“Right,” he says decisively, looking at Lara and me in turn. “I think it’s cards on the table time now. What do you guys think happened that night?”
“My cards are on the table,” Lara complains. “They’ve always been on the table. I never thought it was one of us.” She spreads her hands wide in exasperation, almost knocking over her glass. “Oops, sorry, I already had a glass or two after work with some colleagues . . . Anyway, so . . . unless you, Tom, managed to kill Severine, get rid of her body, clean yourself up and get back into bed with me in the space of a little more than an hour, maybe two, then I have absolutely no information.”
I’m taken aback by the casual way in which she can mention being in bed with Tom—with Tom—in public, to Tom himself, without an iota of a blush. I glance at him quickly, but he doesn’t appear fazed in the slightest. “I’m good,” he says with dark humor, “but not that good.”
I try to stamp down my swelling sense of injustice—that Lara, who casually slept with him then tossed him aside, gets entirely forgiven, yet I am held out to dry for a mere kiss—but there’s a thread of irritation that leaks through into my words. “But you’re presuming the same person did it all,” I declare bluntly. “It’s possible more than one person was involved. Maybe an accidental killing by one, then one or two more involved in the cover-up . . .” This discussion is so abstract, so passionless, that it’s hard to remember the girl it relates to. I glance around for her, but she’s not in attendance. I feel an extra prickle of irritation: what kind of ghost wouldn’t be interested in discussions on their own death? Though I suppose it’s not as if she doesn’t know the punch line . . .
Tom nods. Somehow I feel an unexpected sense of approval from him. “Sounds like you have a theory.”
“No, I just . . .” I shift awkwardly on the very awkward stool. I don’t have a theory. I have a collection of disquieting observations that add up to a maelstrom of unease, but nothing that could be called a theory.
Lara shifts herself so she’s half lolling on the counter and cocks her head in sympathetic listening mode. “It’s just us, Kate.”
“Come on, Kate,” says Tom. He’s standing with his hands on the granite surface, leaning toward me. With his height the body language sends a curious message of encouragement mixed with intimidation. “You have to trust someone.”
I look across at him, meeting those familiar blue eyes that are Tom’s not Seb’s, above that unmistakable nose, and I am suddenly so blindingly angry with him that for a moment I can’t speak. I used to trust him, I even want to trust him, so why won’t he let me? He knows something, I know it, and by now he must realize I know it given Lara’s comment, yet he won’t let me in, and now I wonder if he’s Tom, if he ever was the Tom I thought I knew, and if I got that wrong, what else have I been mistaken on? A cold fear is twisting my insides, and a raw anger spears through my throat at Tom—Tom—for putting it there. “Really?” I say bitingly, when I recover my voice. “I have to trust someone? That’s rich. Who do you trust, Tom? The only damn things that I’m sure of in this whole macabre debacle are that Seb and Caro are hiding something, and you know a hell of a lot more than you’re letting on, yet somehow it’s my life that’s getting trampled on. So if we’re talking about trust, how about we start with you, Tom?” Tom’s eyes are widened in surprise at my attack; I catch a glimpse of Lara staring at me, completely nonplussed, and it halts me: I bite off the vitriolic torrent that’s just gaining momentum. If I let it free, I may never stop. I grab my wineglass and focus on it determinedly in the suffocating silence that follows my words while the remaining anger subsides along with my breathing, leaving me in acute danger of bursting into tears. The immediate urge to apologize for my un-British outburst is offset by a streak of rebellion fueled by the remaining anger that claims this was merely a fraction of what he deserves. Of what is inside me right now, of what this world deserves.
It’s Lara who breaks the silence, which has grown so thick, so heavy that I’m almost amazed anything can penetrate it. “I shouldn’t have come,” she says quickly, slithering down from the stool. “I really think you two need to talk and—”
“No, stay. Please. Stay.” I put out a hand to keep her there, still focusing on the wineglass. “I’m sorry.” I take a deep breath and look up at her. She’s half turned to go, uncertainty and concern in her eyes. I’m resolutely not looking at Tom, but I know he’s watching us; watching me, mostly. I can feel it on my skin: through my skin, even, like a pressure on my bones. “It’s not—that—anyway. It’s . . .”
“What?” she asks.
“My life—my business—really is getting trampled. There are rumors in the market that I’m about to be arrested for murder,” I say miserably. “Mark Jeffers, this associate candidate at—well, never mind where he’s at—anyway, he told Paul. And if he told Paul of all people how do I know he’s not telling the whole world?”
Lara sits down again, accompanied by a sharp intake of breath. We all know this isn’t the sole reason for my abysmal lack of composure, or even the main reason for it, but they’re both kind enough to tacitly redirect their attention. Tom finally speaks his first words since my outburst. “How did Paul react? Do you think he will jump ship?”
I feel my mouth twist sourly. How typical of Tom to be able to set aside my diatribe and focus. It forces me to respond with a civility I still don’t feel. “I don’t know. I don’t think so, not yet anyway. We’ve got two very prestigious contracts . . . but if the rumors escalate and we lose one of those, then yes, he’s Paul, he’d jump ship.” I shrug. “He was upset I hadn’t told him about it.” I take a sip of the wine then look at both of them curiously. “Have you guys told anyone about all of this?”
Tom shakes his head. “It’s hardly something I want to bring up on the trading floor. I can just imagine the fun they’d have . . .” He grimaces, no doubt imagining the taunts that would inevitably haunt him for the rest of his career. As a mob crowd, traders are not known for their sensitivity. “And I don’t want to worry my folks. I’m not sure Seb has mentioned it to his parents, either, unless it’s to get a recommendation of a lawyer from his dad.”
“I spoke to a couple of girls at work,” says Lara, “but never any details. I certainly didn’t mention your name, if that’s what you’re—”
I shake my head. “God, no. I was just curious.” Curious as to whether my reluctance to talk about it is another sign of too much solitude, or actually perfectly normal.
Tom is still analyzing. His eyes are fixed on the falling darkness outside the kitchen window as he scratches his head thoughtfully. The clouds are now inky smudges against a marginally paler sky. “And this chap, Mark Jenners—”
“Jeffers.”
“Mark Jeffers told Paul you were about to be arrested?”
“So I understand.”
Tom is frowning. “Just you.” I shrug. “Maybe it’s nothing but Chinese whispers, but it seems a bit odd. You couldn’t put it together from just the newspaper articles, I don’t think. Our names have never been mentioned.”
I nod. “That’s what I thought.”
Lara’s cheeks are flushed and her eyelids a little droopy. The glass or two that she had earlier, plus the large one Tom poured for her, are taking their toll. “Big mouth for a lawyer,” she comments, finishing in a catlike yawn that she neatly smothers. “Aren’t they supposed to be discreet? And aren’t you supposed to butter up your headhunting firm, not spread scurrilous rumors about them? I can’t imagine this has you and Paul dying to find him a good placement.”