“Senhor Da Silva will be giving answers,” she replies. “But I would like to know where you were when the car came?”
Rachel tries to brush off the fear that’s creeping through her veins, pretend that it’s a perfectly reasonable question under the circumstances. Though, if it had been a fluke runaway, she doubts the police would need to know her exact whereabouts.
“I was on the terrace,” she says carefully, considering her position both literally and metaphorically. “I had been talking to Ali, the bride, and we were called to watch the fireworks.”
Casimiro makes a note. “Where are you and…” She looks down. “Alison Hunter when you are talking?”
Rachel’s eyes narrow, wondering why it could possibly be relevant. “Around the back of the restaurant,” she says, slowly. “By the kitchen.”
“So, that is to the left of the terrace, as you come down the hill?”
Rachel rubs at her forehead, trying to remember. “Yes, I think so.”
“And why were you there?”
Even though she knows she’s done nothing wrong, Rachel can’t help but feel that every twitch and nuance is being analyzed by the woman. Unlike her colleague, her face is deadpan, giving nothing away. Her small, dark eyes are empty of everything, except judgment.
“We were talking, away from the loud music,” says Rachel, her mouth drying up with every word she utters.
“About what?” asks the woman, tilting her head to the side.
“Rachel!” comes a voice.
“Maria,” shrills Rachel breathlessly, as she appears through the curtain. “Where’s Ali? Is she okay? Please tell me she’s okay.”
Maria’s eyes fill with tears. “I don’t … I can’t…”
“Where is she?” asks Rachel.
“She’s in surgery, but…” Her shoulders convulse as she sobs. “She’s in a bad way. They don’t know if…”
“It’ll be okay,” says Rachel authoritatively. “She’s going to be okay.”
“I’m sorry, but you are Alison Hunter’s mother?” asks Casimiro.
“Yes,” says Maria quietly. “Yes, I am.”
“I would like to ask you some questions, just as soon as I am finished here.”
Maria nods. “Of course, I’ll be waiting for my daughter to come out of surgery.”
“Thank you,” says Casimiro. “I will come and talk to you in time.”
Maria backs herself out of the cubicle, shaking her head inconspicuously, as if silently trying to communicate with Rachel.
“So, can you remember what you were talking about?” asks Casimiro, urging Rachel to carry on.
Rachel forces herself to trawl through the debris in her brain. She’d thought Ali was having an affair with Jack … but then she can see Ali in the ladies’ room, telling her that he was sleeping with Paige. She can visualize herself laughing at the ridiculous suggestion.
She shakes her head. “No, it’s fuzzy, I can’t quite remember.”
“And Mrs. Paige Collins wasn’t with you?”
“No,” says Rachel.
“So, afterward, when you had finished talking, you came out onto the terrace to watch the fireworks, yes?”
Rachel nods her head, wary of where this is going.
“And do you remember seeing Mrs. Collins then? Was she on the terrace?”
Rachel closes her eyes, desperately trying to recall those few moments before it happened. It was dark, but there was enough lighting to be able to see silhouettes, and faces you knew well enough. But as much as she tries, she can’t see Paige anywhere.
“No, she wasn’t,” says Rachel.
“And Mr.…” says Casimiro, looking at her notes. “Jack Hunter, your husband?”
“He was there,” says Rachel adamantly.
“You saw him before the car arrived?”
Rachel can see Jack in the morning suit he’d complained about, the pair of them not knowing that it was the only way she was going to be able to identify him later. “Yes, he was definitely there,” but even as she says it, she wonders why she wasn’t standing with him if he was. She remembers seeing the fabric of his suit, going toward him, but then … no. She shakes her head in an attempt to retrieve the recollection.
“No, actually it wasn’t until after the car had hit us that I saw Jack.”
“You are sure?”
“Yes, but he must have been there, otherwise he wouldn’t have gotten injured so badly.”
“And Mr. Noah Collins?” asks Casimiro. “He didn’t show very many injuries. Was he there?”
Was he? Rachel knows she wants to be able to place him, even though she’s not yet sure what it will mean if she’s able to. Will it exonerate him from whatever the police are trying to determine, or implicate him?
She takes herself back to when she joined the other guests on the terrace after talking to Ali behind the restaurant, and can still feel the deep-rooted contempt that flooded her veins. Every fiber of her being had bristled with a stinging hostility as she looked around … but for who?
Another jolt and she can see herself with Noah, but not on the terrace. They’re somewhere else and he’s trying to kiss her and is asking for a paternity test. Blood rushes to her head as she’s hit by the sudden recollection of what had happened. She falls back onto the pillow as the pieces begin to fall into place.
“Noah was the first person I saw after I’d been hit,” she says.
“But you didn’t see him before?” presses Casimiro.
“No,” says Rachel, feeling weary.
She’s relieved when Noah returns, though he looks worse than he did ten minutes ago: sheet-white with red-rimmed eyes.
“Are you okay?” she asks.
“I’m going,” says Casimiro, hastily standing up and putting her notebook back in her bag. “I will be leaving you to take time.”
As soon as she’s left, Noah takes hold of Rachel’s hand and squeezes it, his tears flowing freely.
“I’ve seen her,” he manages between sobs.
“Oh, thank God,” says Rachel. “Is she all right?”
He shakes his head. “She’s gone, Rach.”
“Wh-what?” she almost screams. “No … no, she can’t be.”
“I’ve just had to identify her,” says Noah. “They recovered her from the water.”
Rachel’s world spins and she clutches hold of the bedclothes to save herself from falling off. No. No. No. This isn’t real, it can’t be. If she wasn’t already lying down, she’d pass out, her body temporarily shutting down to protect it from the shock. Her head lolls back onto the pillow and hot bile stings the back of her throat. She grabs the cardboard bowl from the side and vomits into it.
“The car must have knocked her in,” cries Noah.
“Or else she felt she had no choice but to jump out of its way,” says Rachel. She can’t refer to it as a car, as she’s unable to relate to how an everyday object could become a devastating killing machine.
Noah’s shaking his head, as tears stream down his face. “I should have protected her, but I can’t even remember her being there. The last time I saw her she was with Jack.”
Rachel can see the pair of them standing on the terrace, and watches in slow motion as Paige’s heart bracelet glistens as she stubs out her cigarette. It’s the tiniest thing, but it’s the catalyst that unlocks the memories that have been locked away. Suddenly, the conversation she’d had with Ali comes back to her with crystal-clear clarity; the scenes shuttering in front of her eyes like a 1940s homemade movie.
Rachel looks at Noah, already in his own world of hurt and pain, and wonders how she can possibly contemplate making it worse. But the truth can’t be hidden forever, and if she doesn’t reveal it now, it will have much further-reaching consequences when it does come out. “They were having an affair,” she says numbly, as the details slowly seep into her consciousness.
“Who were?”
“Jack and Paige,” cries Rachel.
Noah’s head jolts up and he looks at her wide-eyed. When he goes to speak, nothing comes out. She squeezes his hand, for all the good it will do.
“I’m sorry,” she says, feeling somehow responsible.
“Are you serious?” he says, his voice high-pitched.
“Yes,” says Rachel meekly.
Noah shakes his head, as his shock and pain metamorphose into anger. “What the fuck…?” he exclaims, standing up, sending his chair scraping against the worn laminate floor.