Moira thinks of the rampaging plants in the unruly borders of her own garden, and the lawn that’s almost long enough to break the residents’ association rules, and resolves to take them in hand. She looks up as Lizzie approaches. Tries to get her onside with a compliment. ‘Your garden is lovely, the house is too.’
Lizzie smiles but it looks tight and forced. ‘Thanks. Nothing to do with me though, Philip’s the house-proud one. He loves doing all the home-design stuff. Likes everything to be perfect.’
‘That’s cool,’ says Moira, trying to keep the surprise from her voice. She’d never have pegged Philip as the designer of the couple. He seems far too stuffy and traditional to have created this outside space.
Lizzie hands Moira a mug of coffee, then puts some cookies on a plate on to the table and pushes them in front of her. ‘They’re oatmeal and raisin – the best cookies ever. If you won’t have a sandwich, at least eat some of these.’
Moira doesn’t feel hungry but, given how tense Lizzie looks, she takes a cookie to show willing. ‘Thanks, this is great.’
Lizzie sits down on to the chair opposite. She looks at Moira and frowns. ‘So how are you feeling? I know you said you were okay, but it must have been a shock to find the body.’
Moira isn’t sure how to respond so she says nothing. Maybe Lizzie is saying this as a test – she’s found out what she used to do for a living, and what happened in London, and she wants to see if Moira will mention it. I’m not falling for that, thinks Moira. She takes a sip of her coffee.
‘It’s unsettled me, if I’m honest,’ says Lizzie, filling the silence. ‘I know I should be hardened to this stuff from the years doing my job, but a murder happening right here in my neighbourhood . . .’ She shakes her head. Fiddles with the rings on her wedding finger again. ‘It makes me feel really uneasy.’
‘That’s understandable,’ says Moira, cautiously. ‘But I’m new here, and not long out of the job.’
Lizzie bites her lower lip and holds Moira’s gaze for a long moment.
That’s when Moira realises she’s messed up. Shit. Why did she mention her job? This is it, she thinks. This is the moment Lizzie tells me that she knows what I used to be and what happened, why I left, and who I really am.
But Lizzie says nothing. She just sits, holding eye contact and tracing her finger up and down the handle of her mug.
Moira’s heart rate accelerates. She can’t stand waiting. If what Lizzie is about to reveal is going to shatter her blank slate, she’d rather get it over with so she can get on with picking up the pieces and trying to glue them back together. ‘You said you wanted to talk?’
‘Yes.’ Lizzie slams her mug down on to the table with a bang that makes both of them flinch. She clasps her hands together in a death grip. ‘I do.’
‘So . . . what’s the matter?’ says Moira, trying to keep the anxiety from her voice.
‘Look, there’s no easy way to say this.’ Lizzie looks away across the patio towards the pool. ‘But what you did . . . it was . . .’
Moira waits for Lizzie to continue. It feels as if her heart is going to punch its way out of her chest. She grips on to the arm of the wicker chair. Swallows hard.
‘What you did to me.’ Lizzie shakes her head. Hugs herself. ‘It was really . . . it really . . .’ She glares at Moira. ‘It was really out of order.’
Moira’s confused. Doesn’t get what Lizzie’s talking about. Lizzie wasn’t in London. She didn’t even work for the MET. How could she have been affected by what happened with McCord? She tries to keep her tone level. ‘What I did? I don’t understand—’
‘How dare you.’ Lizzie raises her voice. Points her finger at Moira in a stabbing motion. ‘Don’t you sit there acting all innocent and like you don’t know.’