I raised my eyebrows. ‘Here? In our home?’
Emma slowly nodded. ‘I was out by the oak tree – I’d decided to do some digging, make a start on the vegetable patch I’d been talking about. He must have followed me there from the house. We argued. He said that I had messed up his head, that it had been terrible for him after I left. The next thing I knew he was lunging at me, grabbing me by the throat. I couldn’t breathe. It was muddy and he . . . he slipped. I thought he was going to kill me . . . I had no choice.’ The whites of Emma’s eyes flashed in the darkness, filling me with dread. She took a breath, panting now. ‘I hit him with my shovel. I only wanted to keep him down long enough for me to get away. He fell backwards, into the ditch. That’s when everything went quiet.’ Emma’s voice shuddered. ‘At first I thought he was playing a trick. Then I saw the blood seeping from his head. I . . . I didn’t mean to kill him. It wasn’t my fault.’ Her words were cut short as a sob caught in her throat. Her chin trembling, she took another faltering breath. ‘I covered him up, told myself I’d go back the next day and sort things out. But after a couple of days I’d buried it so deep in my mind it was as if it had never happened at all.’
I shook my head. I had so many questions. Had she checked for a pulse? Was she sure he was dead? Did anyone else know? But she carried on talking, her voice barely a whisper.
‘I wanted to tell you. But not long after, I found out I was pregnant. How could I have a baby in prison? We’d been so desperate for a child. I couldn’t do that to you or our baby. So I put the past behind me and tried to forget about him.’
‘Until now,’ I said. All the pieces of the puzzle were coming together.
She nodded, wiping her tears with the back of her sleeve. ‘I wanted to leave. But I was scared that the new owners would dig up the land and it would all come out. What good would come of that? He’s dead. I hate myself for it but there’s nothing I can do.’
As she drew her eyes away, I couldn’t help but wonder if I really knew my wife at all.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
EMMA
2017
I finally drew the courage to look my husband in the eye. At least he was still here. I had half expected him to turn on his heels and walk away. He had paled in the aftermath of my confession. He was not the only one. I felt as if I had aged ten years. I stared at my lap, feeling empty inside, just as I had done after Jamie was born. But this time it was not a baby that had been expelled from my womb. It was a piece of myself that I had given away. Alex made no attempt to take my hands as he had done earlier. It was why I had withdrawn them when I began to speak. I could not bear to feel him pull away from me, as I knew he would. Alex was a good man with a strong moral code. He would struggle with what I’d done. But there was more than just me to take into consideration. My gaze fell on our family portrait above me on the wall. To the left, another framed picture, taken hours after Jamie was born. Our little king was now asleep in his bed, oblivious of our torment. I took a deep breath, trying to control the tremor in my body. I had thought it would make me feel better to offload the secret that I had carried for so long. It was as close as I could come to telling the truth. Judging by the look of disbelief on Alex’s face, it was just as well I’d been circumspect. I don’t think he could have taken any more. I sat in silence as he rubbed his face, washing away the ugliness of what I had shared. I looked at my watch. It was only half past one, but it felt as if a lifetime had passed before he spoke again.
He mumbled something about it all making sense, citing my reluctance to sell. As we talked it through, I was forced to recall how I felt after what I had done. He was searching in the darkness for a hint of regret, a flicker of empathy for the man I had killed. I had to provide him with the answers he wanted to hear.
‘I was devastated by Luke’s death. I blamed myself for everything. But it was a burden I didn’t feel equipped to handle. When I came home, I forced the memory aside. That night I showered and scrubbed my body until it glowed pink. I remember you asking me if I’d been allergic to my moisturiser because my skin looked so sore.’
‘I don’t remember,’ Alex said, with a slow shake of the head.
‘Don’t you see? That’s what happens. Your mind casts away memories of no value.’
But my words were unconvincing. Being forgetful was one thing. Rewriting history was another. I was a murderer and I had learned to live with it. But I could not lose my family. I needed my husband to stay strong to keep me on the right path. As Alex stared into space unblinkingly, I wondered if it was too late.
I reached across the void and touched his hand. I had not realised I was crying until my tears tapped the throw which was wrapped around me. ‘What do we do now?’
He cleared his throat. ‘I need to go there.’ His voice was cold and robotic. ‘I need to see it for myself.’
Thoughts of returning to that place with my husband were too much to bear. ‘See this,’ I whispered. Opening the palm of my right hand I exposed the blisters on my skin. ‘I didn’t fall off the quad. I went back there, to the grave. I dug it up. He’s . . .’ I took a deep breath to calm my beating heart. ‘He’s gone.’
‘Really?’ He shook his head in disbelief. ‘That can’t be right,’ he said, firmer this time. ‘We have to figure out what the hell is going on. It can’t have just disappeared.’
‘He is gone,’ I said, my fingers gripping my husband’s wrist and making him wince. Fingers that had been down my throat less than an hour before. Had he realised what I had been doing? I relaxed my grip, grateful he wanted to help me out of this horrific mess. ‘There’s not a single sign that he was there. No clothes, no shoes, it’s like it never happened.’
My words seemed to trigger a reaction as Alex opened his mouth to speak. He paused.
This was not the time for holding back.
‘What?’ I said, desperate to read his mind.
He turned away from me, facing the coffee table. His words came, slow and measured. ‘Are you sure? Did it really happen?’ His head hung low, his shoulders hunched, and he raised both hands to run his fingers through his hair.
A prickle of annoyance rose up inside me. ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
‘I don’t know. I’m just looking for answers. It’s so hard to believe.’ Still, he avoided my gaze. Why wouldn’t he look at me? Was he so ashamed of what I had become? Did he think that having an eating disorder made me a compulsive liar? My annoyance grew like a hot flame inside me, and I felt a stress rash break out on my chest. I had just poured my heart out and this was the best he could come up with? ‘You think I made this up?’ I spat the words. ‘You think I’m mad, is that it?’
I did not notice his clenched fists until he banged on the coffee table, making me squeak as I jumped.