The Lies We Told by Camilla Way (epub read online books .txt) 📗

As Clara listened, shock reverberated through her. Her tone was so disparaging, painting a picture of a man she barely recognized. “Anyway,” Amy said, throwing her cigarette butt away. “That’s all I’ve got to tell you, really.” She got to her feet. “I’m sorry, but I better get on now. Kids’ tea and that.”

Clara thought of the pictures of the chubby, smiling groom in the hall. “Will your husband be home soon?” she asked.

Amy snorted. “Probably. I wouldn’t know.” Clara stared at her in confusion and she laughed. “He lives two streets away with someone else.”

“Oh, I’m sorry. I thought—”

Amy made a face. “I just keep the pictures up for the kids’ sake. They’re still a bit messed up from it all.” She wrapped her cardigan around herself and headed for the door. When she reached it, she paused. “Funny,” she said, “how it’s always us women who are left to deal with the shit men leave behind, isn’t it?”

—

Later, as they began the drive home, Clara told Mac what Amy had said.

“Jesus,” he said, “I had no idea.”

“He never said anything to you?”

“Not a word. I . . .”

“What?”

He shook his head. “I thought I knew everything about him,” he said quietly. “I really thought we told each other everything. Obviously not.”

She stared out the window at the passing countryside and thought about Luke at sixteen, how he’d been little more than a kid himself, how panicked and scared he must have been at the prospect of becoming a father. But if Amy was telling the truth—and she was certain that she was—there was no excuse for the way he’d behaved toward her. She realized that for the first time since they’d met, she felt ashamed of him. She remembered Zoe saying how quickly and how deeply she had fallen for Luke, and it was true, but had her infatuation made her blind? If he was capable of behaving so badly toward Amy, whom else might he have crossed? If Amy wasn’t responsible for Luke’s disappearance—and a gut feeling told her she wasn’t—then some other woman had sent the e-mails, stolen a van to take Luke off to God knew where. But who was she, and what had Luke done to provoke her?

When they finally joined the motorway, she sighed and picked up her phone. After a moment’s thought she wrote her reply to Emily. I need to know you are who you say you are. You sang a song with Luke when he was little, before he went to bed every night. Do you remember what it was?

She forced herself to put her phone away, telling herself that she needed to be patient, that Emily probably wouldn’t reply for ages. Her willpower lasted less than fifteen minutes, however, and to her surprise, when she next looked, there was already a message waiting for her. “Five Little Monkeys,” it said. Where do you want to meet?

There’s a bar called the Octopus on Great Eastern Street, Clara wrote, her heart thudding with excitement. Would that suit you? I could meet tomorrow, any time.

The reply was instant. I’ll be there at six. Please, Clara, it’s very important you don’t tell anyone. I’m trusting you.

Clara looked at Mac. “Bloody hell,” she said. “We’re on!”

FIFTEEN

CAMBRIDGESHIRE, 1989

After Doug told me to leave, I ran blindly through the streets of our village, barely aware of my surroundings as I made my way toward St. Dunstan’s Hill. When I got to the top, I sat on a bench and looked out across the darkening fields. I don’t think I’d ever felt so desolate, so frightened. All I knew was that Hannah had pushed Toby. I knew she had.

I thought about her as a newborn, how tiny and beautiful she’d been. Doug and I had treated her as though she were made of the finest glass. We had barely been able to contain our happiness in those early weeks. We had waited so long for her, we’d been through so much, and then there she was, so utterly perfect, we could scarcely believe our luck. And then little by little, as the months and years had passed, the doubts had crept in.

I must have sat there for more than an hour, watching as the lights of the scattered villages grew gradually stronger as the darkness gathered. From a distant church I heard a bell toll nine. My thoughts chased each other. My rage toward Hannah had been instantaneous, the thought of her hurting Toby triggering something primal and instinctive within me. I didn’t know how we could continue now, how I could ever trust her around my little boy again.

At last, cold and exhausted, I turned back toward home. When I reached my street, I hesitated at our gate and took a gulp of air to steady myself. There was nobody about, no sound from the other houses, an eerie stillness in the air. When I let myself in, the hall was in darkness. I stood and listened. Had Doug gone to bed? Suddenly I heard a faint sound coming from the kitchen. A creak of a chair, perhaps a sigh. I crept nearer and pushed open the door. There, sitting at the table, was Doug. The only light in the room was the one that glimmered dimly from the oven’s hood.

I whispered his name, but he didn’t look up, so I edged a fraction closer. “Doug?” Filled with a sudden, nameless fear, I asked, “Has something happened? Is it Toby? Talk to me!”

He shook his head. “Toby’s asleep.”

Quietly I sat down next to him. I saw that he had been crying and instinctively I put my arms around him. I think it was the first time we’d touched in months.

At last he began to speak. “When you left the house, I looked around at Hannah, and the expression on her face . . . she