by Elka Ray
I text Quinn. There’s a high chance she’ll be sound asleep, which is why I don’t call.
hey quinn - what’s colin’s address?
To my surprise, she answers right away. She sends an address. A quick check of Google maps confirms his place is around the corner. I’m about to stash my phone when Quinn texts again.
why? you going over?
This is followed by a winking emoji. I think of Pamela Powell.
maybe tomorrow - I reply. A white lie. This story is way too long to explain. And “maybe never” would raise too many questions I lack the energy to answer.
Quinn’s response appears in a flash.
go now & surprise him. wear some sexy lingerie under your raincoat. More winks and sexy kisses.
I roll my eyes. Who is this woman? Next thing she’ll recommend I wrap my naked body in cling film. This reminds me of the mug in my handbag.
I text back: go to sleep u perv. It takes a minute to find the snoring emojis.
Phone back in my purse, I go to find Grace. She’s staying the night, which is reassuring. Grace is the sort of calm, competent pioneer woman you’d want by your side in a crisis, the kind who could chop firewood, bind a wound, and pickle enough cabbage to get you through the long, dark Canadian winter.
And yet . . . Am I naive to trust her? If I’m right about the white residue, who had a better chance to drug Daphne’s cocoa than her beloved housekeeper? Although the why is hard to fathom. Plus, Grace seemed genuinely shocked to find Daphne ill. I recall her sprinting up the stairs.
Grace is in the kitchen, pouring detergent into the dishwasher. Despite her quick movements, she looks tired. Surely, that could wait until morning.
“Grace,” I say. “You should call it a night. It’s been a long day. You must be exhausted.”
“Oh, it’s no trouble,” says Grace. She straightens and unties her apron. “I like things tidy. It’s nice to wake up to a clean kitchen.”
I agree. But still. I’d make an exception tonight. “Okay, well, good night,” I say. “I’m going home now.”
Grace pulls off her apron and yawns. “Good night. Lock the door, dear. And drive carefully.”
I promise I will and retreat down the hallway.
After double-checking the door, I force my feet into my sodden shoes. I don’t even bother to open my umbrella as I sprint to my car. The storm is still raging. The puddles are even deeper.
I slide my damp self into my seat and lock the car’s doors. That short run has set my chest heaving.
Rain clatters against the car’s metal roof and cascades down the windows. I should get going but need to gather my thoughts. Anxiety has stiffened my neck. I squeeze my sore shoulders.
I think of the doctor—who treated Daphne’s husband Walt and has known her for decades. He seemed unconvinced that too many blood pressure pills were to blame. He guessed she took something else and drank more than she claimed. Daphne denied this, then admitted she couldn’t remember.
I tried to question the doctor about Daphne’s recent health but he clammed up, probably worried about patient confidentiality. He promised to stop by again in the morning.
I’m startled by a crash of thunder. The car’s interior is bright with lightning. After that brief flash, the darkness seems even deeper. I peer into the rain. Daphne’s street stretches desolate. Rain and trees are the only things moving.
I dig through my purse and pull out Daphne’s mug, then set it on the passenger seat. I retrieve my phone to find Colin’s address. Can I really face him tonight? What if he’s there with Miri?
Eyes shut, I replay our last conversation: Colin’s distraction, Miri’s tinkly, delighted laughter. I rub my temples. What if I got it all wrong? Maybe they were working, sitting in their office, or side-by-side in their unmarked car.
Miriam might have been on the phone too, talking to her husband or boyfriend. I know nothing about her private life. Was that image of her whispering sweet nothings in Colin’s ear just a product of my jealous, paranoid imagination? Maybe I got the wrong end of the stick. Or there is no stick, apart from the one I’m using to beat my own happiness into a soggy pulp. God, what’s wrong with me, assuming the worst about a great guy? So Colin’s busy at work. He’s trying to find a vicious killer! I need to stop being so insecure about Miriam Young. She’s his police partner. For all I know, she’s happily married with a gaggle of kids. While this is hard to believe, given her perfect physique, it’s not impossible. She might be the ultimate yummy-mummy. Or else she’s just happily married. I try to picture Mr. Young. In my head he’s a male version of Miriam. A fellow superhero. Long and lean. Wholesome but dashing. Oh no, I’m picturing Colin . . .
