The Woman Who Lied(75)

She can’t answer for a few seconds and just stares at Trevor in shock.

Trevor lifts his sling up and arches a shaggy eyebrow. ‘Stupid of me. I fell over chasing a shoplifter.’ He has a bruise forming on his cheekbone. Is he telling the truth, or was it the result of an attack he’d made? The smile slips off Trevor’s face. ‘Are you okay, Em?’

Elliot is frowning at her too.

With momentous effort she concentrates on pulling herself together. She can’t let him know anything is wrong until she’s spoken to Elliot.

‘Yes, of course. It’s fine for you to stay, Trevor.’ She can hardly say no. ‘I need to pick up Jas. Trevor, you sit down and El can make you a brew.’

He smiles uncertainly and joins Wilfie on the sofa.

Elliot turns towards the kettle, switches it on, and lowers his voice: ‘It’s okay for him to stay, isn’t it? I know it’s not ideal, but they talked about concussion.’

‘I’m going to take Wilf with me to pick up Jas. Give you the chance to … er … help your dad.’

His eyes widen. ‘That’s not necessary.’

‘It’s fine.’

His eyes narrow. ‘What’s this about?’

‘Nothing. Wilf,’ she calls. Her son gets up reluctantly, dragging his feet to the door. Elliot looks puzzled as Emilia leads Wilfie into the hallway to put his shoes on.

‘Okay. Well, see you in a bit then. Drive carefully.’

Jasmine is full of it on the way home, regaling her with tales of the netball match and how she’d scored three goals. She smells of sweat and body spray.

She’s relieved when Jasmine turns up the radio – some dance tune is playing on Radio 1 – and sits beside her with her eyes closed. Wilfie is in the back seat fiddling with a Lego car he’d grabbed on the way out. It takes every ounce of energy Emilia has to act normally.

She doesn’t know what to do next. She needs to talk to Elliot, but it will be hard now that Trevor is staying. She could ring DI Murray, but it might be the end of her marriage if she were to rat on her father-in-law without talking to Elliot first.

She pulls onto the driveway, weighed down by dread and indecision, not wanting to step inside the house to confront reality. It’s 6 p.m. and still hot. She can hear chattering and glasses clinking from a neighbour’s garden, signalling a summer’s evening on a Friday night. More than a week since she’d stumbled on the dead body of her friend.

‘Are you getting out or are you just going to sit there all night?’ Jasmine has already climbed out of the car, her smooth, teenage legs in her skort are brown, toned. Her beautiful, precious daughter, about to inhabit a space with a serial killer. She turns away and takes a deep breath, steeling herself.

‘Mum?’ Wilfie is already by the front door.

‘Coming,’ she says. Her body feels like lead as she gets out of the car, unlocks the front door, and follows her children into the house.

Jasmine dumps her bag in the hall and runs upstairs, saying she’s going to jump into the shower. Usually, Emilia would pick up her bag for her – not wanting Elliot to get annoyed – but she doesn’t have the energy. Jasmine is nearly sixteen: she should be doing it herself.

Elliot is mixing a salad when she walks into the kitchen. Wilfie flops down next to Trevor in front of the TV and the bifold doors are open, letting in a much-needed breeze.

‘What’s going on?’ Elliot says quietly, when they’re on their own at the kitchen end of the room. ‘Has something happened?’

‘Yes, something has fucking happened,’ she snaps, under her breath. ‘I think I’m going to go insane if I don’t talk to you about it.’

Concern radiates off him. She’s rarely spoken to him like that. She darts a glance towards where Trevor and Wilfie sit. ‘It’s about your dad,’ she mouths. She has to repeat it when Elliot steps closer to her, cupping his ear.

‘What about him?’ he mouths back.

‘Can we talk in the other room?’

He turns back towards Trevor and Wilfie but they are oblivious, both laughing at something on the TV.

Elliot follows her into the posh front room. ‘What’s going on?’ he asks, as soon as she closes the door behind him.

Oh, God, where to start? She can hardly blurt out that she thinks his dad is a killer. ‘Sit down,’ she says, and he lowers himself into an armchair, looking puzzled. She perches on the opposite sofa. ‘I haven’t been completely honest with you still.’

His face instantly falls. ‘What do you mean?’

‘The Daisy and Ash storyline in my book. It’s from Louise too.’ She explains how Louise had given her the ‘story’. ‘When DI Murray was here, she told me that this storyline is true. That Daisy is Louise’s real name. And that …’ she gulps, can’t look him in the eye ‘… it’s all about her real past and her mother’s murder.’

A myriad of emotions flash across his face. ‘You’re kidding?’

She blinks back tears. ‘Do I sound like I’m kidding? This is a fucking mess. And I had no idea this was all true. Louise told me she’d made it up and that I could use it as she didn’t have time to write a novel.’

‘But why would she do that?’