The Mute and the Liar (69 page)

“
Alicia! Are
you
okay
?
”

I
find
myself
straying in the
beautiful
worry
in
his
eyes,
before
I
remember
that
this
is
all just
an act,
some
way
of
making me
stay
with him.

“
Oh
my
God.
This
is
all
my
fault.
I’m
so
sorry.
”
Pressing
his
palm
against
his
forehead
in
agitation,
he
lets
go
of
me and
edges backwards.

We start
walking
again,
but
this
time we don’t
stop. We
walk
and
walk
and
walk
until
every
bone
in
my
legs
screech
in
protest.
My
head
droops
heavier
and
heavier
with
every
step,
the
edges
of
my
eyesight
ebb
out
leaving
the
world
framed
in
a
soft
glow
like
borders
on
a
postcard.
Everything around
me
blinks and unfocuses.

And
then
I
don’t
walk
anymore;
I
just
hold
onto
him.

We
eventually
reach
an
area
of
Bath
I
remember
we
saw
yesterday,
near
Pulteney
Bridge,
that
overlooks
the
River
Avon,
now
as
black
and
still
as
marble.

“
Do
you
know
what
I
find
weird
?
The
fact
you
can’t
work
out
that
case.
You
know, the one
that
made
you
start
writing
in
the
notebook.
”

My
case.
My impossible case.

Woman
approached
the
police
station
early
this
morning
and
demanded
to
be
put
in
prison
on
account
of
murdering
her
husband
of
fifteen
years.
She
handed
them
the
gun
she
said
she
used
and
she
was
arrested.
The
police
visited
the
house
and
found
the
dead
body.

I
know
why
I
can’t
solve it.

It’s
a
part
of
me.
It
reminds
me
of
things
I
don’t
want
to
think
about.
It
makes
me feel things
I
rather
wouldn’t.

He
looks
at
me
like
he
already
knows.
I
should
stop
getting
surprised
by
that:
he
knows
everything.
With
great
hesitation,
I
hold
my
breath
and
begin
writing.

Her
daughter.

“
Her
daughter?
”
he
widens
his
eyes
in
surprise,
apparently
expecting
something entirely
different.

She
had
a
teenage
daughter.
She
must
have
killed
her
father.
Maybe he
hurt
his
wife
and
she
just
wanted
to
stop
the
suffering.
And
now
her
mother is
taking the blame for
her.

I
just
about
manage
to
write
all
that
with
my
throbbing
headache
and
shaking
hands.
It’s
some
kind
of
miraculous
achievement,
and
I
feel
so
proud
of
myself
until
I
look
up
and
see
Jayce
giving
me
some
foreign,
intangible
half-smile
I
can’t
translate.
There’s
an
echo
of
amusement
in
his
eyes
.

“
Maybe.
But
maybe
not,
”
he
says
softly
and
looks
away
towards
the
river.

“
Your
theory
seems
a
little
too
open-and-shut,
a
little
too
simple.
I
don’t
think
that’s
what’s
really
going
on
here.
”
I
bet
he
loves
this,
I
bet
he
feels
all
high
and
mighty
trying
to
tell
me
I'm
wrong.
I
don't
think
I
am.
I
haven’t
been
wrong
before.

“
Right
now,
you’re
looking
at
it
through
very
black
eyes.
You’re
looking
at
it
in
the
typical
detective
way.
You’re
saying:
‘it
was
definitely
a
murder,
but
it
can’t
have
been
the
wife
because
she
admitted
to
the
murder
and
that
just
doesn’t
happen,
and
so it must
have
been
the
only
other
suspect,
the
girl.’
But
has
it
is
ever
occurred
to
you
that
a
crime
can
actually
be
done
for
good?
There
are
two
ways
of
looking
at
everything.
”

Every crime doesn’t have to
be…
bad.
You
don’t…
you
don’t
see
that.
You
understand
logic,
but
not
heart.
”

“
There’s
this
story
by
Fletcher,
merciful
murder,
where
a
group
of
people,
including
a
mother
with
a
baby
is
in hiding. The baby
keeps
crying,
so
she has
no
choice
but
to
kill
it
in
order
to
save
her
group
from
being
discovered
and
killed.
She
did
that
out
of
sacrificial
love
for
the
good
of
the
whole
group,
just
like
how
people
might
sacrifice
themselves
in
an
overloaded
lifeboat
to
prevent
it
from
sinking.
Sometimes
things
just
need
to
be
done
for...
for
the
greater
good.
”

The
greater
good?
As
in,
a
crime
done
for
a
good
purpose?
I
don’t
understand how
that’s
relevant
and
I
can
only look at
him
puzzled.

“
Sasha’s
obsessed
with
this
idea
about
the
sacrificial
suicide.
He’s
got
it
into
his
head
that
Becky…
Well,
that
doesn’t
really
matter,
”
he
shakes
the
idea
out
of
his
head.
“
Anyway,
I
may
well
be
wrong,
but
if
you
ask
me,
I’d
say
the
woman
in
your
case
killed
her
husband
out
of
love.
The
same
reason
as
the
woman
in
Fletcher’s
story.
”