By now, I’ve forgotten Colin’s street number, again. My brain is mush. I scroll back through Quinn’s texts—all those winks and sexy kisses.
Am I brave enough to surprise Colin? I unzip my raincoat and peer down my top, see my black satin bra. I’m pretty sure I chose matching undies. That’s more than sexy enough. But what am I planning—to strip in my freezing car? Even with the heat blasting, it’s Siberia. The idea is so ludicrous I smile for the first time in ages.
I peer into my rearview mirror. While it’s too dark to see much, I don’t look so bad, considering my night—and recent dearth of sleep. I pinch my cheeks to add color. Maybe Colin will invite me in. I fluff the back of my hair and smile winningly into the tiny mirror. “Hi, Colin,” I say and wink at myself. Over-tiredness is tipping into hysteria. I fight down a snigger.
I turn on the headlights and pull away from the curb. This could be a great night, after all. I imagine me and Colin snuggled up together, safe and warm while the storm rages. Finally, the car’s heater seems to be working.
Between Daphne’s and Colin’s places I don’t see a single moving car. No people. No dogs or cats. Even the raccoons are hiding. It’s hard to see the house numbers in the deluge. But then I find it.
Colin lives in a big old mansion that’s been converted into flats. I pull up out front. The building is set on a low hill, overlooking the street. I gaze up at it. Only two windows are lit: one on the second story and the other on the top floor. As I watch, a man walks in front of the second-floor window. He’s holding a glass, his back turned to the street. My heart squirms. Even in silhouette, I recognize him right away: broad shoulders and narrow back. He moves his free hand, like he’s gesturing to someone.
And then another figure appears, also silhouetted against the light. A woman. Tall and slender. Like a black ink drawing of the perfect woman. My stomach twists and drops. I recognize her too. Miriam Young. Perhaps she’s tired, or upset, because her shoulders droop. She raises her hands to her head, in fatigue or frustration.
Colin strides closer. I grip the wheel as he enfolds her in a hug. She bends toward him. Her forehead rests on his shoulder.
I shut my eyes and bury my face in my hands. Of course he’s with Miriam Young. I knew it. I knew it. And yet I let myself hope.
I shouldn’t be here.
I feel a moment of sick panic. Colin knows my car. What if he looks out and sees me here, watching? I’ll feel even more pathetic. Like some crazy, desperate stalker.
That mug be damned. I’ll drop it off tomorrow, at the police station.
I pull away from the curb. My vision is blurry.
The whole way home I blink tears from my eyes. Why didn’t Colin just tell me? The betrayal hurts worse than losing him. I thought he was a good person. An honest and upstanding guy. If he prefers Miri, why didn’t he say so?
But then I remember him earlier today, gazing up at my office window. He must have been coming to tell me, then seen Josh and decided not to bother.
By the time I pull up outside my building my nose is clogged from crying. Before Stephen’s murder, things with Colin seemed great. We had so much fun. I thought we were getting closer. Maybe I was wrong about everything. Maybe I misread every signal.
There are no tissues in my car. Typical. I sc
our my face on my sleeve. I pray the lobby is empty. Half my fellow tenants survive on digestive biscuits, prunes, and gossip. Meeting me in this state would make their week. I can’t face their nosy, solicitous questions.
I bow my head against the rain and run down the walkway.
Luckily, the lobby is deserted, but for me and the leering Chucky angel. It looks more malevolent than usual.
I’m so tired I can barely climb the stairs, yet once in bed, sleep is a pipe dream.
That silhouette won’t leave my head: Colin and Miriam like a cutout on a romantic greeting card. How long have they been together? And why didn’t Colin tell me?
I thought he cared for me, at least enough to be honest. He’s an old friend of Bruce and Quinn’s. Quinn said he was crazy about me.
I can’t help but feel resentful. I trusted Colin and I trusted Quinn. What if I’d actually followed her dumb advice and shown up on his doorstep wearing nothing but gonch under my raincoat? For a moment, I actually considered it! My cheeks burn at the thought. I curl into a ball. How could my judgement be so awful?
