“Newnham,” I say to my driver.
He nods, revving the engine. The patrol car lurches forward with a screech, spitting clods of gravel.
“Make it fast,” I add.
He twitches his mustache before jumping on the accelerator. We shoot down Brook Lane, scattering dead leaves across the road. I’m going to do exactly what I’d promised Agnessa. And I’m going to start by extracting a person from the depths of a particular house in the neighboring village of Newnham. He did, after all, say that he spent the past two days writing in his study. Something gruesome must have happened in that room the day before yesterday.
I’m sure of it.
Revenge. Blackmail. Seduction. Obsession. Murder.
What if the short story you’re reading was a precise description of the facts in your own diary?
This is the tale of Gunnar, who picks up a dog-eared book in a charity shop in Valberg only to discover that he has been hiding terrible truths about his past from himself.
And someone else knows it…
—Back cover of On Death’s Door
by Mark Henry Evans
Chapter Twenty-Four
Claire
I wish I hadn’t cut out those twelve pages from my diary. Especially as Inspector Richardson has failed to shed any light on that twelve-day void in my head. But it’s still a relief to discover that Anna May Winchester resurfaced after a few days. At least Mark didn’t do anything to that girl all those years ago. I’m certain he didn’t cause Sophia’s death. I’m confident I did not marry a murderer. I don’t know why Richardson remains adamant that Mark killed Sophia.
But Mark is still a shameless cheat, and I’m still going to divorce him.
I’ll start by packing a small bag of essentials. And I’ll retrace my steps to Emily’s guest room so I can spend the night there (even if the bed’s damned uncomfortable and reeks of mothballs). I’ll also figure out my options, with her help. As Emily had pointed out in that matter-of-fact tone of hers, I ought to start thinking about the size of my divorce settlement. She’s right.
I turn the key. The door gives way; I step into the living room. A burst of late-afternoon sun is spilling through the French doors, casting rosy-gold rays across the polished floor. I can’t believe I rushed down that staircase earlier this morning to attend to Mark’s injured hand. It seems like a lifetime ago. A different household, even a different existence. So much pain since. I feel like a different person altogether. I have plenty to write in my diary tonight. So many terrible and unsettling facts to type out and learn.
Nettle trots up to me, his brown eyes sympathetic. I pat him on the head before stroking his floppy ears.
“Apart from Em,” I say as a tear slides down my cheek, “you’re the only friend I have.”
Nettle gives me an approving wag before disappearing behind the sofa. I walk into the kitchen and turn on the kettle.
Footsteps echo behind me.
“I’m sorry, Claire.” Mark’s voice sounds weary, even exhausted.
I walk to the cabinet and pull out a Lady Grey tea bag. My tears have dried up. I can feel Mark’s eyes on my back.
“I tried to protect you,” he continues, a stricken note creeping into his voice. “Save us from what we’ve done—to others and to ourselves. But it’s not enough. Everything’s falling apart now.”
The kettle begins whistling a little. But its persistent hum fails to fill the void left behind by Mark’s words. A sudden anger rises up in my throat, almost to the point of choking me.
“You slept with her,” I say with a snarl, turning around and stabbing my eyes at him. “You kept it going for months behind my back. Two long years. I thought you were spending all those weekends away from Cambridge because of work. Instead you were banging another woman in London. You’re a liar, Mark. A cheat. From the first day we met. I’ve read my diary entry about that girl you slept with, even after we got together. The one you were taking to the Trinity May Ball. God knows how many other women you’ve had since. I’ve been such a fool. For trusting you. For keeping up the pretense. For convincing myself that I can’t afford to leave this marriage. Despite knowing that we’ll never make each other happy.”
Mark merely shakes his head. Instead of looking contrite, he seems consumed with self-pity. His reaction is galling; surging fury threatens to blind me. I’m tempted to step forward and sink my fingernails into his shoulders. Shake him hard.
“I did lie,” he says, spreading his palms and taking me by surprise. “About her. When Richardson showed up at our doorstep this morning, I thought it would be best to deny any connection to Sophia. Tell him that I had absolutely nothing to do with her. It was the only option left, I figured. In view of what we’ve done.”
“We?” I say, choking on the word. “It was you, Mark. It was you who had an affair with her.”
“I’m sorry, Claire,” he says. “For getting carried away by my stupidity. I’m not proud of myself. I can’t change what I’ve done. But there are worse things than my affair with Soph—”
I can’t believe my ears.
“What could be worse than your husband having an affair behind your back?” My voice escalates to a shriek. “The discovery that he’s a liar who’s been telling the world that we’ve been in a happy mixed marriage for years? What can be worse than that?”
Mark does not answer. Instead he collapses on a kitchen stool, his head slumping forward.
“I’m going to Emily’s tonight,” I say, spitting my words out. “To work out the terms of our divorce.”
Mark sighs.
“You have every right to be jealous,” he says. “And now you’ve every right to ask for a divorce. Hurt me back in the way I’ve hurt you. You’ve already succeeded, anyway, with that clever text message of yours. My political credibility has been destroyed in just a few words. You should be a novelist, Claire. You’ve managed to create a ruckus greater than any of the books I’ve written. But you’re also on the verge of destroying us. Even yourself.”
“Stop talking in circles.”
“If only you knew.”
Mark’s innate sense of Duo superiority makes me bristle even further.
“Quit your smug Duo act. And stop implying that I’m ignorant. That you know much more than I do. I’ve endured twenty years of patronizing bullshit from you. This is a fact I know all too well.”
“I only have myself to blame,” he says with a mournful sigh. “For sparing you the agony of knowing. For telling you to forget what happened. I thought you would be much happier that way. But the truth is within you, Claire, whether you realize it or not. It’s lurking inside your subconscious. Like a disease. You must have taken hundreds of pills over the years. But there’s only so much they can do for you. You can no longer go on hiding from the truth. It’s killing you from inside. I’m sick and tired of covering up for you.”
“I went to see Inspector Richardson earlier,” I say, ignoring Mark’s senseless ramble.