Читать книгу The Girl in the Water - - Страница 24

I am positively, spectacularly certain that I’ve never spoken with Chloe about my private, quiet little obsession with learning all I can about the murder of the woman in the river. It’s been entirely my own, tucked away in my corner and in the secret folds of my thoughts. Besides, a conversation like that would have been torturous, and while many of my emotions over the past twenty-four hours have been unusual, I’m not that out of it.

But Chloe didn’t just mention the subject of my sudden interest. She mentioned a name. The name.

‘What do you mean, “It’s about Emma”?’

I can barely form the last word. The name that came to me on the road, the one that stopped David mid-thrust and sent yesterday spiralling out of normalcy into disarray. The name I’m all but positive I didn’t even know before I left the shop yesterday.

Yesterday. That word, again.

‘What do you mean, what do I mean?’ Chloe’s been talking non-stop for several seconds, her voice a background murmur behind my thoughts, but she halts at my interruption, genuinely puzzled. ‘Haven’t you been listening to I word I just said?’

I shake my head, too anxious to be embarrassed. ‘Start again.’

‘I said,’ she draws out the word, emphasizing the condescension implied in her willingness to repeat herself, ‘that you being so interested in random bits of the week’s news seems to have paid off, in terms of curiosity value. The murder you’re so bent up on, up in the Russian River. Story’s got more involved overnight.’

It’s solid now. She knows concrete details. Like she’s been in my head.

‘What the hell are you talking about?’ I demand, fire in my voice. I’m not normally this assertive, and the strength in my breath is doubly out of place in the quiet of the shop.

Chloe’s left eyebrow rises so high it looks like it might go into orbit. ‘The hell am I? What … Calm down, girl. I’m trying to share the juicy details I dug up for you.’ She looks like she might spit at me if I don’t change my tone, but I can’t seem to stop myself.

I didn’t ask Chloe to do anything for me, dig up anything. I’m mishearing. My palms are growing sweaty, sticking to the newsprint of the paper on which I’ve laid them.

‘That woman you’ve gone all Hercule Poirot over.’ Chloe’s voice stomps through my thoughts, instantly proving me wrong. ‘You’re not the only one who can play detective, you know. Come on, you’re talking to the queen. Try to name a detective novel published in the last five years that I haven’t read. Come on. I dare you.’

I don’t. She rolls her eyes.

‘Anyway, I scoped out everything I could find on that woman last night,’ Chloe continues. ‘Web’s a fantastic place for the curious. Turns out she’s single, never married and no children. One site said she was gainfully employed, but didn’t say where. No ongoing relationships. No history of major drugs. No criminal background.’ Chloe lists off the facts in a way that stresses, again, that she’d just said this a moment ago, when my brain wouldn’t allow me to listen. ‘I did manage a little more this morning,’ she finally adds. ‘Since I knew you were interested. Looks like they’ve got a cause of death now, and some other stuff. Saved it on my phone. You want it as an email or a text?’

I abruptly stand up. The newspaper clings to my wet palms and I frustratedly shake it free.

‘What’s going on, Chloe? Why are you nosing around into these things?’ I’m affronted by what feels like her invasion into my inner world. Has she been watching me? How could anyone know I was so taken by this? How could she?

‘Who asked for your help?’ I blurt out.

Chloe’s face drops out of banter mode. It’s not a facade she often abandons.

‘You sure you’re feeling okay, Amber?’ Her voice is once again more Oakland than fake Floridian, and she looks genuinely confused. When I nod my head but say nothing, her eyes go a little wider. ‘Because, I mean, what kind of question is that? You asked me, obviously. Who else would have?’

I suddenly feel dizzy on my feet. I want to snap back at her, but I can’t find any words.

Liar. Cow. I haven’t talked to you about this. I haven’t talked to … But the reactions stay firmly in my head. If I could see my face, I’m certain I would see it going white.

