The Lie

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Copyright © 2015, 2016 by C. L. Taylor

Cover and internal design © 2016 by Sourcebooks, Inc.

Cover design by www.asmithcompany.co.uk

Cover images © Dougal Waters/Getty Images, Nikki Smith/Arcangel Images

Sourcebooks and the colophon are registered trademarks of Sourcebooks, Inc.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems—except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews—without permission in writing from its publisher, Sourcebooks, Inc.

The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious and are used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.

All brand names and product names used in this book are trademarks, registered trademarks, or trade names of their respective holders. Sourcebooks, Inc., is not associated with any product or vendor in this book.

Published by Sourcebooks Landmark, an imprint of Sourcebooks, Inc.

P.O. Box 4410, Naperville, Illinois 60567-4410

(630) 961-3900

Fax: (630) 961-2168

www.sourcebooks.com

Originally published in 2015 in the United Kingdom by Avon, an imprint of HarperCollins Publishers, UK.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Names: Taylor, C. L.

Title: The lie / C. L. Taylor.

Description: Naperville, Illinois : Sourcebooks Landmark, [2016] | ?2015

Identifiers: LCCN 2015041053 (pbk. : alk. paper)

Subjects: | GSAFD: Mystery fiction. | Suspense fiction.

Classification: LCC PR6120.A89 L54 2016 | DDC 823/.92--dc23 LC record available at http://lccn.loc.gov/2015041053

CONTENTS

Front Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Reading Group Guide

A Conversation with the Author

An Excerpt from Before I Wake

Acknowledgments

About the Author

Back Cover

To Laura B., Georgie D., and Minal S.

1

PRESENT DAY

I know he’s trouble before he even sets foot in the building. I can tell by the way he slams the door of his 4×4 and storms across the parking lot without waiting to see if his short, bespectacled wife is following him. When he reaches the glass double doors to reception, I avert my gaze back to my computer screen. It’s best to avoid direct eye contact with an aggressor. When you spend twelve hours a day with dangerous animals, you learn a lot about confrontation, fear, and hostility—and not just in relation to dogs.

The bell above the doors rings as the man enters the reception area, but I continue to enter the details of a seven-day evaluation into the computer database. A German shepherd named Tyson was brought in by an inspector a week ago. We’ve been evaluating him ever since, and I’ve identified behavioral issues with other dogs, cats, and humans—unsurprising in a former drug-den guard dog. Some people believe that a dog like Tyson should be put down for his own good, but I know we can rehabilitate him. Your past doesn’t have to define your future.

Where’s my fucking dog? The man rests his elbows on the reception counter and juts out his chin, contempt etched onto his thin, sunken face. His shoulders are narrow beneath an oversize leather jacket, and his jeans hang loosely from his hips. He can’t be much older than late forties, early fifties tops, but he looks worn down by life. I suspect he’s the sort to own a dangerous breed. Small man, big car. Big dog too. No wonder he wants him back. He’s missing his canine penis extension.

Can I help you? I swivel around to face him and smile.

I want my dog. One of my neighbors saw the inspector turn up when we was out. They took him out the backyard. I want him back.

He’s named Jack, he’s a Staffordshire bull terrier, and he’s five years old. His bespectacled wife puffs into the reception area, her black leggings sagging at the knees, her pink lipstick neatly applied, and her gray-streaked hair scraped back into a tight ponytail.

I look back at her husband. And your name is?

Gary. Gary Fullerton, the man replies, ignoring his wife.

I know the dog they are talking about. Jack was brought in four days ago. His right eye was so swollen it was sealed shut, his lip was torn and bloody, and his left ear was so mangled the vet had to remove half of it. He’d been in a fight, but it clearly wasn’t a one-off. You could tell that by the scars on his body and the wounds on his face. This owner’s obviously fresh from the police station. On bail pending a hearing, probably.

My smile fades. I’m afraid I can’t help you.

I know he’s here, the man says. You can’t keep him. We haven’t done anything wrong. He got into a fight in the park, that’s all. We’ve got seven days to claim him. That’s what my mate said.

I angle myself away from him so my shoulders are square on to the computer and we’re no longer facing each other. I’m sorry, but I can’t discuss special cases.

Oi! He leans over the counter and reaches for the monitor, yanking it toward him. I’m talking to you.

