‘When will they be back?’ she managed.
‘Any time. I’d assumed they’d be in by now.’
‘Then I’ll wait in my bedroom,’ she told him. ‘Thank you for dinner. It was better than the company. Let me know when the blood samples arrive.’
Enough. Her voice wobbled dangerously and she turned before the first tear could fall. She was moving out through the door before he could speak.
‘Sarah…’ It was a tentative call of her name. He sounded unsure. Concerned.
But she didn’t turn. She couldn’t. She had to get out of here right now.
As Alistair cleared up the casserole he swore. Over and over again. What was going on here? What had Sarah said? That the casserole was better than the company.
Maybe she was right.
He really had to do something about Mrs Granson’s housekeeping, he told himself, in a vain attempt to distract himself from what was really important. The casserole was disgusting.
Right. The casserole was disgusting. Which made him…what? Even more disgusting?
No. He refused to accept judgement from someone like Sarah. What right did she have to criticise?
What right did she have to look as she did? As if he’d struck her—hard.
He thought suddenly of that last time he’d seen her. At the cemetery as they’d buried Grant. His parents had been inconsolable. And Sarah had appeared, wobbling on crutches, looking pathetic. She’d even tried to smile.
He’d been so…wild! Wild with grief at such an appalling waste. Such an appalling loss. At what had seemed such an ultimate betrayal of how he and his parents had felt about her.
So he’d pushed her away with his hurtful words and she’d looked just as she looked now. Like a wounded animal who’d been hurt even unto death.
Six years ago, standing beside his brother’s open grave, he’d felt an almost unbearable urge to recant. To take back what had been said. To follow her and take her into his arms.
He hadn’t done it then and he was darned if he’d do it now. But once again that urge was there.
What right did she have to look so wounded?
At his feet, Flotsam was gazing up at him, a worried look on his scraggy little face, and Alistair abandoned the clearing up, scooped the pup into his arms and took him out onto the veranda. The sea always had the capacity to soothe him. Maybe it could tonight.
He sat on the back step and Flotsam kept right on looking at him. Was he imagining it, or was there reproach in the little dog’s eyes?
‘Don’t look at me like that,’ he told him. ‘She killed my twin.’
Flotsam cocked one ear and kept on looking. Explain, his look said. Or maybe his look didn’t say any such thing, but Alistair needed to explain it to himself, to go over the whole thing one more time.
As he’d gone over it thousands of times before.
‘They were drunk,’ Alistair said wearily. ‘Or rather Grant was drunk. He used to party heavily. And drive fast. All the time. Not like you and me, mate, with our nice sensible truck. Grant had a Ferrari, and he and Sarah used to speed around the town looking like something out of Who Magazine. Heaven help you if you got in Grant’s way. What he wanted he got. And Sarah…she was so desirable. Everyone loved Sarah. Everyone. Because of her father she was famous. She had money, looks—everything. That’s why Grant wanted her—why he wanted to marry her when he’d never shown any sign of marrying any other woman in his past—and there were plenty of those.’
He was being sidetracked. Flotsam was giving him a sideways look, as if this wasn’t explaining anything. Which it wasn’t.
‘Okay. Cut to the chase. She drove his car,’ Alistair said heavily. ‘Sure, she was under the legal alcohol limit, but she was on drugs. Sedatives, uppers, downers—I don’t know exactly what. They must have been legal prescriptive drugs or she would have been charged, but it doesn’t matter. Grant used to use them, too. I thought…we hoped Sarah might influence him. Stop him using them. But, no, it seems she was just as bad as he was. So he was drunk and she was drugged. And she drove him home in that damned car. Not over the legal limit, but too fast for the icy road they were travelling. They were showing off, the pair of them, and they crashed.’
Flotsam was looking worried now, as well he might. There was such anger in Alistair’s voice. Such unresolved fury.
‘Of course they crashed,’ Alistair continued, his fury fading to a deadly weariness which was almost worse. ‘And Grant died. I can’t tell you what that feels like, can I, Flots? You’d need to be a twin to know. Grant and I…we didn’t get on, but he was my twin. Part of me. I can’t get away from that. And she killed him. She had concussion and lacerations and Grant got death. The driver’s side of the car—her side—was hardly touched. Even at the end she veered so that she wouldn’t cop the impact. But Grant would. Grant did. Grant got death. He had an unstable neck fracture which wasn’t picked up and the day after the accident he died in his sleep. It killed my parents. You have no idea, Flots. You have no idea…’
Silence. Flotsam seemed to take in the enormity of what he’d been told. The little dog stirred in his arms, reached up and licked him, nose to chin.
‘Gee, thanks. A kiss better.’ He grimaced. ‘It doesn’t help.’
He sat on, the dog in his arms, staring out to sea. Was she sleeping? he thought. He shouldn’t care.
He did care.
Why had she looked like that?
It was a life skill, he thought savagely. Manipulating. She’d manipulate people as Grant had manipulated people.
The phone rang indoors and Alistair almost welcomed it. Work. Work had been his salvation in those first months after Grant died. It had been a long time since he’d felt like that. He’d grieved for Grant but he’d moved on. He’d built himself the life that he’d always wanted—as a family doctor in a community that depended on him. He had fun. He dated. He knew what he wanted from life.
Or did he?
Suddenly she was here and his whole life was tumbling about him. It’d be transitory, he told himself. Tomorrow or the next day this mystery would be cleared up and she’d be out of here. His life could resume.
Only…
Go and answer the phone, he told himself. For heaven’s sake get back to work. Leave this pain alone.
Easy to say. Impossible to do.
Sarah was reading the report for the fourth time when Alistair knocked on her bedroom door, and she was almost glad of the interruption. If she’d known it was anyone but Alistair she’d have been delighted. She was climbing walls.
How could he make her feel like this? How could he have the capacity to tear her apart all over again?’
Maybe because she’d never healed in the first place.
‘Damn him,’ she whispered. ‘Damn them all. I don’t need any of them. I’m fine by myself and I always will be. Alistair Benn can condemn me all he likes and it doesn’t affect me.’
Liar.
‘The searchers have come back,’ Alistair called. ‘They haven’t found anything but you might like to talk to the police sergeant in charge of the case.’
Of course she would. She’d like to talk to anyone but Alistair.
At least now there was work to do.
There’d