CHAPTER 26:
A BAD AFTERTASTE
I’m in the bath when my doorbell rings. I ignore it but it rings again. And again. Then my mobile starts buzzing. I shake the water off my hands.
My phone rests on the shut toilet lid. I grasp it carefully. It’d be just my luck to drop it in the bathtub.
It could be Josh. Or Colin. In the past few days they’ve both called repeatedly. Whatever they want to say, I don’t want to hear it. At least not yet. I keep thinking of Vonda’s shocked fury after catching Josh kissing me in my office. And Colin embracing Miriam. Maybe they’re more similar than I thought—and not in good ways.
A glance at my phone’s screen reveals I needn’t have worried: it’s my mother. “Toby?” The way she says it revives my worry. “I need to talk to you,” she says. “Where are you?”
“In the bath,” I say. “Where are you?”
“Outside your door.”
I fight back a sigh. So much for my revitalizing soak. I even used the lavender bath bomb my mom gave me last Christmas. Lavender’s meant to induce relaxation. “Hold on,” I say. I feel anything but relaxed. “Give me two minutes.”
I’m still half-wet when I slip on my robe and pad, dripping, to my front door. I crack it open. The towel that was around my hair slides to the floor. I bend to retrieve it.
My mom charges inside. Beneath her purple raincoat she’s dressed for yoga.
“Hi, Mom.”
She tosses down her umbrella, drops her yoga mat, and kicks off her wellies. “This weather!” she says. She peels off her raincoat. In her pea-green yoga tights, her skinny legs resemble a frog’s. Overtop, she’s wearing a baggy grey top with a yellow Smiley Face. Her own face is anything but.
“Half my garden is underwater!” continues my mom. She stomps into my small kitchen and starts opening and closing cupboards. “Where’s the herb tea?”
I rewrap my hair. There goes my chance of sliding back into my hot lavender-infused bath. “Top left.” I say.
Another cupboard door slams. What’s gotten my mom so riled up? I slide past her and fill the kettle. “How are you?” I venture.
My mom frowns at a yellow box. “Chamomile?”
“Uh, sure,” I say, although I hate chamomile. I only bought it for her. But I don’t want tea right now, anyhow.
She locates two mugs and sets them onto the counter with two loud clunks. I bite my tongue. Those are fine china! Unlike her, I don’t shop at Value Village.
“Is everything okay?” I say. I can’t recall when my mom’s next mammogram is due. What if she’s had bad news? My throat tightens. I need to keep better track. I’m a bad daughter.
“I’m fine,” she says, but doesn’t sound it. “It’s not me.” She pours the boiling water. Some of it misses the mugs and puddles on my counter. She doesn’t bother to wipe it.
I follow her, meekly, to the living room.
Of course, she sets the mugs right on the coffee table, ignoring my impressive array of coasters. She flops onto the sofa and tosses one, two, three pillows to the side. She turns one way and the other way but can’t get comfortable. She’s like a little flea-ridden dog—itchy and jumpy.
I take an armchair. I resist the urge to ask what’s wrong. No matter what, she’ll say she’s fine. I need to wait her out. When she’s ready, she’ll tell me.
She grabs her tea and takes a long sip. Chamomile, like lavender, is meant to be soothing. Maybe it actually works. Although it’s probably just the power of suggestion. Some of the tension drains from her face. She takes another sip. “It’s Daphne,” she says.
I wait. Now what? My mom said she’d recovered well, after that incident three nights back. Has she had another health scare?
“The police came to see her early this morning,” says my mom. “That white powder you found in her cocoa. You were right. It was a sleeping pill called Ativan.” Her knuckles are as white as the cup she’s clutching. “She’s never been prescribed it.”
“Oh,” I say. My throat’s suddenly so dry I reach for my chamomile tea. It tastes awful, as expected, but at least it’s warm and wet. I cough. “That’s crazy.”
I swallow. It’s one thing to suspect something dreadful, and another to learn it’s true. Someone drugged Daphne Dane. “Can it cause memory loss?” I ask my mother.
While she looks angry, I know it’s fear she’s feeling. “Yes,” she says. Her lip quivers. “And death, at high doses.”