Gary… His wife touches his arm. He glares at her but lets go of the monitor. Please. She peers at my name badge. Please, Jane, we just want to see Jack, that’s all, just to check he’s okay. We don’t want any trouble; we just want to see our boy.

Her eyes mist with tears behind her glasses, but I don’t feel sorry for her. She must know Gary enters Jack into fights. She’s probably objected from time to time, maybe tried her best to clean Jack up with a wet washcloth afterward, but ultimately, she’s done nothing to stop that dog from getting torn to bits.

I’m sorry. I shake my head. I really can’t discuss individual cases.

What bloody case? the man roars, but his hands hang loosely at his sides. The fight’s gone out of him. He knows he hasn’t got a leg to stand on, and the shouting’s just for show. The worst thing is he probably does love the dog. He was no doubt proud of Jack when he won his first few fights. He probably gave him a big handful of dried dog biscuits and sat next to him on the sofa with his arm around him. But then Jack started to lose, and Gary didn’t like that; it knocked his pride, so he kept entering him into competitions, kept waiting for his fighting spirit to return, kept hoping his luck would change.

Everything okay, Jane? Sheila, my manager, strolls into reception from the corridor to my right and puts a hand on my shoulder. She smiles at Gary and his wife, but there’s a tightness around her lips that suggests she’s heard every word.

We’re going. Gary slaps the counter with the palm of his right hand. But you haven’t heard the last from us.

He turns and stalks toward the exit. His wife remains where she is, fingers knotting in front of her, silently pleading with me.

Come on, Carole, Gary snaps.

She hesitates, just for a second, her eyes still fixed on mine.

Carole! he says again, and she’s off, trotting obediently at his side.

The bell rings as they leave reception, and they cross the parking lot in single file, Gary leading, Carole following behind. If she glances back, I’ll go after her. I’ll make up an excuse to talk to her on her own. That look she just gave me…it wasn’t just about the dog.

Look back, look back, Carole.

Lights flash as Gary points his key fob at the Range Rover, and he opens the door. Carole clambers into the passenger seat. Gary says something as she settles herself, and she takes off her glasses and rubs her eyes.

Jane. Sheila gently squeezes my shoulder. I think we should have a nice cup of tea, don’t you?

I get the subtext: Jack’s your business, Carole’s not.

She heads for the staff room, then stops suddenly. Oh! I forgot to give you this. She hands me an envelope. My full name is handwritten on the front: Jane Hughes, Green Fields Animal Shelter. A thank-you letter, I imagine.

I run my thumb under the seal and open the envelope as Sheila waits expectantly in the doorway. There’s a single piece of paper inside, folded into four. I read it quickly, then fold it back up.

Well? Sheila asks.

It’s from Maisie’s new owners. She’s settled in well, and they’re head over heels in love with her.

Great. She gives an approving nod before continuing into the staff room.

I wait for the sound of her footsteps to fade away, then glance through the glass double doors to the parking lot beyond. There’s an empty space where Carole and Gary’s 4×4 was parked.

I unfold the piece of paper in my hands and read it again. There’s a single sentence, written in the center of the page in blue ink:

I know your name’s not really Jane Hughes.

Whoever sent it to me knows the truth. My real name is Emma Woolfe, and for the last five years, I’ve been pretending to be someone else.

2

FIVE YEARS EARLIER

Daisy doesn’t say a word as I sit down opposite her at the table. Instead, she pushes a shot toward me, then glances away, distracted by a group of men squeezing their way through the pub to an empty table near the bathroom. One of the men at the back of the pack—a short, dark-haired guy with a paunch—does a double take. He nudges the man next to him, who pauses, glances back, and gives Daisy a nod of approval. She dismisses him with the arch of one eyebrow, then looks back at me.

Drink! she shouts and gestures toward the glass. Talk afterward.

Nice to see you too.

I don’t ask what it’s a shot of. I don’t even sniff it. Instead, I knock it back, then reach for the glass of white wine that Daisy pushes toward me. I can barely taste it for the strong aftertaste of aniseed from the shot.

You okay, darling?

I shake my head and take another sip of wine.

Geoff the Asshole giving you shit again?

Yeah.

So quit.

If only it were that easy.

Of course it’s that bloody easy, Emma. Daisy runs both hands through her blond hair, then flicks it over her shoulders so it cascades down her back. You print out a resignation letter, you give it to him, and then you leave, middle-finger salute optional.

