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“I walk through the graveyard at lunch sometimes,” Cole said. His voice was not quite as low as mine, and it echoed in the rafters. “Just, you know, to get away from the desk. And one day this old lady, she was throwing out the flowers, and she asked me if I’d like to come inside, see around. But Jack, listen—what’s going on? Is everything okay? I mean—” He stopped, swallowed. “Sorry, that’s an incredibly stupid thing to ask—what I meant—I just—”
He stopped again, and I shook my head, unable to express how very, very not okay everything was.
“No,” I said at last. “Nothing’s okay. I—”
Cole held out his arms, and I walked into them, still shaking my head, feeling his grip tighten around me. I stood, pressing my face to his warm chest, feeling the rise and fall of his breath, overcome for the first time in what felt like days by the crushing agony of what we had both lost.
We stayed like that for a long time, simply standing in the silent chancel, my forehead pressed against the softness of his hoodie, feeling his shoulders and rib cage shaking with unspent emotion. He was crying, I realized, and the thought gave me a stab of guilt. He was crying—why couldn’t I cry? Gabe was my husband—why couldn’t I cry?
“It’s so fucking unfair,” he managed at last, his voice hoarse with tears and anger. “Oh fuck, Jack, how do we go on?”
“I don’t know,” I said, feeling my own throat ache with the effort of forcing out the words. Cole straightened and then swiped at his eyes with his free wrist, the tears soaking into the sleeve of his gray marl hoodie.
“Look, I know asking you if you’re okay is a stupid question in the circumstances, but Jack, you look—”
He trailed off, but I knew what he meant. I had seen myself in the blurred, toothpaste-spattered mirror of the hostel bathroom as I brushed my teeth that morning, and even I had been shocked by what I’d seen. It was impossible that I had lost weight in the three days since Gabe’s death, but it looked as if I had—my pointy face had turned from gamine to gaunt, my features strangely small and undefined without my usual cat’s-eye flick of eyeliner.
With my white hair and un-made-up face I looked like a ghost—which, in a way, I was: the ghost of the woman who had left Salisbury Lane just a few nights ago for Arden Alliance. That woman had been happy, safe, a loving wife with a loving husband. I was none of those things. I was—the word hung strangely in the silence, unspoken. I was a widow. And I was a wanted person.
“Cole, I’m sorry to do this to you, but I didn’t know where else to turn.”
“Sorry to do what?”
I took a deep breath.
“Look, I have to tell you this up front so you can decide if you want to help me. Because if you do—”
“Jack, what? Seriously, whatever it is, I’ll do it. Don’t even think about it. Just tell me—whatever it is, tell me.”
“I’m wanted.” I said the words baldly, unsure how else to phrase it. I had spoken more loudly than I meant, and the two words echoed around the nave, overlapping, chasing each other. Somewhere high above the altar a bird rose up, flapping its wings in alarm, and then settled again.
Cole blinked.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t catch that. What did you want…?”
“No, Cole.” I lowered my voice. “I’m wanted. I’m wanted by the police. If you help me—there’s a chance you could get prosecuted. And for God’s sake, don’t tell Noemie. I don’t want to drag her into this.”
“What?” His face, already alarmed, had turned suddenly pale, and for a moment I thought he was going to faint, ridiculous as it sounds. I had never seen anyone look so unutterably shocked. “You’re wanted by the police? Are they mad? What happened?”
“They think I killed Gabe.” As the words came out of my mouth, I heard a bitter, hysterical little laugh bubble up with them. It just sounded so crazy when I said it. How was I even speaking it aloud?
“No,” Cole said, almost reflexively. “No. That’s just—it’s insane. No!”
“They think the timings of my movements that night don’t add up. But there’s something else. I found an email, in my inbox. It’s a huge insurance policy that Gabe—someone—took out just before he died. They’ll think it was me—or that I knew about it, at least. They think I killed him, and I did it for the money.”
“An insurance policy?” Cole was blinking like someone punch-drunk, barely able to register what was going on. “I don’t—but—”
He groped his way to a pew and sat, hands lifeless between his knees, as if trying to come to terms with what I had just said. I moved across and sat beside him.
“I know. I know, I was as shocked as you. But the police have my phone, and they know about the insurance. I don’t know if I’m being set up, or if Gabe—” I swallowed. It was extraordinarily hard to spit out what I wanted to say. “If Gabe—if Gabe took the policy out himself, because he was afraid of something. That’s what I came here to ask. Did he say anything to you? Before he died?”
“Jesus—no. He didn’t say anything. Why—what—”
He stopped. His expression was utterly bewildered.
“If he didn’t take it out,” I spelled it out for him, “then someone is framing me. Do you understand? Someone killed Gabe, and they’re framing me. It’s not a burglary gone wrong, or a case of mistaken identity. Someone arranged a hit on Gabe, and they’re trying to set me up to take the fall. And if he did take out the policy, then there’s every chance he did so because he saw them coming.”
For a long moment Cole simply stared at me as if he had no idea what to do or say. Then something seemed to snap into place inside him, and I saw him visibly click into a different gear—adrenaline-fueled problem solver, so similar to Gabe that it made my heart hurt.
