The Lies We Told by Camilla Way (best book recommendations txt) 📕

that she noticed its shutters were closed. She tried to think if she could remember having ever seen them like that before, and realized that she couldn’t. When she looked up at the higher windows, it seemed that the house was in total darkness. “Mac,” she said, “this is really strange. . . .”

It was at that moment that they heard a sound from within, followed by Rose’s nervous voice. “Hello? Who is it, please?”

“It’s us, Rose. Mac and Clara,” Mac called. “Are you okay?” They heard bolts being drawn back and finally the door opened.

The Rose who peered out at them looked so gaunt and ill that Clara gasped. “What’s happened?” she asked anxiously, feeling suddenly afraid. “Why are the windows shuttered and the door bolted? Are you all right?”

Rose stared at her strangely before nodding. “Yes. Yes, of course.” She opened the door wider and, glancing quickly behind them from left to right, added, “Come in, both of you. Please, do come in.”

Even in the dark gloom of the interior, Clara could see that the house’s sad air of disarray had worsened since last she’d visited. When they reached the kitchen, she and Mac paused inside the door, shooting nervous glances at each other as Rose silently filled the kettle, then stood motionless, staring blankly down at it in her hand. “Rose,” Clara said, going over and gently taking it from her, before leading her to a chair at the cluttered table. “Are you sure you’re okay? I’m worried about you.”

“Worried, darling?” Rose asked faintly. “About me? Why should you be worried about me?” She began to cry then, the tears streaming down her pale, makeupless face. “It’s I who should be worried about you.” She put her hand to her mouth as a sob escaped. “After what happened to you—” She glanced at Mac. “To both of you. I’m so sorry. I’m so dreadfully sorry.”

Clara knelt down next to her and took her hands. “Sorry? Oh, Rose, why are you sorry? None of this is your fault. How could it be?”

At that moment Oliver appeared, their dog, Clemmy, at his heels. Mac stepped forward to greet him but received barely a glance, as though Oliver could see nothing or no one but his wife. “Rose,” he said, his voice full of tenderness, “oh, darling, why are you crying? Don’t cry, please don’t cry.” He went to her and put a gentle hand on her shoulder. She looked up at him and for a long moment held him in her gaze, something that Clara couldn’t read passing between them, and then, to Clara’s astonishment, Rose very slowly and very deliberately removed his hand from her shoulder and got up. She stared back at her husband, a look on her face of such coldness, of such breathtaking dislike, that Clara felt her heart jolt in shock. And then Rose turned and left the room, leaving the three of them to stare silently after her.

—

Later, as they were unloading Luke’s belongings from the van, Clara said quietly to Mac, “What the hell is going on?”

He shook his head. “I have absolutely no idea.”

At Oliver’s request they brought the boxes and furniture up to Luke’s old bedroom. When they reached his door, Mac opened it and stopped. “Christ. I haven’t been up here for years,” he said. He wandered over to a skateboard propped against the wall, then looked up at a Beastie Boys poster above the bed, the words “Fight for Your Right to Party!” emblazoned across it, and smiled sadly. “The times we spent up here, smoking out of the window, smuggling up beer, talking about girls. This used to be my second home.”

He sat down heavily on Luke’s bed and, to Clara’s surprise, put his head in his hands, his shoulders heaving as he began to cry.

For a moment she stood, stricken. She realized she had never seen Mac cry before; that throughout the days since Luke had gone missing, he had remained unfailingly strong—far stronger than she herself had. It had been he who had comforted her, who had listened to and looked after her. The thought of him giving in to the despair that had threatened her so often made dread rise inside her. She went to him. “Mac,” she said, “it’s going to be okay.”

He wiped his face and exhaled a long breath. “I’m all right. Ignore me. It’s just being here, seeing his stuff again, you know?”

She nodded, sitting down next to him. “We’ve got to believe that he’s going to come back to us,” she said, trying to put some conviction into the words he’d used to comfort her so many times before. “We’ve got to keep going, try to keep positive.”

“Clara,” he said, turning his face to hers, and the expression she saw there was so strange, so desperate, so unlike any she’d ever seen there before, that she felt a chill.

“What?” she said. “What is it, Mac?”

He held her gaze for a moment, before finally dropping it. “Nothing.” He took a gulp of air and stood up. “Nothing. You’re right. Got to keep positive.” He took her hand and pulled her up. “Come on,” he said. “Let’s just get this over with.”

She nodded, and together they went back down to finish unloading the van.

—

When Rose next appeared, she looked very different, her hair neatly brushed and her makeup carefully applied. She smiled at them as she came into the room but made no mention of the scene earlier. “I hope you’ll stay for dinner?” she asked.

Mac and Clara exchanged glances. “It’s getting rather late, Rose. The traffic . . .”

Her face fell. “But maybe you could stay the night? Oh, please say you will. It would be so lovely to have you here.”

“Well . . .” Rose’s face was so beseeching that Clara shot Mac a questioning look.

“Of course,” he said, shrugging. “If you want us to.”

For the first time that day, Rose’s face brightened with something resembling her old, charming smile. “Oh, wonderful! Mac, you can have