Did he tell me about an increase in burglaries in the area? I don’t remember. Doubt starts chipping away at my confidence.
Sugar shrugs, brow arched. ‘My office was probably the first room this he-she came across.’
Office? Is that what he calls it? An office is a workspace. Is that what he does in there? Work?
‘Why is your old police uniform in there? Why did you resign from the police force?’ I probe.
Sugar’s expression becomes guarded. ‘Why I went doesn’t matter—’
‘Why won’t you tell me?’
‘Why I left is none of your business.’ Steel coats his words, the muscles in his neck straining.
His rudeness stuns me. That’s not the Sugar I know.
I press. ‘Are you investigating something to do with the women in that photo? Is one of the women—’
‘What?’
My mother? The words glue down my vocal chords; I can’t say those two simple words. It will only cause more heartache and pain between us. This never happened when Mummy Cherry was here. This was a house of peace when she was alive. I miss her so much.
My nerves get the better of me and I say something I shouldn’t. ‘When the door to your room was open the other day—’
‘Have you been in there before today?’ Sugar explodes. Shocked consternation scrubs away the gloss from his usually polished skin.
My mouth opens and closes; no words come out. Whatever happens, Sugar always maintains his cool. This was one of the qualities I cherished about my new daddy when I arrived. The wonders of living in a hushed, civilised house. The children’s home was a barnyard of noise, booming echoes thundering against the pus-green peeling walls.
‘You have no right.’ He’s on his feet now, a body full of fury that refuses to settle. His anger taints the beauty and bliss of the idyllic wedding portrait of him and Mummy Cherry hanging on the wall behind him.
‘The door was open. I was looking for you and thought . . .’ I fall silent, under the spell of his glare.
A blast of air flares his nostrils. ‘I don’t ask much of you, but asking for a tiny piece of privacy in my own home . . .’
Calmly, Sugar retakes his seat. Drains his cup. I feel a subtle shift in him. ‘Despite being retired, you know I still do the odd thing in the community. I sit on the board of a local charity that’s very close to my heart. The women are connected to a project that the charity is running. As for them looking like something from the 1990s, aren’t you young kids all wearing that fashion again?’
He’s right, the 90s are back on trend. Sugar confidently leans back, crossing one leg over the other. I understand the shift in him. He’s transformed from Sugar into Detective Carlton McNeil formerly of the Metropolitan Police expertly questioning a suspect.
He continues. ‘I can’t tell you about each of those individual women and their role in the project because it would breech strict data rules around confidentiality.’
‘You’ve never mentioned them before.’ I sound so lame.
‘If I dropped in the name of every person I came into contact with to you, we’d be here all day. And night.’
‘And me? I know what I saw on that board, Sugar,’ I repeat, holding on to his gaze.
His hands are flapping again, batting the volley of my words away as if they’re a nuisance. ‘I don’t know what you saw, Eva, but if it’s not there now, it’s not important.’ He looks at me more closely. ‘What’s going on here? Why are you disrespecting me?’
His question leaves me feeling small. I’ve never challenged Sugar; I’ve always deferred to him.
Alarmed, I jump in quickly. ‘No way am I dissing you—’
‘Aren’t you?’ He remains relaxed. This is the Sugar I know: measured, in control. ‘Since when have you ever questioned anything I’ve done for you? That’s not the child who changed from a girl into a woman inside this very house. A woman I’m so proud of today.’
My mouth opens, but I flounder, don’t know what to say. His pride in me is shaming. Thank God, I think for the thousandth time, he doesn’t know I’ve been suspended from work.
Suddenly he leans forward, with an urgency that pushes me to the back of my seat.
‘I will never forget the first time I saw you.’ His tone is soft. Persuasive. ‘It was a photograph pinned to your file at the adoption agency. Eva Miller. A scarecrow of a girl. Big, melting, bruised eyes. There was the tiniest of openings between her lips and I swear I could hear the weariness whispering from her small body like a harsh winter wind. Her skin looked grey and not just because the staff obviously knew nothing about moisturising black children’s skin. No, she was the colour of a child who closed her eyes every night praying to die.’