“There’s this journalist. He’s been trying to get in touch with her—and me. He’s a friend of Ryan’s and he thinks…”
Oh God, this is hard.
She puts her knife and fork down, takes a deep breath, forces the words out.
“He thinks there might have been a mistake. He thinks Neville’s conviction was a miscarriage of justice.”
“Bullshit.” Will doesn’t even stop to consider her words; his reaction is swift and decisive, and he slams his hand down on the table, making his plate and cutlery clatter and jump. The people at the neighboring table look around in surprise and Hannah winces, but Will doesn’t lower his voice. “Utter bollocks. I hope you told Emily not to speak to him?”
“She already has,” Hannah says, her voice practically a whisper as if to compensate for Will’s, and then, seeing Will’s expression, she backtracks. “Not about Neville. They seem to have talked mostly about Ryan. But don’t you think—”
She stops.
Don’t you think it’s at least a possibility? is what she wants to ask. But she can’t quite bring herself to say the words. It’s been hard enough turning them over and over inside her head without articulating them.
“Sweetheart.” Will puts down his cutlery and reaches across the table, holding her hand, forcing her attention. “Hannah, don’t do this. Don’t start second-guessing yourself. And for what? Just because Neville’s dead? His death changes nothing. It doesn’t change the evidence—it doesn’t change what you saw.”
And that’s the thing. She knows he’s right.
Of course he’s right.
The fact that Neville went to his grave protesting his innocence proves what exactly? Nothing. There have been plenty of murderers who denied their guilt until their dying day.
But the truth is that Neville could have been heading towards parole by now, if he had played the game—accepted his guilt—done his time. Instead he spent the years after April’s death protesting his innocence and launching futile appeal after appeal after appeal—all of which achieved nothing except to keep his name in the press and public anger high.
Would a guilty man really have shot himself in the foot like that?
“Hannah?” Will says. He squeezes her hand, forcing her to meet his eyes. “Hannah, sweetheart, you know that, right? This is not your fault.”
“I know,” she says. She withdraws her hand, shuts her eyes, rubs at the headache that is beginning to build beneath the plastic nose-rest of her glasses. But when she shuts her eyes, it’s not Will’s face that she sees, full of love and concern—it’s Neville’s. And not the Neville that has dogged her since university—glowering, full of belligerent defensiveness—it’s the one she saw the other day. The haunted, hunted old man, staring out of the screen with a kind of pleading fear.
And she knows, what Will said? It’s not true.
This is all her fault—all of it.
BEFORE
“Oh, Hannah,” Dr. Myers said, as Hannah closed her folder and stood up, ready to leave at the end of their session. “Could you stay back for a moment? Miles, you’re free to go.”
Hannah’s tutorial partner nodded and left, leaving Hannah standing slightly awkwardly, wondering what Dr. Myers was about to tell her. Had she slipped up? He had seemed pleased with her essay this time, but the same couldn’t be said for some of her earlier efforts. It was a moment before she realized Dr. Myers was talking—and she wasn’t paying attention.
“… little drinks party,” he was saying. “I always have one at the end of every term. I invite a few particularly promising students along—we make connections—it’s rather fun.”
Hannah stood, holding her breath, not wanting to make an assumption that might swiftly be shot down. Particularly promising students. Was he really talking about her? But surely he wouldn’t have mentioned the drinks party if he didn’t intend to invite her?
“It’s this Friday,” he said. “Very informal—just a glass of sherry in my rooms. At least you won’t have any trouble finding it!”
Hannah gave a laugh, and then, lacking anything else to say, said, “Thank you. So much. I mean—yes, I’d love to come.”
“Wonderful. Eight p.m.”
“Can I bring anything?”
“No, just yourself.”
Outside, in the corridor, she leaned against the wall, feeling a smile spreading across her face. Particularly promising. Could it really be true?