A man holding two pints knocks the side of my chair with his hip. Lager slops out of the glasses and soaks my left shoulder.

Sorry, I say automatically. The man ignores me and continues onward, his mates in his sights.

Daisy rolls her eyes.

Don’t.

What? She gives me an innocent look.

Don’t give me shit for apologizing, and don’t go after him.

As if I would.

You would.

She shrugs. Yeah, well, someone’s got to stand up for you. Want me to have a word with your boss for you too? Because I would, you know.

Her cell phone, on the table in front of her, bleeps, and she jabs it with a bitten-down fingernail. Daisy’s eyeliner is deftly applied, her blond hair straightened and shiny, but her cuticles are ragged, her red nail polish chipped and flaking. Her nails are the one chink in her perfectly polished armor. She catches me looking and clenches her fingers into fists, burying them in her lap.

He’s a bully, Emma, pure and simple. He’s been criticizing you and making you feel like shit since the day you started.

I know, but there’s a rumor he’s going to take over the Manchester office.

You’ve been saying that for three years.

I can’t just leave.

Why? Because of your mom? Jesus Christ, Emma, you need to grow a pair. You’re twenty-five years old. You only get one life; do what you want. Fuck your mom.

Daisy!

What? She tops up her glass and knocks it back. From the glazed look in her eyes, I suspect that this bottle of wine isn’t her first of the night. Someone’s got to say it, and it might as well be me. You need to stop caring about her opinion and do what you want. It’s getting boring, your obsession with what your bloody family thinks. You’ve been on about it since university and—

Sorry I’ve bored you. I thought we were supposed to be friends. I reach for my bag and stand up, but Daisy reaches across the table and grabs my wrist.

Don’t be like that. And stop bloody apologizing. Sit down, Emma.

I perch on the edge of my seat. I can’t speak. If I do, I’ll cry, and I hate crying in public.

Daisy keeps hold of my hand. I’m not being a bitch. I just want you to be happy, that’s all. You’ve already told me you’ve saved up enough money to stop work for three months.

That’s emergency money.

And this is an emergency. You’re miserable. Come work with me in the pub until you get something else. Ian would take you on in a heartbeat; he loves redheads.

It’s dyed.

For God’s sake, Emma—

Her phone vibrates on the table, and the tinny sound of Rihanna and Eminem’s Love the Way You Lie cuts through the chatter and hum in the pub.

Daisy holds up a hand to me, then snatches up her phone. Leanne? You okay? She puts a finger in one ear and frowns in concentration. Okay. Yeah, we’ll be there. Give us fifteen minutes to grab a cab. All right? Okay. See you in a bit.

She tucks her phone into the tiny clutch bag on the table, then looks across at me. There’s concern in her blue eyes, but a sliver of excitement too.

That was Leanne. She’s in that new gay club, Malice, in Soho with Al. Al’s on the hunt for Simone and her new girlfriend.

Shit. I clutch my bag and reach around for my coat on the back of my chair.

You okay if we go? I know we were talking about your job, but—

It’s fine. I stand up. Al needs us. Let’s grab a cab.

• • •

We sit in silence as the taxi splashes through puddles and the bright lights of London’s West End speed past us. The streets are unusually empty, the heavy rain forcing locals and tourists into already packed pubs, their windows misty with condensation.

Daisy looks up from her phone. You know it’s the anniversary of her brother’s death, don’t you?

Al’s brother?

Yeah. I called her at lunchtime.

How was she?

Drunk.

Shit, at work?

No, playing hooky; she was in the pub.

She’s been doing that a lot recently.

Yeah, when she’s not stalking Simone, Daisy says, and we share a look.

It’s been over a month since Al and Simone split up, but Al’s behavior is becoming more and more erratic by the day. She’s convinced that Simone left her because she met someone else, and she’s determined to find out who it is. She spends hours on Google, looking for clues, and she’s created several false Facebook profiles to try to get access to Simone’s page and the pages of anyone she’s friends with. None of us had seen the split coming, not least Al, who’d been planning on proposing. She’d been saving up for months for a ring and a safari in Kenya so she could propose on an elephant ride—Simone’s favorite animal.

Here we are, ladies, the cab driver says over his shoulder as we pull up in front of the neon-pink Malice sign.

Daisy pokes a tenner through the glass partition, then opens the taxi door. Let’s go get Al.

