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AFTER
By the time the train draws into Edinburgh, Hannah has almost convinced herself that Hugh is wrong. Or perhaps she misunderstood him.
It’s not possible that Will was in college that night. To begin with, he would have been spotted. The side gates closed at 9:00 p.m., and the main gate was shut at 11:00, so he would have had to knock and be admitted by a porter. And okay, yes, he could have climbed the wall, just as she did so many years ago, but it would have been child’s play for the police to break an alibi resting on such a fragile lie.
And second, second, she just can’t believe that he could have kept something like this secret for over ten years. Not just from the police but from his family, from the college, from her.
Someone would have seen him, at breakfast when he was supposed to be in Somerset. On the train when he was supposed to be at home.
Maybe someone did see him, a little voice whispers in her head. Or heard him, at least. Maybe that someone was Hugh.
No, it’s not possible. It’s not possible.
But then she thinks of Will. Of his voice on the phone yesterday, uncertain, hesitant, as if trying to convince himself. I’m sure you’re right. If he’s got an alibi, he’s got an alibi.
He was talking about Myers, about the police assumption that the conference put him out of the picture. But now Hannah can’t help but wonder what that long pause really meant. Was he trying to find a way to tell her something that he has never been able to confess?
She remembers his endless, halting Typing… Typing… on WhatsApp last night. Was this what Will was trying and failing to find a way to tell her?
She is still turning the matter over and over in her head as the doors open and passengers begin to spill out onto the platform. She’s so wrapped up in her thoughts as she exits the barrier and begins dragging her case towards the ramp that she doesn’t even hear the voice calling her name at first.
“Hannah… Hannah!”
Somehow that last one gets through and she stops, looking around to see if it’s directed at her, or just someone calling their kid—though the voice is familiar. It sounds like—but no. That’s not possible. It sounds like—
She turns. They come face-to-face, almost slamming into each other, and he steadies her with his hands.
“Will!”
“Surprise!” he says, beaming. “Thought I’d pick you up. Though bloody hell, you’re a hard woman to stop. You were charging up that ramp like a cricketer going in to bowl. Didn’t you hear me bellowing?”
“I’m sorry—” She feels winded, as if they really had collided. “I didn’t—I was thinking about something—I—It’s nice to see you!”
Nice to see you? She feels like kicking herself. Nice to see you is what you say to a colleague you bump into at an art gallery, not your husband after a trip away.
“I missed you,” Will says, and he bends and kisses her, his stubble prickling her lips. Hannah feels something twist inside her—not just the baby, but something else, a confusing, contradictory maelstrom of emotions. She wants to return Will’s kiss, burrow into his arms—and she wants to pull away until she figures out how she feels about all this. How can both be true? How can she both love this man and be seriously considering that he may have been lying to her for ten years?
She should trust him. He’s her husband.
She does trust him.
So why isn’t she telling him about the bay window and the drainpipe?
Meanwhile, Will is talking—asking about her trip, asking about Emily, November, Dr. Myers.
“Sounds like it was something you needed to do for your own peace of mind, but it’s all wrapped up now?” he’s saying, and her voice is saying Yes, while her mind is screaming Why are you so keen for me to put a lid on this? Is it because you’re afraid of what I might find?
“You’re very quiet,” he says at last, as she fails to reply to yet another remark. “Are you okay?”
“I’m sorry.” Hannah passes a hand over her forehead. “I—I—yes, I’m fine. I’m just really tired. I don’t know what it is, I feel like I’ve been hit by a truck the last few days.”
“Well, you’re, what, nearly twenty-five weeks?” Will says. He kisses the top of her head affectionately. “Six months. Nearly third trimester!”
“Third trimester.” Hannah weighs the words in her mouth, momentarily diverted from her round-and-round about April, into a realization that Will’s right. “Third trimester, bloody hell. We’re nearly there, Will.”
“We nearly are.” He beams down at her, and as he does, the baby gives a great kick, the strongest she’s felt yet, so hard that she stops in her tracks. “What is it? Did you forget something?”
“No, the baby—” She puts her hand to the side of the bump, and to her astonishment, there it is. A long, distinct push against her palm, for all the world as if the baby is trying to force its way out through her skin, like the scene from Alien. “Oh my God, Will, quick.”
