He shrugs.
‘Someone who doesn’t want the two of us to be together,’ I say slowly, trying to work it out. ‘And who knows exactly which buttons to press. So it has to be someone who knows me well. And who knows about Rachel. Maybe someone who knows more than I do about her death.’ I stare at the flickering fire, half mesmerised by the flames. ‘After all, I was a kid when it happened, and my parents wanted to protect me. That’s why they never discussed it afterwards, I guess.’
I frown, thinking about the eyeball in the snow globe, and my ruined wedding dress, and now Jasmine’s postcard. There’s a pattern here. A vile, twisted pattern of hostility and attack. But I can’t see what it means.
‘Well, it’s a nice theory,’ I continue, a little unnerved by Dominic’s silence. ‘But who the hell ticks all those boxes? I don’t know anyone who’s so bothered about us getting married that they’d go to all this bloody trouble.’ I pause in my little rant, looking up at him. ‘Do you?’
Dominic’s expression is grim, yet he says nothing. He stands and opens a wooden chest, taking out a soft tartan blanket, which he shakes and drapes around my shoulders. Physical comfort instead of words. Perhaps I prefer it. Right now, the fact that he’s here for me should matter more than what he says. Or doesn’t say.
‘Thanks.’ My voice is husky. I pat the sofa, which suddenly feels very big. ‘Join me?’
Dominic hesitates, then sits next to me. The sofa gives slightly under his weight and I slump towards him, not very gracefully. The T-shirt rides up, revealing my bare thighs. I see his gaze flicker across them, slowly moving higher. His hand finds my shoulder, then caresses my collarbone, the curve of my throat, his fingers trailing across my cheek.
‘You think too much,’ he tells me softly.
‘Better than too little.’
‘Not when you’re on your honeymoon.’
‘Shit, sorry.’ I bite my lip at the quiet accusation in his voice. I’m not sure how I got there, but I’m on the verge of tears. ‘I’m ruining our honeymoon, aren’t I? We were having such a peaceful time up here, hiding away from everything, and now . . .’ I suck in a deep breath. ‘Rachel always finds a way to spoil things.’
‘Forget Rachel,’ he says, almost angry.
Shaken, I meet his gaze.
‘I don’t want you to think about her again, you hear me?’ he continues. ‘Rachel is dead and gone. She can’t hurt you anymore.’
God, I want to believe him. To forget about my sister. To dismiss all the things that have been happening lately. It would make everything so much easier if I could just shut her out of my head.
I close my eyes as he kisses me.
Rachel is dead and gone. She can’t hurt you anymore.
So who sent that postcard?
Chapter Nineteen Sharon calls me into her office just after nine o’clock on my first day back at work after the honeymoon. She has changed her hair, I realise, as I follow her into the warm room. She used to wear it loose over her shoulders, all bouncy, honey-blonde, dyed curls. Now it looks stricter, coiled up in a bun at the back of her head. She has toned down her lipstick, too. Usually scarlet, it’s a darker red today, and less glossy. As if she means business.
‘How was the Lake District?’ she asks, indicating that I should close the door.
‘Fantastic, thank you. The scenery was breathtaking.’
‘Sounds lovely. Did you do much walking?’
I smile, though I’m still puzzled by this unexpected summons. If Sharon has something to say, normally she would do so in front of everyone else. Is this just about the honeymoon?
‘We went out a couple of times. It was a bit cold for anything major.’
‘Snowed, did it?’
I nod, and Sharon makes a wry face.
‘That’s the Lake District in December, love,’ she says. ‘I did say you should have gone to Benidorm.’
‘And you were right. I hate flying though, so . . .’ I shrug. ‘By the way, we both absolutely love the cruet set. Thank you so much.’
‘No problem.’ Sharon looks uncomfortable again, but manages a thin smile. ‘You’d better sit down.’
I sit in one of the plastic chairs in front of her desk.
‘Is there a problem?’ I ask.
‘A problem?’ Sharon sits behind her desk, smiling at me in a perfunctory manner. ‘I’m not sure I would put it like that, no.’
‘So why am I here?’
She looks annoyed by the question, as if I’m straying from the script in her head. Picking up some papers, she shuffles them, glancing at one or two, then hands them to me.
‘You recognise these?’
I study the first few sheets. It’s paperwork I sorted out for her in the weeks before my wedding. Simple accounting for the food bank. Part of her job as manager here – but knowing I have an affinity with numbers, Sharon often gives me the forms to fill out while she mans my workstation.
A quid pro quo arrangement that suits us both.
There has never been a problem before.
I nod, still mystified, and offer her the papers back again.
‘No, keep them for now.’ Sharon sits back. Her face is troubled. ‘I didn’t notice the issue until last week, when I had to provide our monthly figures to the charity.’
‘Issue? What issue?’
Her mouth tightens. My tone obviously irritates her.
‘You have no idea what this is about, Catherine?’
I don’t like the way she emphasises my name.
Now I’m irritated, too.
‘None whatsoever, sorry. Should I?’
I flick through the loose sheets again, checking the details on each. Some people I recall perfectly. The ones with the worst stories. Others are harder to place. A few were dealt with by different volunteers, or they came to the food bank outside my shift times.
There’s nothing here that strikes me as wrong.
Sharon taps the desktop with one painted fingernail, studying me through narrowed eyes. ‘Okay, let’s do this properly. You know how you have to input the details on the computer, then print out two copies for the files?’
‘Of course.’
‘And each printout has to be signed at the bottom, in the box that says “Handling Officer”?’
‘Yes.’
‘And you’re supposed to leave that part blank so that I can add my signature later?’
A cold feeling creeps over me. Did I sign the printed forms by mistake? Guiltily, my hand clenches the sheets, staring back at her.
I did rush through some of those forms in the weeks before the wedding, my head full of flower arrangements and invitations and packing up our stuff for the post-wedding move to my parents’ house. Plus, of course, the horror of the snow globe’s arrival.
‘Look at the signature on each sheet.’
I look down at the first sheet, expecting to see my own name in the box left blank for the Handling Officer’s signature.
My heart stutters.
There’s a name written in the signature box. Signed in bold, black ink. The scrawl is not quite legible, almost underdeveloped. As though the writer hasn’t fully decided yet how to sign their name.
A familiar, sloping signature, all the same.
Just one word.
The sheets in my hand begin to tremble.
This is fear. Sudden, primal, brain-numbing fear.
When I don’t say anything, Sharon clears her throat. Her look is cold, brittle. She doesn’t understand, and who can blame her?
‘Well?’ she says. ‘Do you have an explanation for me? Any explanation at all?’
I shake my head, my heart thumping. I don’t know what to say. Or if I can even speak. My tongue feels as if it’s stuck to the roof of my mouth. I’m in hell, I think. A nightmare, only it’s for real.
Sharon glares at me. ‘Who the hell is Rachel?’