• • •

Excuse me, darling. Thank you. Excuse me.

Daisy elbows her way through the throng of bodies clogging up the stairs, and I follow in her wake. We’ve already squeezed our way across the dance floor on the ground level in search of Leanne and Al, but there is no sign of them. No sign of Simone either.

Bathrooms! Daisy twists back and waves her cell phone at me as she reaches the top of the stairs, then takes a left.

I struggle to push my way through the huge crowd of women drinking beer and hanging out outside the women’s bathroom but finally manage to make my way inside.

Oi! A large woman wearing a Superdry T-shirt and oversize jeans shoots out a tattooed arm to bar my way as I attempt to squeeze past her. There’s a line.

Sorry, I’m just looking for a friend.

Emma, in here! A stall door swings open, and Daisy waves at me through the gap. She makes an apologetic face at the woman in the line. Sorry, we’re dealing with a crisis in here.

Bloody lesbians, the woman says. Always a melodrama.

• • •

There’s no room for me to squeeze inside the stall, so I hover outside and poke my head around the door. Al is sitting on the toilet with her head in her hands. Leanne and Daisy are pressed up against the walls on either side of her. Every couple of seconds, the main door into the bathroom opens, and pumping house music floods the entire space as women file in and out, grumbling as they squeeze past me to find an empty stall.

Al, sweetie. Daisy hitches up her dress and squats down next to her friend. Let’s get you home.

Al shakes her head. The hems of her jeans are wet with rainwater, and the laces of one of her sneakers are untied. There’s cellophane poking out from beneath the arm of her T-shirt. She’s had another tattoo, but I can’t make out what it is.

Leanne catches my eye as though noticing me for the first time. She’s dyed her bangs pink since the last time I saw her. Her sharp black bob has always looked a bit severe, but with the pink streak and her new, thick-rimmed black geek specs dominating her thin face, she looks like she’s wearing a motorbike helmet.

She shrugs and angles her arm toward me so I can read the time on her Mickey Mouse watch. It’s midnight. She flashes her fingers at me, then holds up two more. Shit, Al’s been drinking for twelve hours.

This isn’t the first time Leanne’s had to call Daisy and me to take Al home. At five foot six, about two hundred pounds, and bull-like in temperament, it takes all four of us to maneuver Al anywhere, especially when she’s drunk. Simone used to manage it, but she had an advantage: Al was in love with her. She could always talk her into going home, no matter how much she’d had to drink.

Two of the girls washing their hands in the sink behind me start laughing, and Al looks up.

Are they laughing at me? Are you fucking laughing at me? She half rises, but Leanne presses down on her shoulder, and Daisy grips hold of her wrist so Al is rooted to the toilet.

I glance behind me. They can’t even see you.

They know. Al runs a hand over her Mohawk. Everyone knows. I’m a fucking laughingstock.

No, you’re not, Daisy says. Relationships end all the time, Al. No one’s judging you.

Oh yeah? Then why did Jess at reception say ‘Ticket for one?’ when I came in?

Because you came alone?

Oh, fuck off, Daisy. She yanks her hand out of Daisy’s grip. What would you know? You haven’t been dumped once in your whole life.

"Well, I have, I say, and I know how much it hurts, especially if they leave you for someone else. I’d had my suspicions about Jake for a while, but then when he—"

Emma! Leanne makes a stop talking gesture with her finger across her throat.

Not that Simone left you for someone else, I say, but it’s too late. Al’s on her feet and barging past me.

If she’s here with that fucking bitch, today of all days, I’m going to swing for her. I’ll swing for both of them. Fucking baby dyke bitches.

Al! Daisy totters after her, reaching for her arm. She’s not worth it. Al!

Well done, Emma. Leanne glares up at me from behind her neon bangs. I’d just talked her down, and you fired her up again.

She didn’t look very chilled to me.

You didn’t see her before. She was punching the stall walls. She nearly got us both thrown out.

Sorry. I didn’t mean to—

She pushes past me. You never do, Emma.

• • •

By the time I find the others, they’re standing in the center of the dance floor downstairs with a circle of people surrounding them. Al is in the middle, jabbing her finger at Simone and some other girl I don’t recognize. Daisy and Leanne are on either side of her.

I fucking knew it, Al says. I knew you were sleeping with Gem.

Actually—Simone squares up to her, even though she’s several inches shorter and several pounds lighter—Gem and I got together after we split up, not that it’s any of your business.

