Page 75 of Perfect Wives
Tasha cracked.
Of course she did. She’s always been the most fragile of the three of us. I can’t blame her, but that doesn’t mean I’m not terrified for all that comes next. My stomach tightens. Henry. My beautiful boy. Kind and curious. The way he always holds my hand for longer than he needs when we cross the road. How he worries when I look tired. How he hugs me so tight.
You can’t wrap them in cotton wool all their lives.
No. But I can try.
I think of his baby sister, growing quietly inside me. I imagine her nestled in my arms, not caught up in any of this horror. And then I start talking. Piece by piece, I give Sató everything just as I’m sure Tasha did. Sató listens without interruption, her eyes unreadable, just the occasional nod as she takes it all in. But something shifts in her expression – thetiniest flicker of realisation or maybe resolve. When I finish, she straightens, reaching for her notepad.
‘I think,’ she says quietly, ‘it’s time I went to talk to Keira.’
‘Take us with you,’ I say, ignoring the detective’s look of disbelief. ‘Please,’ I beg. ‘She has our children. And she’s only going to lie to you. If we’re there, it might unnerve her and get her to open up.’
Sató hesitates. I can see her mind working through the scenarios. I hold my breath. I want to beg some more, but Sató is smart. Pushing too hard will make me seem desperate.
Eventually, she nods. ‘It’s not conventional, and it could land me in a hell of a lot of trouble…but whatever is going on here with the four of you, it’s a mess. I’ve been listening to you, Georgie and Tasha lie to me all morning, and I don’t want an afternoon of the same. Putting you all in the same room could be the quickest way to get to the truth. But’ – she stops, fixing her eyes on me – ‘you do exactly as I say, or you’ll be waiting in the back of the police car.’
‘Yes. Of course,’ I reply, getting to my feet.
We’re going to see Keira. And Henry. Is this nightmare nearly over at last?
Everything moves quickly after that. Hurried footsteps. Murmured instructions I don’t catch. A radio crackling too loud but incoherent. Sató leads me down a side corridor lined with scuffed walls and the faint scent of bleach that turns my stomach and has me reaching for my bag in case I need to throw up again. She pushes through a heavy door that opens onto a small car park filled with police cars and vans and a smaller row of unmarked saloon cars. A minute later, Georgie and Tasha appear. They’re led by DC McLachlan and a uniformed PC.
The younger detective isn’t smiling, but there’s a keenness to her steps that makes me think she was behind the two-way mirror of the interview room. I turn my gaze to Tasha. Shelooks broken. Her eyes are swollen and red, her hands wrapped around her arms like she’s trying to hold herself together. Even Georgie’s trademark poise is gone. Her shoulders are slumped, and her hair is no longer sleek and glossy but dull and tangled. We don’t speak. We just stand there, taking each other in. We look like women who’ve lived through a year in this building. Not a few hours. And we’re not done yet. Whatever’s waiting for us at Keira’s house – truth, lies or something even worse – feels like it’s already pulling at the edges of what’s left of us.
We’re split between two cars. Tasha travels with Sató, whereas Georgie and I travel with DC McLachlan and the uniformed officer. No one speaks on the journey, and ten minutes later, we pull into the narrow terrace road of Dove Street. There are cars lined bumper to bumper on either side of the road. Sató has to inch her way down and squeeze into a space.
When the uniformed PC has done the same and we’re all standing on the street outside Keira’s house, Sató turns to us. ‘Let me be crystal clear,’ she says. ‘The three of you have each confessed to the murder of Jonny Wilson. I still believe one or all of you were involved in his death. We are here based on information about a woman you only know as Keira Philips, and a photograph tying her to the victim. Whether you return to the police station with me after this or go home will be my decision, not yours.’
The officer steps forward then, as though to remind us of his presence. As though we’d think about running. Our children are in that house. Our whole lives are resting on what happens next.
Sató takes the lead, striding up the narrow, cracked path towards a front door the same red as the lipstick Keira wears. There’s a neat front garden with pruned rose bushes and ivy climbing up a brick wall. A child’s scooter leans against the wall beside the door. Sató knocks three times. The wait is endless. Myheart is racing so fast, I’m struggling to draw in enough air with each breath. Over and over, I pray Henry is OK. Then the door opens and it’s Keira. She’s mid-conversation with someone else in the house, calling back to them, smiling as she turns to us. She’s wearing black leggings and a burgundy hoodie, and there’s a dishcloth in her hands as though we’ve caught her mid-task.
Her smile freezes as her gaze sweeps across the group, eyes widening at the detective badges Sató and McLachlan are holding up, then the three of us and the PC standing stiffly at the back. For the briefest second, her whole body tenses. The tea towel tightens in her fist. She shifts on her feet like she’s considering her options. Like she’s wondering if there’s time to run.
‘Hi?’ she says, too high, too light.
‘I’m Detective Sergeant Sara Sató,’ the detective says. ‘I’m the senior investigating officer in the investigation into the murder of Mr Jonathan Wilson. May we come in?’
A tight frown pulls at Keira’s brow. Something sparks in her eyes. Fear, I think. Then she steps back. ‘Of course.’
We pile into a narrow hallway painted a pale blue that leads into a white kitchen with dated countertops. It’s a tight space for one, and we’re all squeezed in together. On the walls, photos of Keira in younger years – cocktail dress, graduation gown, a beach somewhere hot and perfect.
Then, out the kitchen window, I see them. Henry. Rowan. Matilda. Oscar. Sofia. Laughing and chasing each other through a garden dotted with small apple trees. The world seems to stop as I take in my son. Henry’s cheeks are flushed, and his jumper sleeves are pushed up. I don’t even mind his hair is ruffled. He’s happy, and he’s safe.
‘The girls,’ Tasha gasps.
She lunges for the back door, but I catch her arm. ‘They’re fine. Let them play. Just for now.’
Tasha nods, tears spilling over. I wipe mine away quickly. My throat is tight. But I hold it together. I have to.
We follow Keira into the living room just as an older woman pokes her head in. She’s shorter than Keira, but has the same nose and straight hair. Grey not black.
‘Mum,’ Keira says. ‘This is a police detective. She wants to ask me some questions. Can you watch the kids for us?’
‘Of course,’ the woman says, vanishing again.
Keira gestures to the sofa. Tasha, Georgie and I sit together on a two-seater sofa. Sató and McLachlan stand, while Keira takes the armchair. I glance to the door and realise the PC has remained outside. Is he protecting the exit in case someone tries to run?
