“Rubbish, I can hear it in your voice. You’re doubting her, and by default, that means you’re doubting me too. What does that say about us?” His voice wobbles. “Actually, I forgot, us—our relationship—comes second best, doesn’t it? Second best to the job.”
“That’s not true.” Turning, she looks through the window in front of her. Her reflection comes back speckled with debris from the storm.
“It is, and what’s so screwed up is that you don’t even realize it. You took a shortcut with Farrah, and rather than taking responsibility, you’re trying, in some warped way, to point the finger at her. And what you don’t understand is that when it comes to family, you don’t take shortcuts, or maybe you do because your family is so messed up that you don’t know what it’s like to care about someone.”
“Will, I—”
“No, Elin, you don’t get it. What Farrah did for me after Thea died, lying to the police, it was wrong, absolutely, but that’s love. What you’ve done here is the antithesis of that. Tossed away family for your ego.”
“I made a mistake, that’s all.”
“Yes, but a mistake that could have been prevented. You know, all this time, you were worried about being a coward because of not doing something, but sometimes that’s the bravest thing of all. Acknowledging your limits.” His voice has an unfamiliar chill—the one he reserves for the few times someone’s really upset him. “Farrah’s my sister, Elin. My sister.” A long, shuddering breath. “If you had any doubts, any doubts what-so-fucking-ever, you should have told me.”
Elin presses the phone harder to her ear. A horrible, ugly shame washes over her. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know that what she was going to tell me was about something important like this, the case . . .”
A pause. “That sums it up. You didn’t think it was about anything important like this. The this you’re referring to is your job. Our relationship will never be as important as your job. It’s where you’re alive, Elin. I glimpsed it in Switzerland, thought it was because the case was personal, but it’s not.”
His words hit like a cold splash of water on her face.
Elin can hear the wretchedness in his voice, which she knows is mainly down to what’s happened with Farrah, but it still cuts her to the core. She wants to protest, push back, but she can’t.
Part of her knew from the minute she stepped onto the island that she was making a mistake, but she did it because she wanted to, had to, felt compelled to. Maybe it was because her brother died so young. She’d never consciously acknowledged it, but since it happened, she was acutely aware that she didn’t want to live a bland life. She wanted to live a life on the edge, full of electric, vibrant emotion, because Sam never would.
“I’m sorry. I’m sorry I haven’t been able to find her.” It’s all she has. Although it feels like her heart is breaking, the words on the tip of her tongue to express that, words that would make this better—the proper sorrys and I-love-yous—they won’t come out. That part of her . . . it’s malfunctioning. Stuck.
“I know you are, but there’ll always be something. Another case, another bit between your teeth. Nothing I do or say will be able to compete with that.”
Elin’s numb. It’s as if Will’s ripped away the protective veneer she’s wrapped around herself. Left her exposed. The person she trusts the most has been the one to pull back the veil. “I’m not giving up on finding her.”
“I know that, but what’s happened, it’s made me think about things. When you come home, I think it’s best if we talk, Elin. Decide how we best move forward.”
82
Elin’s legs are shaky as she makes her way to the event room. She feels empty, hollowed out after hearing Will’s words.
He wants to talk—how ominous that sounds. She can’t help feeling that Will’s seen her properly for the first time, and he doesn’t like what he’s glimpsed. What if they can’t get back from this? How will she cope if he doesn’t trust her like he did before?
But as she reaches the door to the event room, she forces the thoughts away.
Steel yourself. You’ve still got to do the job.
The member of staff outside pulls open the door to reveal a chaotic scene; bags and clothes scattered across the once-pristine floor. Snippets of frustrated conversation drift over: Why won’t they give us more information? I want to leave now. Get home. The staff is in the process of dragging in mattresses, but most people are already settled—in makeshift beds of their own clothes, or awkwardly perched on chairs.