I swallow harder. I recall the large stain on Daphne’s cream rug. Most of that cocoa was undrunk. What would have happened if she’d downed the whole mug? I shiver. Was someone trying to kill her? Or just trying to make it seem like she’s losing her marbles? Either way, it’s unspeakably cruel. Someone hates Daphne enough to want to end her life, or destroy her peace of mind. Erode her self-worth and sanity. That’s worse than just murdering her.
I recall her a few nights back, sobbing piteously. How scared and lost she seemed.
My mother starts to cry. “It’s just . . . Who could do that to her?” she sniffs. “This man, Stephen . . . I tell myself he wasn’t a good person, like that makes his death justified, somehow. I know that’s not right but, well . . .” Her voice quivers. “You know, karma.”
I nod, having done the same thing. I fetch her some tissues.
She blows her nose. “But Daphne.” She hiccups. “Daphne’s helped so many people, not just us. Her work for charity.” She rubs her eyes. “I know life’s not fair but this seems . . .” She shudders. “It seems evil.”
For some minutes we sit in silence, trying to take this news in. Who would do such a thing? And who could do such a thing?
I clear my throat. “Who made Daphne’s cocoa?”
My mom sighs. “She has no idea,” she says. “The whole night is a big blank. She has no memory of us being there, or the doctor. She doesn’t even remember that the whole family was over, earlier that night, for dinner.”
I mull this over. “The whole family?”
“Lukas. Izzie and Gerard.” My mom dabs at her eyes. “And Grace,” she says.
I frown. “But Grace arrived after us,” I say. Now that I think about it, that’s odd. By then it was close to 9:30 p.m. Why was Grace stopping by so late—and on such a miserable night?
“She was working earlier,” says my mom. “But ran out to the shops. They’d run out of dishwashing detergent. She didn’t want the plates to get all crusty.”
I recall Grace bent over the dishwasher as I was leaving. Couldn’t she have just left the dishes to soak in the sink overnight? But Grace seems to take her job very seriously. She’s an obsessive neat freak, I’d say. She was still cleaning when I finally left, close to eleven.
I tuck my feet up under me and shiver. “Do you know if the police have any theories? Do they think it’s related to Stephen’s murder?”
My mom chews on her bottom lip. “The police . . .” Sh
e balls her hands into fists. “They don’t believe Daphne’s story.” She tugs at her blue lace agate (calming) choker. If she’s not careful, she’ll break it. “They insinuated that Daphne had a guilty conscience!” Her voice rises. “That she . . .” She waves a hand and scowls. Her dark eyes are bright with tears and fury.
I rub my forehead. I’m not following. While Daphne is a suspect in Stephen’s murder, surely, her drugged cocoa suggests there’s more to the story. It must be linked: one murder and one attempted murder. Both crimes must have been committed by the same person.
My mom keeps tugging at her choker. “The detectives suggested she took the Ativan knowingly,” she says. “That she meant to, you know . . .” Her voice cracks. “It’s absurd!” she cries.
I recoil in horror. “Oh,” I say. “But that’s crazy.” The cops think Daphne attempted suicide. Do they suspect she did it in a fit of re morse or because she’s scared they can prove she killed her cheating lover? Do they know something we don’t? Daphne was at the murder scene. I bet she has a vicious temper. I can picture her swinging that poker.
“Daphne would never try to kill herself,” says my mom. “It’s not in her nature.”
I nod. I agree with my mom. Even if Daphne bashed Stephen, and fears the cops are on to her, she’d fight to the bitter end. She’s no quitter.
But then I recall her three nights back, sobbing hysterically, scared of Isobel’s reaction. Maybe Daphne fears her mind is deteriorating, and decided to end her life before she’s entirely at her kids’ mercy. Someone as strong as Daphne couldn’t bear being so dependent.
These grim thoughts—and the chamomile—have left a sickly taste in my mouth. Did Daphne snap? Or was I right before and someone else drugged her cocoa? Someone who was there that night, which means it was someone she loves and trusts. Family. I feel queasy. It’s a horrific thought: Daphne betrayed by her lover and then by her nearest and dearest. If I’m right—and I hope I’m not—it’s the ultimate betrayal, a Greek myth come to life.