I think you’ll find it is. Al turns her attention to the other woman, who takes a step closer to Simone and slings a heavy arm around her shoulders. She’s at least six feet tall, all sinew and muscle, with a heavy jaw and close-cropped hair. She’s got a boxer’s physique and the attitude to match.

Think you’re clever, do you? Al asks. Taking Simone off me?

I don’t think anything.

’Course you don’t. Pig shit doesn’t think.

Boxer Woman smirks. Piss off, Al. No one’s interested, least of all Simone. And for the record, I didn’t take her off you. She came running.

Bullshit. We were happy before you started sniffing around.

Is that so? According to Sim, you’re a possessive control freak who wouldn’t let her out.

Is that what you told her? Al glares at Simone. That I’m a control freak? After everything I did for you? When we met, you had nowhere to live. You had nothing, Simone, and I let you live with me rent free. I gave you money to go clubbing. I would have done anything for you.

You smothered me.

Al’s eyes mist with tears. Then you should have told me, not run off with this bulldog.

What did you call me? Boxer Woman drops her arm from around Simone’s shoulders and takes a step toward Al. Say that again to my face, you fat bitch.

Fuck you. Al half steps, half jumps forward and swings at the taller woman before Leanne or Daisy can stop her. Her fist makes contact with Gem’s jaw, and Gem stumbles backward. Her foot slips on the beer-stained floor, and she tumbles to the ground. The crowd whoops with excitement, and out of the corner of my eye, I spot a male member of security, walkie-talkie pressed to his ear, striding toward us. Daisy sees him too and gestures for me to help Leanne, who’s desperately shoving Al toward the door.

It doesn’t take much persuasion to get her to leave now. She’s so jubilant she practically skips out of the room.

Fucking yeah! She punches the air, then winces and hugs her right hand to her body. She glances behind us as we hurry her toward the exit. Where’s Daisy?

Leanne and I exchange a look. She’ll be fine. She’s chatting up the bouncer.

Dirty slut. Al laughs all the way out of the building and into the waiting cab.

3

It’s the next morning, and I’ve only been at my desk for ten minutes when Geoff, my boss, wanders over. He lingers behind me, his hand on the back of my chair. I shuffle as far forward as I can, so I end up perched right on the very edge of the seat.

Late again, Emma.

Sorry. I keep my gaze fixed on the spreadsheet in front of me. Tube was delayed.

It’s a lie. We didn’t get Al into bed until 2:00 a.m., and then I had to wait for a taxi to get me back to Wood Green. By the time I rolled into bed, it was after three.

You’ll have to make up the time. I want you here until seven.

But I need to get to Clapham by then. My brother’s in a play.

You should have thought about that this morning and gotten up earlier. Now… My chair creaks as he rests his full weight on it and leans around me so his mouth is inches from the side of my face. I can feel his breath, hot and sour in my ear. I’m expecting that spreadsheet by lunchtime so I can look over it before I speak to the sales team this afternoon. Or should I expect that to be late too?

I want to tell him to stick his spreadsheet up his ass. Instead, I curl my hands into fists and press my fingernails into the palms of my hands. You’ll get it.

• • •

I’ve been Geoff’s assistant for three years. He’s head of sales here at United Internet Solutions, a software, hosting, and search engine optimization company. I was only supposed to be here for three months—it was meant to be just another of the countless temping jobs I took after university—but he extended my contract and then offered me a five-grand pay raise and a permanent position. Daisy told me back then to turn it down and do something else, but the only thing I’ve ever really wanted to do is be a vet, and you can’t do that with a business degree. And I couldn’t face temping again.

I wait until Stephen Jones, Geoff’s favorite salesman and self-proclaimed top dog, strolls past us and into his office, closing the door behind him, and then I head for the ladies’ bathroom, my cell phone hidden up my sleeve. I check the stalls to make sure that neither of the other two women who work for UIS are about, then I dial Mom’s number. It’s Tuesday, which means she should be at home. She works in the doctor’s office she and Dad set up when they were newly married and still childless, but she only does Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays. The phone rings for several minutes before she finally picks up. She’s had her cell phone for years but still hasn’t worked out how to set up voice mail.

Shouldn’t you be at work? That’s how she greets me. No Hello, Emma, no Everything okay, darling? just Shouldn’t you be at work?

I am at work.

