me off. I smile and half wave back and then pull away, the gravel crunching as I turn away from the house and down the lane.

Emily.

She’s acting as if she’s forgiving me, but how can that be? I’ve lost all our money. I’ve got debts. She’s veering between completely distracted and overly nice. Why isn’t she angrier? Is it post-sepsis, like this haunting business, or is it something else? The bees buzz louder.

She was out when I got home yesterday, and when she said she’dbeen for a coffee she couldn’t even look at me. Emily’s always been a terrible liar. So if she hadn’t gone for a coffee, where had she been that would make her lie to me? What would she want to hide?

The answer rings loud as a church bell as the moors fly past me and the gray sky brightens as my heart races.

A lawyer. Of course.

She’s been taking advice. How best to divorce me, I imagine. She’s got money in her bank account from her injury payout. She can afford someone good. She’s going to take whatever we have and leave me with nothing. What if she presses charges too? She could do me for fraud, I’m pretty sure of it. One of those cardsisin her name, but it’s the one I’ve been paying the minimum payments on, so it won’t affect her credit. Even if she doesn’t press charges, if that comes up in the divorce case I’m totally screwed.

Who am I kidding? I’m totally screwed anyway. My phone pings with an email from Dr. Canning, and I slow down to read it as I drive.

Please make sure she takes her medication, and I have attached some good local psychiatrists’ details. My secretary is sending Emily some appointment times for the next fortnight. Reach out immediately if you feel she is a danger to herself or others.

I frown as I realize it’s a response to an email I sent early this morning. I scroll up. It’s saying I’d found her awake in the middle of the night on the landing staring out of the window and it was worrying me. I don’t remember her getting up in the night. A jolt of memory comes to me—the shower running, my fingers tapping out the email on the phone. I must have been half asleep. I’m so exhausted all the time; no wonder I’m not remembering things.

A horn blares and I look up to find I’ve wandered across the central line. I pull quickly back to my side of the road, and then as my pulse slows and I stare at the road ahead, I try to focus on what I need to do at work today. One line of Dr. Canning’s email plays over and over in my head as the road rolls under me.

Reach out immediately if you feel she is a danger to herself or others.

Even Dr. Canning thinks she might kill herself.

66

Emily

The air has that crystal quality that comes before snow and the frost is so thick on the moors that out there it looks like it’s snowed already. Merrily arrived unannounced at nine to talk through some garden plans, and I listened and nodded and looked at the beautiful designs I wasn’t going to spend money on and told her I’d show them to Freddie and we’d need a few days to mull it over. We agree to wait until this current cold snap is over before they fill in the septic tank and start on the paths. She’s breezy and chatty and there’s no mention of missing artists or Sally and Joe, so at least the vicar hasn’t told her about my “ghost” moment, but the time drags until she leaves because I want to get on with my own plan for the day: finding the book Fortuna was talking about.

After she finally goes, my phone pings with a message from Mark saying the money’s in and paperwork is on its way, and while I do feel a small wave of relief—and a not-so-small twinge of guilt at what I’ve done—I put it aside in my head as I climb the stairs to the third floor, having remembered the only place in the house I didn’t search already.

I’m sure the landing is suddenly darker than downstairs, but I ignore it along with the creeping dread that swirls around me in a cold breeze. I don’t look at the bedroom door and focus instead on the latticed box that I’d automatically presumed was an old radiator cover, even though there’s a radiator a few feet along the wall.

I get slowly to my knees, every hospital-stiff joint protesting, and after a moment find the small catch along the left side. Thefront cover swings open and, holding my phone light out, I peer inside.

The empty space is about five feet deep and wide, and while I couldn’t stand up in it, a small child could, and I can see why Mrs. Tucker would have made a den here.

Even without the flashlight, enough sunlight comes through the lattice to keep the space bright enough to play. I can picture her in here, a suitcase as a table, maybe with a cloth on it, playing at teddy bear tea parties or whatever she would do. But where would the book be hidden? Somewhere she wouldn’t have found it?

Fortuna found it when they were moving. So that would have been when she came in here to get the suitcases. And if there had only been suitcases near the opening, she’d just pull them out and not see any farther in. But they must have had trunks too, wedged against the far wall, perhaps by Mrs. Tucker as a child when she made her den. She’d have had to crawl in to pull them out. Did Fortuna find it then?

A wave of the narrow flashlight beam gives me no clues, and after slipping one of my trainers off and putting it in the gap to stop the door from closing on me if the house has one of its drafts, I reluctantly crawl toward the back.

The air is stale and dusty, undisturbed for god knows how long, and the walls are cool. I press every inch along the side and back but nothing gives, no secret cupboard within a cupboard, and once I’m done and sitting on my heels again, my back aches from hunching over. Maybe I got it wrong. Maybe the book isn’t in here at all.

I’m edging backward to the door when I see it. A small line in the skirting board in the corner. I look closer and see another line, maybe eight inches along. My heart beating faster, I reach out and touch it. There’s no click or secret door, but as I push, the skirting is loose and comes away. My cheek presses against the floorboards while I look at where the wall has been dug away. My heart patters faster as I hold the phone out to see better. Thereissomething in there, filling a slot that has been dug out to fit only that item.It’s a book. I can see the yellow of the pages. One finger on each side, I wiggle it from the tight space, ignoring the disturbed brick dust making my nose itch, and slowly it comes free. A bound ledger, heavy in my hands despite its slimness, the cover grimy and faded and the leather spine worn in places, but I can make out the carefully printed writing on the front:Christopher Hopper, Surgeon.

It’s the book. I’ve found it.

67

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