Page 100 of Mad Mabel

“Oh,” I say. “I didn’t realize they’d put that up.”

“You can’t move,” she says sulkily. “Who will look after me when Mum’s at work?”

In another life, I’d have sat in the gutter beside her, but that life doesn’t contain my arthritic knees. Instead, I walk out onto the lane and stand in front of her. “Persephone—”

“Who will make me apple pie?”

I sigh. “I’m sure that your mum can—”

“Where will Delly and me go to play?!”

I stop trying to reply. Instead, I begin the slow and foolish descent into the gutter beside her. I may never again get to my feet.

“Who will be my grandma?” she says quietly when I land beside her. She slowly looks at me, and her eyes shimmer with tears. It’s too much for me. I feel it in my heart first, a tiny pinprick that quickly becomes a stabbing pain.

“Come here, pet,” I say.

She wraps her arms around my waist. As she sobs, a few tears of my own escape, but I wipe them away before anyone can see.So this is the pain of loving, I think to myself.This is the pain of being loved.

When I return to the house, it’s clear Libby and Adeem have been conferring and are ready to bring things to a close. Fair enough. We all know what we’re here for. Every word I’ve spoken, every dusty memory I’ve hauled out of the vault—it’s all been leading to this. Time to get the show on the road.

“This is the big one, Elsie,” Libby says as I sit down. She lays a hand on mine. “You ready?”

But I’m not sure I am. I haven’t revisited this day in sixty-six years. Not properly. Not out loud.

Libby gives a small, encouraging smile. “Right then. Tell me about the day of the murder. What happened?”

I’m just retelling it, I know that. It’s over now. And yet, as I open my mouth to talk, and images of that day flash before my eyes—I feel the air shift, as though the past has slipped into the room beside me.

68

THEN

It rained from dawn until dusk. That slow, relentless kind of rain that slides down your neck and settles into your bones, turning everything heavy—your clothes, your limbs, your thoughts. I’d felt off all day—headachy, nauseous, like I was on the edge of something. A cold, maybe. Or something worse. A knowing.

That morning, I’d told Cess I’d be late. I’d taken to lingering at school, waiting for the bike shed to empty out before I collected my things. But today I had a legitimate excuse: I owed the library three overdue books and figured returning them would soothe my conscience.

But when the final bell rang, I couldn’t face it. The idea of spending another minute in that building turned my stomach. I headed straight for the bike shed, mounted my bike, and pedaled home through the rain like my life depended on it.

The moment I entered the gates I saw his car. Parked right in thedriveway like it belonged there. My whole body seized up. I nearly turned around. Ishouldhave turned around.

Even now, all these years later, I don’t know why I didn’t. Maybe I was too tired to think straight. Maybe some twisted part of me hoped it would be different this time. Or maybe—most likely—it was plain old stupid curiosity.

I dragged my bike up the path and onto the porch. Ness’s umbrella was propped beside the door, dripping a quiet, steady rhythm onto the tiles.

When I opened the door, I heard him immediately. His voice carried on the polished boards, booming like a thunderclap.

“You filthy whores.”

I froze.

“Get out of here, Elliott!” That was Cess, fierce and unyielding.

“Get out?” my father cried. “This is my house.”

“Actually, it’smyhouse,” Cess replied.

“Not until a judge declares it so!”