Should you be on the phone? You don’t want to upset your boss, not after your recent appraisal.

Mom, can you just… Never mind. Look, I can’t make it to Henry’s show tonight.

There’s an audible intake of breath followed by an exaggerated sigh. Oh, Emma.

There it is, her disappointed tone, the one perfectly pitched to make me feel like utter shit.

I’m sorry, Mom. I really wanted to make it, but—

Henry will be disappointed. You know how much work he’s put into his one-man show. Tonight’s the night he’s invited lots of agents along, and it’s so important that the audience is on his side, and—

Mom, I know.

He wants to take it to Edinburgh; you know that, don’t you? We’re ever so proud.

Yes, I do know that, but Geoff—

Can’t you ask him nicely? I’m sure he’d understand if you explain why.

I have asked him. He said I have to work until seven because I was late this morning.

Oh, for God’s sake. So it’s your own fault you can’t come? Don’t tell me you were out drinking until late with your friends again.

Yes. No. We had to help Al. I’ve told you how upset she’s been about Simone recently, and—

And that’s what I should tell Henry, is it? That your friends are more important to you than your family?

That’s not fair, Mom. I’ve been to all George’s matches, and I was there when Isabella opened her dance studio.

I spent most of my childhood being dragged from one sibling event to another, a habit that has now become so ingrained that I start each day by checking the calendar in my kitchen to see who’s doing what. Isabella is my oldest sibling. She’s thirty-two, an ex-dancer, ridiculously beautiful, and married with a son. George is my older brother. He’s twenty-eight and a golf pro. He lives in St. Andrews, and I rarely see him. Henry’s the youngest; he’s twenty-four and the next Eddie Izzard, if you believe my mother.

Mom?

There’s a pause, a pause that stretches for one, two, three, four seconds.

Mom? Are you still there?

She sighs again. You should get back to work. It sounds like you’re in enough trouble as it is.

I swipe at my eyes with the heel of my hand. Could you wish Henry good luck from me?

I will. I’ll speak to you soon. You’d better get back to it. Work hard and make us proud.

The line goes dead before I can reply.

4

PRESENT DAY

I’m sitting in the staff room, the letter in my hand, my messenger bag at my feet. It’s been six hours since Sheila handed me the envelope, and I’ve lost count of the number of times I’ve examined it. There’s my name, my assumed name—Jane Hughes—at the top, then Green Fields Animal Shelter, Bude, Nr Aberdare, Wales. There’s a first-class stamp in the top right corner. It’s been stamped, but it’s too smudged to make out the town or date. The letter itself is written in blue ink in cursive handwriting. The words aren’t large and bold and shouty. They’re neatly written, punctuated and spelled correctly.

You haven’t stopped reading that since I gave it to you, Sheila says, taking a step toward me, hand outstretched. Can I see?

It’s nothing. Like I said, just a letter from Maisie’s owners. Nothing important. I crumple the letter in my hand and throw it toward the trash before she can reach me. It hits the rim and bounces in.

Sheila stops short in the middle of the room. Her outstretched hand drops to her side, and she makes a small oh sound, but she doesn’t retrieve the letter from the trash. Instead, she gives me a puzzled smile, then heads for the coat stand in the corner of the room. She pulls on her waterproof jacket, grabs her oversize handbag from one of the chairs, and hoists it over her shoulder.

I’m off, then, she says. Are you in tomorrow?

Yeah.

Make sure all the gates are secured before you go. We don’t want Mr. Four-by-Four and his mates attempting a dognap in the middle of the night, do we?

I will, don’t worry.

I won’t. Her smile widens, and she raises a hand in good-bye, then heads for the door.

Thirty seconds later, the bell above the main doors tinkles as she leaves. I fish the letter out of the trash, tuck it back into its envelope, and put it in my back pocket. Then I pick up my messenger bag and take out my cell phone.

There are two texts and one missed call.

17:55—Text from Will:

You still on for dinner tonight? X

17:57—Missed call, Will.

17:58—Text from Will:

Sorry, just wanted to check. You do eat sea bass, don’t you? I know there’s one kind of fish you don’t like but couldn’t remember if it was sea bass or sea bream? Not too late to pop to the grocery store if you don’t like it!

Shit, I forgot I was supposed to be going to Will’s for dinner.

The phone vibrates in my hand, and a tinkling tune fills the air.

Will.

I’m tempted to swipe