“I know her type—perfect hair, perfect teeth, perfect marriage—and now the perfect sob story. She gives me the shits.”
Hayden used to feel sorry for Meg, but now he’s attacking her because he’s angry with me, or testing me. I have to show him I can be honest. I have to win back his trust.
“They’re not perfect,” I whisper.
“You said that before, but what does it mean?”
“Jack Shaughnessy had an affair.”
“How do you know?”
“I saw him with another woman. He was buying condoms at the supermarket. She was parked outside. He jumped in her car. They were kissing.”
“Who was she?”
“An estate agent. She sold them their house.”
Hayden whistles through his teeth. “Dirty bugger!”
I shouldn’t have told him. I should have kept my mouth shut.
“Please don’t tell anyone,” I say. “It ended weeks ago . . .”
Hayden doesn’t answer. He carries Rory down the stairs and straps him in the pram, tilting it backwards as he lowers it down each step to the street.
I watch them from the front window, resting my forehead against the glass, following their progress until they reach the corner and disappear. I want to go after them. I want to snatch Rory back.
I know that Hayden wants to believe me because he loves our little boy, but I’m giving him too many reasons to doubt. He hasn’t accused me of faking my pregnancy and stealing a baby, but has it crossed his mind? No. He doesn’t think I’m clever enough to do something like that.
But from now on he’s going to watch me more closely and check up on everything I’ve said and done. Even if I forge the paperwork for the birth, I can’t conjure a midwife out of thin air.
Why couldn’t my mother leave me alone?
MEGHAN
* * *
The police arrive before 6 a.m., in a convoy of cars blocking the street outside. Doors open in unison and officers march past the reporters and cameramen. Jack answers the doorbell still in his pajamas. DCS MacAteer hands him a search warrant.
“Who is it?” I ask from the top of the stairs.
Officers are moving past Jack. They’re dressed in overalls and wearing latex gloves.
“We have authority to search this property,” MacAteer announces, no longer sounding avuncular or sympathetic. “I will allow you to stay here so long as you don’t interfere. Police personnel will accompany you while you get dressed. I suggest you then assemble in the kitchen.”
“What about the children?”
“Them too.”
Jack keeps asking what’s happened. Do they have information? Is there some reason why they’re here? He looks at me, hoping for an explanation. I shake my head. Lisa-Jayne accompanies me to the bedroom and watches me dress. I move towards the bathroom. She follows.
“Can’t I do that alone?”
She shakes her head.
“Why are you here?”
She doesn’t answer.
For the next two hours we sit in the kitchen as police search everywhere from the attic to the cupboard below the stairs. Our computers and iPads are confiscated. We’re told we’ll get them back once the hard drives have been copied. Belongings are picked up, opened, and examined; books are feathered, furniture is moved, and carpets are peeled back to reveal bare floors. I wonder what they imagine they might find: Hidden rooms? Secret stashes? This is crazy.
Our questions are ignored. Officers are polite, but adamant that we don’t interfere. First names are no longer used.
Jack is incensed. “What have we done? Where is the justification? They’re trying to deflect attention. They can’t find Ben, so now they’re going to blame us.”
“That’s ridiculous. Why would they think that?”
“I don’t know—but look at what they’re doing.”
He confronts MacAteer, demanding an explanation, refusing to be fobbed off. The detective unbuttons his suit jacket and pushes his hand into his pocket.
“We have received information.”
“What information?”
“Someone called the hotline.”
“Who? What did they say?”
“On the night Ben went missing, you left the hospital before the police arrived.”
“I was looking for Ben.”
“You were missing for almost two hours.”
“I knew what the nurse looked like. I thought she might be nearby . . . I’ve told you this already.”
“Did you come back here?”
“What? No!”
“You were seen carrying something from the house that night.”
“That’s ridiculous. Whoever told you that is lying.”
“By leaving the scene, you compromised the investigation. You weren’t available to give us a detailed description. There could have been fibers on your clothes. DNA trace material.”
“I didn’t think.”
“Where did you go?”
“I told you.”
I’m looking at Jack, as though I’m part of the interrogation, suddenly wanting the same answers. Jack meets my gaze, his eyes pleading with me, no longer angry. I see another emotion there: fear.
“Do we need a lawyer?” he asks.
“That’s completely up to you, Mr. Shaughnessy.”
DCS MacAteer turns to me. “I wish to speak to you in private.”
I want to tell him that Jack and I have no secrets from each other, but that’s not true . . . not since I slept with Simon. Not after this.
Leaving Jack with the children, I follow the detective to the sitting room. He closes the door. I notice signs of the search. Officers have tried to put everything back in place, but it’s not the same. The photographs on the mantelpiece are in the wrong order and the DVDs are mixed up. It’s like a robbery where nothing has been taken except my peace of mind.
MacAteer motions to the sofa. I choose to remain standing. The room feels too small for the both of us.
“I’m going to ask you several questions,” he says. “I would appreciate you answering them truthfully.”
“When have I not been truthful?” I say, trying to sound annoyed.
“Did your husband want this baby?”
I hesitate a moment too long.
“Don’t treat me like an idiot, Mrs. Shaughnessy. I have men and women working around the clock on this case. Thousands of hours of overtime. Resources. Expertise. Answer the question.”
“He wasn’t happy at first, but he came round,” I say.
“Has he ever hurt you or your children?”
“Never.”
“Your daughter was taken to hospital at the age of two with a cut above her eye.”
“She tripped over Jack’s legs and hit her head against the window seat.”
“Does he view online pornography?”
“No. Never. I mean, I don’t think so.”
“We’re going to search his computer. We’re going to search yours as well.”
“I have nothing to hide.”
Even as I utter the statement I realize how trite it sounds—like a line from a crappy movie. A great actress could deliver a line of dialogue like that, but I’m not a great actress and I’m a worse liar.
MacAteer is getting to the point. “Two days ago you left the house at ten o’clock at night.”
“I went for a walk.”
“Why?
“I needed some time alone.”
“Where did you go?”
“Nowhere in particular.”
“How did you get out of the house?”
I waver, wondering how much he knows. “I climbed over the back fence and walked along a railway line.”
“You crawled through undergrowth?”