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

yells. ‘I’m not the one who promised to put this all aside to try and rebuild our marriage. I’m not the one who agreed to—’

‘Move on?’ I cry. ‘When I said that, I didn’t think it would mean you forcing me to move away!’

‘Oh, that’s it, is it?’ Adam laughs patronisingly. ‘The old passive-aggressive it’s fine Adam, but underneath you’re just festering away.’

‘I never said it was fine! I never had the chance!’

‘You’re crazy, do you know that? Completely and absolutely crazy!’

I have never seen Adam like this before. His intimidation has always been subtle, understated; never as unredeemable as this. ‘All your bizarre theories about Michael’s death not being an accident.’ He stands up, his fists clenched. ‘All this bloody research on miscarriages of justice and police incompetence.’ He picks up a folder full of articles I’ve collected and throws it across the room towards me, the corner catching me on the side of the face. ‘I knew about it all, of course,’ he says, smiling as he points to the filing cabinet. He hasn’t noticed the blood on my cheek. ‘Knew where you kept your little key hidden.’ My eyes widen in disbelief. ‘Well I had to keep an eye on you, didn’t I?’ He takes a deep breath to try and calm himself. ‘What the hell did you think you were doing with all your secret dossiers? Is that what you’re up to now, still investigating Michael’s death? You’re determined to prove that your doped-up son didn’t die in some stupid, pointless accident, or – even better – off himself on purpose, aren’t you? Who the hell do you think you are?’ He steps from behind the desk towards me. ‘Some sort of fucking Miss Marple?’ Then Adam does something funny with his head, shaking and twisting it as if his brain is trying to reboot. I can see patches of sweat under his arms. His eyes are a stunning, bloodshot red.

‘Where’s the diary, Kate?’

‘What?’

‘Where is Michael’s diary!’ His voice is so loud it feels as if the windowpanes are trembling. ‘I’m going to take that bloody thing and destroy it once and for all!’ It’s only then that I notice the smoke from a bonfire in the back garden drifting past my office window. Thank God I asked Doris to take the diary back to Calstock with her.

‘He’s been dead for six years,’ Adam yells, moving towards me, ‘and still that little shit is messing up our lives!’ I find myself searching the room for some form of defence. On top of the filing cabinet next to me is a hand-painted paperweight Michael made for me in primary school. Lovingly created from a fist-sized piece of granite, Michael had painted a bright yellow smiley face on it. So you will always be happy Mummy. I pick it up and weigh it in my hand. If Adam takes one more step towards me, I will hit him. He looks at me, to the rock in my hand, and his expression changes, almost melts. He stumbles backwards, sits on the edge of the desk, and buries his face in his hands.

‘What are we doing?’ he sobs. ‘What are we doing?’ I stare at him numbly. After a few minutes he wipes his eyes and sits up straight. ‘Let’s talk about this, Kate.’ His voice is soft now, gentle. ‘Let’s just sort things out.’

I reach into my back pocket for my mobile phone. ‘I suggest you pack some things and find a place to stay.’

Adam’s face registers surprise. He stands, spreads his arms wide and whispers ‘Kate.’

I push the number nine on my mobile, ensuring he can hear the soft bleep. ‘If you don’t, I’m going to call the police.’

I wait until he’s gone before I let the tears come, and after a few minutes I pull myself together. I’m bored of crying; bored of being afraid. No matter what Adam says or does, this marriage is over. I take photographs of the small cut and the bruise on my cheek from where Adam threw the file folder at me. If he tries any further intimidation or manipulation, I have the evidence.

Wired on adrenaline, I tidy my office. I empty the filing cabinet, drawers and bookcases of their contents and place everything in a large box with the paperweight sitting proudly on top. Then I systematically begin moving through every room in the house.

First, I make my way into Michael’s bedroom. After his death I had wanted to preserve it, keep it untouched; a living memorial. Adam, however, convinced me to remove the Che Guevara flag and paint over the lime green walls with a more suitable magnolia. Opening the wardrobe, I remove a stack of A3 photo albums from the top shelf and slip them into my suitcase. Next is a tea-tray-sized hand-polished oak box. Contained within it are Michael’s swimming medals. I handle it as if it’s made of gold. Then I reclaim an old primary school jumper and a favourite baseball cap. Closing the wardrobe door, I turn to a nearby shelf. A battered teddy wearing a union jack t-shirt smiles its wilted smile. Billy. Next to that sits a small mountain of picture books. There’s a notebook I’ve kept from his primary school in which he had written and illustrated a story about a shy dragon named Ollie. His guitar is there, too; a reproduction of a Fender Stratocaster he found in a pawn shop and bought with his birthday money. I run my fingertips across the frets, remembering Michael doing the same. He was a competent guitarist, not brilliant, but he had a lovely voice.

Heading into my bedroom I collect clothes and shoes, adding them to my catalogue of escape items. I rummage through my jewellery box, taking the pearl earrings that Michael gave me one Christmas, but not the diamond studs from Adam. From the bathroom I take makeup, creams and lotions, and a faded rubber duck. I remove the box of Michael’s