Destroy Me by Karen Cole (read people like a book TXT) 📗

where I worked. Architect was the first thing that came into my head.’

And of course, he’s arrogant enough to believe I would have sought him out and what? Created a scene when I found out he was married. Perhaps it’s happened before with other women.

‘Is it something you do a lot, pick up women? Cheat on your wife?’ I’m trying to sound tough, aggressive, but my voice comes out whiny, hurt even.

‘No, you were the only one.’

‘I find that hard to believe,’ I say angrily. ‘Why should I believe anything you say? You’ve done nothing but lie.’

‘Fair point,’ he shrugs.

I blush to think how easy it was for him to seduce me. He barely needed to say anything. If I’m honest, if I’d stopped to think about it, I could have guessed that he was married. But did I ask? No. I was too busy feeling flattered that someone so handsome and charming could be interested in me. Basically, I’ve done to Georgia what Harper did to me. Of all people, I should know what it’s like to have a faithless husband and I feel an uncomfortable twinge of guilt at the thought.

‘Why did you do it?’ I blurt. I mean Georgia’s beautiful and such a nice person. You’re so lucky. Don’t you love her?’

He winces. ‘Yes, of course I love her. What can I say? It was a mistake. Probably one of the worst mistakes I’ve ever made.’

‘You couldn’t help yourself, you mean,’ I say sarcastically.

He doesn’t answer.

‘You caught me at a weak moment,’ he says, at last.

‘Oh, give me a break.’ I feel a welcome surge of anger. ‘You realise that I’m in deep trouble because of your lies. The police think that I’m involved in a murder.’

‘Yes, I know,’ he chews the end of his thumbnail and observes me thoughtfully. ‘Why do they think that?’

It seems he’s the only person in this town who hasn’t seen the photofit.

‘There was a news report,’ I say carefully. ‘A witness saw a woman who looked a lot like me at the scene of the crime on the night that Charlie was murdered. But it wasn’t me, obviously,’ I add hastily.

He’s leaning forward, listening intently.

‘Anyway,’ I continue firmly, ‘it doesn’t matter because I have an alibi and that’s you. You were with me that night. You’re my alibi.’

He frowns and tips his chair back, staring at me through narrowed lids. ‘If there’s no other evidence against you, then you don’t need an alibi. They can’t use a witness statement in a court of law.’

‘You’re missing the point,’ I say angrily. ‘They may not be able to arrest me, but I have to live with their suspicion and everyone else’s. Do you know my son’s teacher asked me not to pick him up from school because the other parents don’t like me being around the school? And I’ve had reporters hassling me day and night.’ Not quite true, but it feels true in this moment. My voice cracks a little and I feel tears welling up. Not here. Not now, I think. Don’t start crying now. Not in front of him.

‘I’m sorry about that,’ he says more gently. ‘But you have to understand my point of view. I can’t risk Georgia finding out about the other night. I’d lose everything. You know Harry is not actually my son. I have no rights over him. She’d take him away from me.’

‘There’s no reason the police would need to tell Georgia.’

He shakes his head. ‘How can I know that for sure?’

I ball my hands up in my lap, digging my nails in. The next thing I say I say quietly but firmly.

‘You don’t. But if you don’t tell the police you were with me that night you can be sure that she will find out . . . because I’ll tell her myself.’

It takes a moment for my words to sink in. Then he looks suddenly ugly – his handsome features twisted with anger.

‘You wouldn’t do that,’ he says.

‘Try me. I don’t want to hurt Georgia, but I’m prepared to do whatever it takes.’

He stands up and takes a step towards me around the desk. He stands over me, glaring down at me, breathing quickly through his nose. He’s trying to intimidate me, I think. Well, it won’t work.

‘You have to tell the police the truth,’ I say, reaching for the pepper spray inside my bag.

His hands are clenched by his sides. For a moment, I think he’s going to hit me. I can see it crossing his mind and I brace myself for the impact, clutching the perfume bottle, ready to retaliate. Then he gives a deep sigh and walks back round the table and slumps in his chair.

‘All right,’ he says, at last. ‘But you have to promise me that you will never ever mention any of this to my wife. If you do, I won’t be held responsible for my actions.’

‘I promise,’ I say, breathing deeply and loosening my grip on the pepper spray. I will agree to almost anything if only he will tell the police the truth.

‘On your son’s life,’ he says.

There’s no way I’m going to swear anything on Dylan’s life. ‘Don’t worry,’ I say. ‘I’m good at keeping secrets.’

Twenty-five

It’s true that I’m good at keeping secrets. If keeping secrets was a sport, I’d be an Olympic champion – a gold medallist. But clearly Charlie wasn’t. She must have told someone about the accident. I don’t see how else they could have found out. But who did she tell? I mull this over as I dash through the rain to my car. I suppose the most likely person is her husband, Adam. I’m guessing that he was the person she was closest to. If she confided in anyone, it probably would have been him.

I sit in the car, listening to the rain drum on the metal roof and thinking about Adam, his smooth, boyish face and his seemingly genuine grief. I need to talk to him again and