All of that Hannah can put up with, because it’s Will’s family, not him.
But that haughty you will is a bridge too far.
“I’m sorry?” she says now, putting down the cup and folding her arms. “I will? Is that an order?”
“I didn’t mean it like that,” Will says, and she can see him struggling to overcome his anger. He takes a long breath and says, more quietly, “I just meant—you’re really bad at putting yourself first, Hannah. I don’t see why you should feel beholden to some friend of Ryan’s you’ve never met, just because you feel guilty about what happened to him after college.”
“That’s not why,” Hannah snaps, but it’s not true, and Will knows it. They both feel terrible about Ryan; they were together when Hugh phoned, and Hannah remembers Will’s absolute devastation. Ryan? A stroke? But he’s so young.
Was it what happened at Pelham that caused it? The stress, the sleepless nights, six years of PTSD… If it hadn’t been for Neville, would Ryan be okay?
They will never know. But what they do know—both of them—is what utter shits they have been for not visiting. It’s been four years since Ryan’s stroke. Four years. Oh, they’ve sent cards, and Christmas presents, texted their congratulations when Ryan’s little girls were born, but it’s basically the absolute minimum. So Hannah’s denial rings hollow, and they both know it.
“Okay,” she says at last, “that’s part of it, but all I said was that he could send me an email. What harm can it do?”
“Well, the harm is this.” Will waves an arm at her, wrapped up in the armchair. “I don’t want you getting stressed out by this—stressed out by some wannabe hack’s conspiracy theories. So what if Neville never admitted his guilt. Plenty of people don’t. There doesn’t need to be some great undiscovered reason for that. And Hannah, you’re—”
He stops, and she knows why. What he wants to say is, You’re pregnant with my child, I want you to take care of yourself, but he’s holding himself back. He doesn’t want to make their baby into a stick to beat her with.
It’s the fact that he doesn’t say it that makes her capitulate.
She stands, goes over to where he’s sitting on the sofa, and putting the takeaway menus aside, she kisses him.
“I know. And I promise I’ll take care of myself. He’s only emailing—I’ll answer his questions and then make it clear that’s it. Okay?”
“Okay,” Will says. He smooths her hair back from her forehead, smiles up at her. “I love you, Hannah Jones.”
“I love you too, Will de Chastaigne. How did we get so lucky to find each other?”
“Right place at the right time?” Will says. But it’s only half-true, and Hannah knows it.
* * *
LATER, AFTER SUPPER, WHEN THEY’RE sitting curled up watching a film on Netflix, Hannah’s phone buzzes with an email, and when she looks down, her stomach lurches. She glances at Will. He’s absorbed in the film.
“Just going to the loo,” she says lightly, tucking her phone into her pocket. Will looks up.
“Want me to pause?”
“No, it’s fine. I know this scene.” It’s Amélie, and she’s seen it half a dozen times. Will nods and turns back to the screen, and she slips out of the room and into the bathroom, where she sits on the loo and reads the email.
Hi Hannah, Geraint here. Really sorry again for ambushing you at the bookshop. Listen, I would love to meet for a coffee or a phone conversation—or whatever you feel happy with. I’ve spent the last five years investigating what happened the night April Clarke-Cliveden was killed and talking to John Neville, and, as I assume you know, he was absolutely resolute from the trial onward that he had nothing to do with her death—that he went to her room to deliver a package and she was absolutely fine when he left.
I totally understand that this opens up a can of worms for you that you probably don’t want to deal with, but I feel like he gave me a task—and that his death puts a responsibility on me to complete that task. Not to prove his innocence—I’ve got an open mind on that score. But to find out the truth and tie up some of the loose ends. Because there’s certain things that don’t add up. Why wasn’t any of Neville’s DNA found on April’s body? Why didn’t anyone hear a struggle? The two boys in the room below said they heard her walking around, but nothing like anyone fighting for their life.