“Oh, no,” she says.
I know who’s at the door. Claire knows it, too. A cold chill streaks across my heart, gripping it with frozen fingers. The whiskey I knocked back earlier must still be amplifying my senses.
The person taps again. Twice.
“No…” Claire’s voice is a terrified whisper.
I turn to her. She reaches out for me, blindly.
Our bodies collide.
All the facts in my head have evaporated. They are no longer relevant; I’ve stopped caring about them. My brain has stopped processing possibilities and flitting between unpalatable options. It has also given up trying to make sense of things. Because the cerebral part of me has been drowned out by something inexplicably irrational. Something deeper and more instinctive.
Something visceral.
All that matters is the woman in my arms, my here and now. My past, present, and future.
Nothing else.
I never realized that Claire’s hair smelled of beautiful jasmine. I never knew that her skin was so soft, so inviting. I never understood that her warm chest, beating next to mine, could be so delicate, so fragile. I should have known that the person I’d been hoping to find was with me all along. It’s amazing what a single day’s worth of recovered memories can do to your heart.
What is love if not the sudden surge of certainty? What is love if not the desire to experience this terrifying magic again and to remember even the tiniest sparkle of stardust it leaves behind?
I reach out to brush a tear from her cheek. Time and facts stand still for a couple of blessed moments.
They no longer matter.
Another knock.
The intrusion slices into us like a knife. A brutal surge into the horrible present. Yet this time, we know we don’t have a choice. We prize our bodies apart. I drag myself up from the sofa; Claire does the same. She takes a first, tentative step forward; the expression on her face is that of a woman walking to the gallows. I move quickly to plant myself between her and the door.
“I’ll get it,” I say.
She shoots me a silent, grateful glance.
The distance between the sofa and the door to my study is about seven yards. But it feels more like seven miles tonight. Seven excruciating miles. I get to the door and turn the latch; Claire steps up behind me and encircles my waist with her arm. The door swings open with a loud, hollow creak. A vicious gust of wind bursts in, slapping me in the face and scattering dead leaves from the garden onto the floor. Sure enough, the very person we’d expected to see is silhouetted against the darkness outside. A tall uniformed man stands behind him, face concealed by shadows.
A raven caws in the distance.
“Did you hear everything?” I say.
My question elicits a grim nod. I should have known better. Yet I didn’t really expect the man to return to our doorstep this evening, despite what he said. I thought that we would have a grace period of a few days before everything fizzled into smoking oblivion.
“We’ve been standing out here for a while,” he says. “Your garden’s really lovely, by the way.”
Claire flinches. I reach for her hand; her fingers encircle mine like a vise.
“I have only three things to say in response to what I’ve overheard,” he continues. “First, your wife may have indeed smothered your daughter nineteen years ago. Yet we have no evidence of that. The only difference between suffocation and SIDS is a confession. And this is one confession I reckon we’re not going to get. That isn’t the case I’m working on today, anyway.”
Claire’s hand is trembling. I squeeze it.
“Your wife is off the hook, as far as our current investigation is concerned. What she has just discovered must be torture enough. I would be pretty traumatized, too, if I found out that I’d killed my own daughter. It’s not a fact I would want to have on my own conscience.”
Claire is clinging to my hand so hard it hurts.
“The second thing is just a curious question. You used Mrs. Evans’s birth date for your safe, didn’t you?”
I nod.
Claire grips my hand even harder.
“Third, it wasn’t your wife who killed Sophia Ayling. I have solid evidence of this fact. Irrefutable proof.”
I freeze. Claire gasps. But the sound that escapes her lips is mingled with the unmistakable trill of relief.
“The person who killed her was you,” the man continues, his eyes drilling into mine. “Mark Henry Evans, you’re under arrest for the murder of Sophia Alyssa Ayling, previously known as Anna May Winchester.”
One should always expect the unexpected.
Yet shit still happens. Even when you expect it.
—Diary of Sophia Ayling
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Hans
2? hours before the end of the day
Their faces are as white as my snowy button-down shirt. Claire Evans is still attached to her husband. She’s gripping his hand so hard that her knuckles are practically devoid of blood. While the expression on the man’s face suggests that I’ve just introduced him to his worst nightmare.
“If you could kindly come with us, Mr. Evans,” I say as my driver scoops up Sophia’s black scarf with his gloved hands and puts it into a tamperproof bag. I’m glad he’s good at following instructions.
“This can’t be happening,” Claire says.
I move forward to take her husband by the elbow; she rushes forward to plant herself between us.
“You can’t take him away. Not when I’ve finally found him—”
“Please step aside, Mrs. Evans,” I say. “I’m really sorry, but I have to perform my duty.”
She spreads her arms before me, barring my way. My driver steps up to fend her off; she turns her hands on him.
“Claire…”
As my driver attempts to pacify Claire Evans, I seize the suspect by the elbow and propel him out of his study. He moves like a sleepwalker, one who has been denied any hope of waking up again. I lead him up the dark path, past bushes rustling in the wind. The raven is still screeching above our heads; it’s as persistent as Mrs. Evans.
We pass through the side gate; the patrol car is just yards away. I fling the back door open and point him to it. He complies without a whimper; I’m glad his petrified sleepwalking has spared me unnecessary shenanigans involving violent struggles or handcuffs. My driver and Mrs. Evans are a few yards behind us; she’s yelling her husband’s name at the top of her voice. The poor sergeant is still struggling to restrain her; I’m worried she may tear his mustache off.
“I promise I’ll write down the truth in my diary tonight, Mark. All of it. Everything you’ve just told me.”
“Claire…”
“I won’t forget this time. I can’t. I won’t.”
Our suspect’s eyes are moist. I bundle him into the car and get in next to him.
“I’m so scared I’ll forget, Mark. That I’ll wake up on Monday and lose what we’ve realized about each other today…”
I reach for the door handle, giving her my most apologetic look.