Page 139 of Forever, Maybe
The sudden sound of the front door opening made them both jump.
“Honey, I’m home!”
Mikey’s voice rang out through the house.
Dad winked at her. “Ah. Maybe he said he was coming home today, not tomorrow. My old memory, eh?” He patted her arm. “You know what you need to do, Chrissie.”
She greeted Mikey in the hallway. The homecoming smile dimmed a little. “Listen, I’m so, so, so, so, so, so, so, so sorry. I’m the world’s facking worst sister, a complete cowpat and an arthole. I shouldn’t have looked for your mother, and I sincerely promise never to do so again. Will a three-layer red velvet cake smothered in cream cheese icing persuade you that I’m not the worst sister in the world?”
Mikey dropped his bags with a grunt. Overstuffed with clothes, they had the look of someone finally coming home after far too long.
“Who’s doing all the household chores for the next month?” he asked, wrestling out of his black stab-proof vest, the Lincolnshire Police insignia catching the light.
“Uh… me?”
“Yes, you, you, you!”
He slung an arm around her shoulders, squeezing just tight enough to let her know they were okay. “Jaden’s been watching this health vlogger on YouTube and she keeps force-feeding me these disgusting energy bars. Made from, get this—carob powder and pureed dates.” He shuddered. “Worst thing ever.”
Chrissie laughed, the weight on her chest finally easing. “Okay! I also solemnly swear that carob powder and pureed dates will never, ever,evercross the threshold of this house.”
Dad appeared in the doorway, framed by the warm glow of the kitchen. “Mikey! Come and tell us all about your day and the thousands of ne’er-do-wells who are no longer terrorising Lincolnshire’s innocent populace thanks to you.”
Mikey blew on his fingernails and rubbed them down his chest with exaggerated flair. “The county jails are at full capacity, Pops. At this rate, I’ll be chief constable by Christmas.”
Dad gave a solemn nod and ambled past them. Moments later, the upstairs bathroom door opened and closed.
Mikey turned back to Chrissie, his expression serious again. “Do you still have that woman’s email address? I’ve been thinking a lot, and… I’d like to talk to her.”
Chrissie hesitated, her dad’s warning and her own promise weighing on her. “Are you sure? What if she doesn’t want contact?”
Mikey exhaled slowly, pressing his lips together before giving a small shrug. “I’ll take that risk.” He met her gaze. “Could you help me write to her? You’re much better at that sort of thing than I am.”
Chapter fifty-nine
Theblondesandstoneofthe house looked as though a giant had smeared his grubby fingerprints all over it. Years of limescale, moss, and other biological detritus clung to the façade, dulling its once-warm glow. Nell would have to call in one of those specialist cleaning companies, request a quote for how much they’d charge to restore the stonework without stripping half the building away in the process.
Bloody loads, no doubt.
The garden—her domain far more than Danny’s—had also surrendered to neglect. The grass sprawled in uneven tufts, flowering shrubs in their green-blue glazed pots drooped, their petals curled and brittle. Weeds speared through the cracks in the red-brick driveway, tenacious as ever.
In the neighbouring garden, Sandra Greenberg—whom Cate had stubbornly referred to as Marlene throughout her last visit—stood with shears in hand, poised to do battle with the unruly hedge dividing their properties. She glanced up as Nell approached the gate leading to the back garden.
“Hello, there! You alright? Off to do some gardening?”
Nell, clad in old jeans, welly boots, and a holey green jumper that had seen better decades, nodded. “By the way, Sandra, an estate agent’s coming round this afternoon. We’re… putting the house on the market.”
Damn and blast it. Saying it out loud made it real. That warm, stinging pressure built behind her eyes again, and she blinked rapidly, hoping Sandra would blame any telltale dampness on the wind gusting around them.
Sandra, however, didn’t look surprised. Danny had never been much of a neighbourly presence—offering only a briefmorningoreveningon the rare occasions he encountered her outside. But she must have noticed his absence, put two and two together. The Murrays were no longer a unit. Soon, they would need two houses instead of one.
“The McCartneys got £397,000 for theirs last year.”
Everyone on the street had known about the McCartneys’ sale and gasped at it. Nell had been just as astonished at the time, never imagining she’d be in the same position so soon after. Would £200,000 stretch to a small house with a garden?
She said her goodbyes to Sandra and pushed open the gate. The afternoon’s task was to finish tidying the garden—an endless list of autumn jobs that suddenly felt heavier, weighted with finality. Knowing this was the last time she would do them here made it twice as hard, though not nearly as difficult as the job she was avoiding inside the house.
Earlier, she’d hauled all the garden furniture onto the patio, scrubbing down the tables and chairs with warm, soapy water to strip away months of algae and lichen. The dirty water had pooled in the grooves of the paving stones before trickling, with cruel precision, through the tiny hole in her left welly boot, soaking her foot in the process.
