Page 10 of Perfect Wives
‘What?’ Beth asks, her tone light as she rolls her eyes, like she’s waiting for Keira to deliver the punchline. To burst into another fit of giggles and tell us she’s joking.
But there’s no humour in the way Keira lifts her glass and takes a long sip of wine, allowing a dramatic pause. I swear we’re all holding our breaths, waiting for her reply.
‘Whatever you do’ – her voice is stone-cold, her eyes fixing on each of us in turn –‘you have to lie to the police. Your alibi has to be watertight. You stick to your story. You were together all night, running the quiz. As long as you say nothing to the police, you’ll get away with it. No one will ever know.’
Beth lets out a nervous laugh. ‘Obviously you’re not serious?’
Keira tilts her head, no longer smiling. ‘What if I am?’ she asks.
That’s when the mood shifts.
Tasha sets her glass on the table and pushes it away. Beth’s laughter dies in her throat. The wordsno one will ever knowseem to vibrate in the air. The wine is suddenly thick in my head, the room spinning in the edges of my vision, but it’s not enough to muffle the unease I feel when I glance at Keira. She’s watching me again, dark eyes steady.
Then she laughs. A loud, brittle laugh void of humour. I glance at Tasha then Beth. They look rattled and uneasy. For the first time tonight, I feel out of my depth. Like we’ve swum too far from the shore and don’t know how to get back to safety.
Keira has made our talk of Jonny’s murder feel all too real.
This was just for fun…right?
PRESENT DAY
SIX
BETH
INTERVIEW ROOM 3
You shouldn’t be here.
I shut the voice down and clutch at the plastic bag on my lap. The fear is unbearable. The bare walls of the police interview room feel like they’re inching closer with each passing minute. How long since the officer ushered me in here and asked me to wait? Twenty minutes? Thirty? Are they watching me through the two-way mirror? I squeeze my eyes shut then regret it instantly when the floor tilts. My stomach lurches. Bile burns the back of my throat. I snap my eyes open, holding myself statue-still.
The chair beneath me is broken. A screw is loose, making the plastic shift against the metal legs with every tiny movement, scratching at the frayed edges of my nerves, making my stomach twist again. I stare at the fluorescent lights, counting the tiny dead bugs trapped inside the plastic cover. The faint smell of coffee and sweat press in on me. I wonder if the chair I’m sitting on has been thrown against the wall or against another person. If that’s why it’s broken. If someone else sat here, waiting. I wonder what would happen if I just walked out right now.
You swore you wouldn’t speak to the police.
It’s too late to second-guess everything we’ve done to get here. The only way out of this mess is to confess to a murder. To lie to Detective Sató.
It’s you that smells of sweat, you know?
The voice again. Always so smug. My mother’s voice maybe. She always was a know-it-all. Lived for ‘I told you so’. Like when I was sixteen and dated the popular boy at school.
‘He’ll break your heart.’
Or when I finished law school and began my training.
‘It’ll be a waste of time when you give it all up for children.’
I did give my career up. But not for the longed-for children. Just one. One perfect boy. Henry. Who turned eight last month and loves trains and books about space. Who is sweet and thoughtful, always thinking to include four-year-old Sofia in the games with Matilda and Oscar. He loves football, but not playing in matches when the other dads shout from the sidelines, and the other boys call him ‘ginger’ and ‘carrot top’, like his beautiful hair makes him less than everyone else.
My mother died the year Henry was born; she never got to see him or tell me all the things I was doing wrong. And still, she lingers in that voice. She would’ve revelled in my sadness and my heartbreak of the past six years.
A noise shatters the silence. My gaze snaps to the door as it opens and the tall, slender frame of Detective Sató steps into the room. The fear threatens to take over again. My hands shake, rustling the plastic bag resting in my lap.
This is it.
Sató’s hair is pinned into its usual bun at the nape of her neck, and she’s wearing a fitted blazer with jeans and a jumper. She looks more casual than the previous times I’ve seen her during the investigation into Jonny’s death. But then it is a Saturday. Alistair will be wondering where I am by now. I toldhim I was going for a walk with Tasha and Georgie this morning. He’ll assume we’ve got caught up talking. He’ll be putting the dirty laundry into the wash. Running the hoover around. Always thinking of me and Henry. I know he’ll understand what I’ve done.
‘Good morning, Beth.’ Sató sits down in the chair opposite me.
