‘And I didn’t have a stutter,’ I add bitterly. ‘Rachel used to upset me so much, it made me n-nervous, that’s all.’
‘Of course.’ Again, Dominic nods, seeming to understand what I’m saying. Even to sympathise with me. Then he looks down at the snow globe. ‘But this did belong to her, didn’t it? You took it from your parents’ house tonight and then came up with a story about someone having sent it to you.’
‘It wasn’t a story.’
‘Okay. Though I didn’t notice it arriving, Catherine.’
‘It was sent to me at the food bank, not here. It came with the other parcel deliveries. Only it was addressed to me personally. You can ask Petra,’ I add. ‘Ask Sharon. They were there. They saw it arrive.’
‘Fair enough. So why not show me the snow globe at once?’ His gaze searches my face. The skin prickles on the back of my neck. ‘Why hide it under the sink like you’re ashamed of it?’
‘I didn’t know how you’d react,’ I say. ‘And from the way you’re being now, it’s obvious I was right to be worried.’
‘And how am I being?’
‘You don’t believe me, do you?’ I swallow hard, fighting an urge to cry. ‘We’re getting married in a few weeks. To have and to hold. Forever and ever.’
‘I know.’
‘Yet I tell you this, and you don’t believe me.’
‘In my defence, it’s not an easy story to believe. It’s . . . well, pretty far-fetched. Some anonymous person steals this from your dad’s house and sends it to you?’ He holds up the snow globe. ‘At the food bank where you’re volunteering?’ He hesitates. ‘I want to believe you. But you’re making it very hard for me.’
‘Look!’ I bend to the cupboard under the sink, tearing the door open so fiercely it almost wrenches the hinge off. The empty parcel is there at the front. Grabbing it, I shove the box towards him. ‘See? It’s addressed to me.’
He does not move, still looking straight at me. ‘Sender’s address?’
‘There isn’t one. And the label’s printed. Do you think I didn’t check those things? It was sent to me anonymously. But I know why.’ I let the box drop, since he refuses to take it. It falls on its side on the bathroom lino, white polystyrene chips spilling out. ‘He sent it to taunt me.’
His eyes narrow on my face. ‘He?’
‘My dad.’
‘Your dad?’ He looks bemused now. ‘Why on earth would your dad do something like that?’
‘Because he hates me.’
‘For God’s sake—’
‘He blames me for Rachel’s death,’ I burst out.
There’s a grim silence.
Dominic studies my face. Then his frown finally relaxes, as though he’s come to some unspoken conclusion. He offers me the snow globe again. This time I take it with unsteady hands.
The glass sphere is still warm from his touch. I look down at the Swiss chalets and snowy mountains, the tiny goat. Everything inside is damp and glittering, even though there’s no longer any water in it.
I remember the eyeball, and shudder.
‘Look, there’s something wrong here,’ Dominic says slowly, as if he’s trying to work things out on his own. ‘You told me Rachel died in an accident when you were kids.’
‘Yes,’ I whisper.
‘A skiing accident, you said. In . . . Switzerland, wasn’t it?’
‘The Swiss Alps.’
‘So how can your dad possibly blame you for that?’
Chapter Fifteen
Without answering, I drop into a crouch and place the snow globe back in its box. As soon as I have closed the lid, I feel better.
When I straighten, Dominic is still watching me, his arms folded. There’s a war in his face between wanting to trust me and the suspicion my dad has seeded in his mind.
‘Well?’
‘First, answer me this,’ I say, my tone brittle. ‘Who rang who?’ He looks mystified. ‘Did you call my dad or did he call you?’
‘He called me,’ Dominic says quietly, ‘on my way home from work. He told me what happened when you turned up. How upset you were.’
‘I’m surprised he noticed.’
‘Actually, he sounded very worried about you. He asked me to check how you were.’ When I shake my head in disbelief, he sighs. ‘Look, I know what you’re thinking.’
‘I doubt it.’
‘Your dad only has your best interests at heart. As do I.’
‘So which lie did he use this time? He thinks I’m having another nervous breakdown, is that it?’
‘Another?’
My laugh is humourless. ‘My parents were always “worried” about me after Rachel died. Forever taking me to the doctor, to specialists. They said I was depressed.’
‘Maybe you were.’
‘I wasn’t depressed. I was just trying to get back to being me. Rachel was always the centre of attention. The centre of the whole world, it sometimes felt. After she died, I thought maybe, just maybe, my parents might be interested in me for a change.’
He looks taken aback. ‘That’s not very . . .’
‘Nice?’
He shrugs.
‘You didn’t know Rachel, or you wouldn’t judge me for craving a little attention. She wasn’t just your average spoilt brat who thinks she’s a princess. Rachel was . . .’ I screw up my face, struggling to make my point without sounding like a bitch. ‘She made our lives miserable.’
‘You already told me that,’ he interrupts impatiently. ‘When we first started dating, remember? You said she was a nightmare to live with.’
‘I didn’t tell you the whole truth. There’s more. And some of it . . . some I can’t tell you. It’s too horrible.’
‘Oh, come on. You were just a couple of kids.’
‘Even kids can be dangerous.’
Again, he shrugs. He thinks I’m exaggerating.
‘I didn’t matter to them, and that’s the truth. I was the out-of-focus sister.’ My voice stumbles, but I press on, determined to make him understand. ‘Do you have any idea how that feels? To grow up like that? Always the quiet one, the sensible one, the one who had to pick up the pieces, the one who never got what she wanted because Rachel always had first choice.’
‘Okay.’ He leans against the door frame, watching me. ‘So why does your dad blame you for Rachel’s death? How were you involved?’
‘Me?’
‘Catherine, there must be a reason.’ He frowns. ‘How exactly did Rachel die? You said she was skiing that day.’
I pick up the box containing the snow globe and cradle it in my arms.
‘I don’t know what happened,’ I say simply. ‘I think she’d gone out on the piste with Dad, while I stayed behind with Mum. Mum had a cold, so she didn’t want to go out in the snow. Or maybe it was me who had the cold.’
‘You can’t be sure?’
‘My memory of that day is kind of hazy, except for when Dad came to tell me about Rachel. I remember that part perfectly. But the rest is fuzzy round the edges.’ I make a face. ‘Not surprising, really. It was years ago. And I was only a kid.’
‘What did he tell you?’
‘There was this place . . . I suppose it was a hospital of some sort. I remember waiting there with Mum, though she’d gone off somewhere. To the toilet, I expect, or to grab coffee. And Dad came in. He looked awful.’ I feel my breathing quicken at the memory. ‘He said Rachel had died. And that was it. I flew home with Mum the next day, and Dad flew home a little later. I guess he had to wait for them to . . . release the body.’
‘She was buried in England?’
‘Cremated.’ I look at him. ‘Her ashes are in Dad’s study. They think I don’t know, but I spotted it when I was looking for an insurance document for my mum once, when he was away from home.’
‘It?’
‘The urn containing her ashes. He keeps it in the bottom drawer of his filing cabinet. Mum showed it to me after the funeral, so I recognised it at once.’ I grimace. ‘Promise me you won’t stick me in a filing cabinet when I die.’
He smiles then. ‘I promise.’
With careful hands, he takes the parcel away from me. ‘Come here,’ he says, putting it back on the floor. He pulls me towards him, ignoring how stiff and reluctant I am to be hugged.
‘He can’t have it both ways,’ he whispers in my ear. ‘He can’t blame you for Rachel’s death if you weren’t even with her that day.’
‘Dad loved her so much though.’