‘We, we talked about this? You and me?’ I try to make the question sound calm, rational, but inwardly I’m imploring her to say no, to announce some joking Chloe-esque detail that puts an end to this spontaneous charade. Maybe she caught a glance at my computer screen yesterday, or my notepad. Damn that oddly enticing Hello Kitty logo. She’s just goofing around, playing the clairvoyant.

‘I wouldn’t say so much that we talked,’ she answers. I knew it! Cow! But Chloe doesn’t stop there. ‘It was a weird conversation. A few scattered words. But I caught your drift in the end, hon.’

My eyes are back into hers. They must ask the question for themselves.

‘You were just sitting there at the periodicals service desk, muttering,’ she continues, nodding at my cluttered workspace. ‘About three o’clock. Shop was in the afternoon lull, and you’d been lost in your little world a while. Come on, you’re honestly saying you don’t remember?’

I don’t want to admit that, even to myself. ‘Remind me,’ I say instead.

‘Your eyes were glued on your laptop, Amber. Your whole body was rigid, like you’d really been captivated by something. Weren’t saying much, but you were obviously enrapt.’

‘And?’

‘And, well, it isn’t every day you start out a conversation asking for help. So I paid attention.’ She pauses – long, expectant – but I don’t have anything to say.

Asking for help? This makes no sense.

‘After that,’ she continues, ‘you just said a few words, pointing at the screen.’ She indicates my laptop. ‘“My story. The dead woman in the river, her name is Emma. Help me.” You obviously wanted to explore the story, and heck, I’m always up for diving into a bit of snooping around.’

It’s suddenly gone very cold in my corner of the shop. Chloe’s words are not nearly as disturbing as the fact that I have absolutely no memory of saying them.

I finally peer back at her. She’s eyeing me with what feels like too much curiosity. Then, joltingly, the intensity breaks and a devious wink flickers across her eyes.

‘You want my opinion, hon?’ she asks, her voice toying.

‘No.’ But that answer’s never worked with Chloe before, and it doesn’t now.

‘I think you need to get yourself laid.’ She leans forward, her small chest heaving as rapaciously as she can manage. ‘Nothing better for clearing a foggy mind and that pasty looks like a good—’

‘Was I right?’ I suddenly find myself asking, eager in equal measure for an answer and to keep Chloe from finishing that particular sentence. Her face is instantly a question.

‘Right?’

‘When I said … you said I said the girl was called Emma … All those other details, but you haven’t said whether what I said was …’ The sentence is convoluted. I’m not sure how to frame my question in any other way. ‘Was I right?’

Chloe’s eyes are now as wide as I’ve ever seen them. She doesn’t answer immediately, and her silence feels foreign and uncomfortable. Finally she replies, with a tone bridging tenderness and concern, ‘Yeah, hon, you were right. Course you were. Doesn’t take a mystery fan to figure that out. Name’s public record.’

‘She really is called Emma?’

‘Emma Fairfax.’ I can see Chloe trying to normalize her expression, hoping to re-rail a conversation that hadn’t gone at all the way she’d anticipated. But when I keep silent, it becomes clear that Chloe doesn’t know how to continue. She begins the slow departure back towards the front of the shop.

‘Whatever, girl. I’ll shoot you off an email with a few more notes later, see if I can help you make all the nice plot points fit together.’ Her voice retreats to a whisper before it fades away all together. ‘Not like I don’t have my own things to be doin’.’

I wish I could say that I’m able to move on and accept Chloe’s strange words as just her being her. I wish I could just get about my day, but I can’t. I only manage to get myself back into a seated posture by the most extraordinary exertion of will.

Chloe’s words mingle with those already in my head.

Single, never married, no children.

Emma.

Gainfully employed.

Emma.

No relationships. No domestic problems.

Emma.

Foul play. Murdered.

Emma.

Emma.

Emma.

As I whisper the name now, I remember whispering it yesterday. Uncomprehendingly. Innocently.

And again I remember David’s body, rigid beneath my own.