The Lake by Louise Sharland (best ereader for pc txt) 📕

time off work and come up then. I thought maybe I’d stay with you at Mum’s?’

I feel like ending the call – just slamming down the phone. As angry as I am right now, I still love my sister. That doesn’t mean I want her staying with me, getting in the way, dismissing my suspicions and offering the usual safe, generic explanations. None of this is concrete, Kat. Are you sure you’re not just imagining it? What I want now is to find Lisa Edwards, find out what she knows about Diving Fish, and make her tell me what happened to Michael.

‘Of course,’ I reply, trying hard not to let irritation creep into my voice. I hope, however, without wishing any hardship on my sister, that something comes up to keep her away.

‘Are you sure you’re okay? What about Adam?’

‘What about him?’ This time I can’t contain the vitriol in my voice.

‘Have you two had a row? Did he do anything to you?’

A bit late for you to ask that now, don’t you think?

‘Everything’s fine, Grace. I’ll call you later, okay?’ And in a herculean effort to sound bright, normal, I add: ‘Give my best to Simon and Ellie.’

I’ve just ended the call when my mobile rings again. It’s Adam.

‘In for a penny, in for a pound,’ I mutter, and take the call.

14

I make a quick stop at the hospital – no change with my mother – then head up the A38 to Exmouth. The phone call from Adam was civil, apologetic. Kate, please try and understand, I’m just concerned. I care about you. I love you. I can’t live without you.

I feel angry, guilty, and terribly uncertain. Adam has always been my lifeline, my strength, someone who was always able to make things right again. If I’m ever going to get through this, I need him on my side, at least for the moment. Choose your battles, Katie, my father used to say. As focused as I am on finding Diving Fish, I need to maintain my perspective and make sure everyone else knows I’ve maintained it as well.

I text Adam to let him know I’ll be coming home for the weekend. I add a few banalities about starting afresh. I checked my bank balance online this morning and realised I’m going to need some financial support if I want to get the answers I need. When did I become so mercenary?

The house is warm and welcoming. Vibrant purple irises line the drive, and the Bride and Groom rosebush – a wedding present from Adam’s mother – is just beginning to bud. Everything feels so normal. A reminder of what was … and what could still be?

He’s waiting for me at the door, his expression warm and welcoming. He hesitates before enveloping me in a hug. ‘I’m so glad you’re home.’

‘Me too.’

‘Come inside.’

The house is pristine and orderly. A large vase of flowers is prominently displayed on the dining room table.

‘An apology,’ he whispers.

‘No need,’ I reply.

Our lovemaking is passionate, frenetic; a place of forgetfulness. Later, when we’re lying in bed sipping ice-cold beer, Adam reaches over and touches my arm.

‘I spoke to Claire today.’

‘Claire?’ I know several Claires.

‘Your therapist. She’s got a cancellation tomorrow morning.’ He takes a sip of Peroni. ‘I’ve booked you in for eleven.’

The next morning, I make the half-hour drive to Exeter and pay for overpriced parking in the city centre. It’s just after ten and the streets are already crowded with Saturday shoppers. I turn left just past the Royal Albert Memorial Museum and enter Gandy Street, a pretty cobbled lane with hanging baskets and endless bunting. I’m not interested in the sights, however, and I keep my eyes low. A little more than halfway down the alley is the jeweller’s where Adam and I bought our wedding rings. Next to it is a door, and to the left a sign that reads Claire Hodgeson: Integrated Therapeutic Counsellor. Please ring buzzer to enter. I push the buzzer; the door clicks open and I climb the narrow stairs to the second floor.

‘How lovely to see you,’ says Claire, welcoming me into her office. To the right is a two-seater settee with a colourful throw strewn across it; next to that a comfortable chair, and, opposite, a small desk and chair where Claire usually positions herself. ‘Come in. Sit down.’ I do as instructed. ‘Coffee? Tea?’

‘Water, please.’

She pours me a glass of water then sits, hands folded on her lap, watching me. ‘So,’ she says, finally.

I take a sip of water. ‘So.’

‘It’s been a few months, hasn’t it?’

‘Three, I think.’

She nods. After Michael’s death, my sessions were as regular as clockwork. Once a week you would find me sitting on her settee, wrapped in a throw, bawling my eyes out. God, I was a mess. ‘It’s lovely as always to see you again, Kate. Is there a particular reason you felt you needed to meet today?’

‘I didn’t make the appointment. Adam did.’

Claire nods again. ‘That’s why I asked the question.’

We talk about my mother, the hospital, Adam, the weather; but I keep clear of the diary, the mobile phone, and the scene with Adam the other night.

I like Claire, she’s understanding and accepting no matter what I say. In the early days after Michael’s death when I was challenging the authorities and scrutinising the evidence, she didn’t try and stop me, didn’t say I was paranoid or mad with grief; she simply listened. She also provided the psych report, which helped to get the harassment charge against me dropped – although I fail to see how asking a few questions, demanding a few answers, constitutes harassment.

‘So how do you feel about Adam making this appointment for you?’

I shrug. ‘He’s only trying to help.’

‘You don’t sound like you believe that.’

‘It’s been difficult.’

‘For him or for you?’

Something about the way she says that last sentence makes me decide that, of course, I can trust her. ‘I found some things of Michael’s.’ I tell her about