The Dinner Guest by B Walter (best short books to read txt) 📕

in and say, ‘God, I knew you’d have some sort of problem with her. Tell me, then. What was it? Please don’t tell me she doesn’t fit in or something like that. That kind of snobbery is beneath you.’

I looked at him in outrage. ‘I wasn’t going to say anything of the kind. In fact, it’s something quite different, if you’d let me speak.’

He closed the dishwasher and turned it on, putting his hands on his hips, ‘Go on then.’

I took a breath, chose my words carefully, then said, ‘I found her in our bedroom. She was … looking around.’

Matthew looked puzzled. ‘What do you mean, looking around?’

‘Just that,’ I said, getting frustrated. ‘She was … I don’t know … snooping.’

‘Snooping,’ he said, looking at me like I was insane. ‘She probably just got the wrong room when looking for the loo.’

I was about to respond, then stopped and bit my lip.

‘Oh,’ Matthew said, catching on. ‘So she was just looking for the loo, then?’

‘Well, that was her explanation, but it wasn’t the truth. I could tell she was lying. She was looking at our stuff… It was … strange. Invasive.’

‘Invasive?’

‘Can you please stop repeating key words in that disbelieving tone? I know what I saw.’

He sighed and came around to my side of the kitchen island. ‘I’m sorry. I believe you. But I honestly don’t think she was doing anything sinister. Everyone’s curious about other people’s houses. I’m sure we’ve all snooped about on occasion. And she probably hasn’t ever been in a house like this before.’ He came close to me and wrapped his arms around my middle.

‘Wow. Now who’s the snob?’ I’d intended it to be a snarky comeback, but with his hands now moving up to my shoulders and his body pressing into me, it ended up sounding weirdly flirtatious.

‘Shall we go upstairs?’ Matthew said into my ear, leaning in so I could smell his Boss aftershave.

‘Let’s.’ I pulled him close to me and hugged him tight, feeling his warmth and the comforting familiarity of his embrace. And then we drew apart, and went upstairs together.

It was just as I was drifting off to sleep when the memory of finding Rachel in the bedroom – the very room I was in at that moment – fell into my head. I saw it again, and I remembered: it wasn’t the act of finding her in the room that had startled me; it was the look on her face. A strange, faraway look, filled with something, some emotion that I couldn’t quite place. I got out of bed and went over to the chest of drawers so as to stand exactly where she had been standing an hour earlier. In the dim room, the light from the streetlamps outside providing minimal luminance, I saw the outline of the three photo frames. One featured Titus as a little boy – probably seven years old, his face screwed up in a completely joyous smile, holding a school certificate in his hand. The other smaller frame was of Matthew and his sister Collette, taken a few years before her death. My memory wasn’t completely clear on when and why, but it was probably shot at her university town of Durham while she was a student there when Matthew went up to visit her from Oxford. And then, in the centre, in the largest frame, there was a photo of me and Matthew and Titus taken at our wedding. Titus was only just ten and looked so smart and happy in his suit. We all looked smart and happy. Maybe it was this she had been staring at. Marvelling at our happy life. How we’d made it work, year after year. Or maybe she just had something else on her mind when she was looking at the photographs. I don’t know how long I had been standing there looking at them when Matthew spoke to me from the bed.

‘What are you doing?’ His voice was slurred with sleep and I heard him shift a little to get a better look at me.

I turned and went back to the bed. ‘Just looking at our wedding day,’ I said as I got in.

‘Nice day,’ he murmured. Then his breathing became steady again and I could tell he’d drifted back off to sleep. And a few moments later, I was asleep too.

Chapter Eight Charlie

The day of the murder

Titus and I wait on the steps of the police station. We are both unable to speak. Eventually, I step closer to him and put an arm over his shoulder. I feel him almost collapse into me, his firm form pressing into my side, and I feel his steady, rasping breaths. ‘It’s OK,’ I say softly, although my words are probably lost to him amidst the noise of all the cars and pedestrians bustling past.

He doesn’t say anything while we wait there for my mother to arrive, and although my mind is racing, throwing up question after question in my head, I don’t have the mental bandwidth to form them into coherent sentences at this point. Mum parks around the back of the building, on Ebury Square, and we walk around to see her sitting in the front of the dark-red Bentley Bentayga. Even in the darkness and dull lamplight, I can tell she looks pale with shock. She motions from the window to get in quickly. We do as instructed, Titus getting in the back while I walk round to the spare front seat.

‘Are you all right?’ she says immediately as we climb in. ‘I’ve been so worried.’

‘We’re … we’re fine,’ I say, though I know it isn’t the truth – and so does she. She looks pale and tense, but her driving is smooth and controlled as we glide along the empty residential streets. I partly expect her to ask exactly what’s happened, but she keeps silent for the rest of the journey. Biding her time. I presume she wants