Poor Jenny – I only have to face this crap about once a year. But she has to deal with Joan every few weeks, and her mother every few days. He admired Jenny’s stoicism. She took Joan’s unrelenting bitterness and put her faith in karma balancing the scales. Jenny would say, ‘Look at Joan’s husband. He’s gone. Look at her messed-up kids. They’re all medicated or hate her. That’s karma.’ But Shane didn’t believe that. Karma was just a lie that people told themselves, so they didn’t have to force themselves to fight back. You have to be the agent of karma if you want it to take someone down.

  And how he wanted to take down Joan and Vera.

  Shane said, ‘Look, I didn’t know we were going to do the whole hostile thing today. See, I assumed you’d back off for longer than usual, given that I was nearly killed, and our house was broken into. So, can’t we just skip it?’

  Joan lifted her shades. Sharp eyes stared back – as brown and clear as Jenny’s – conveying that she was impatient and annoyed at having been forced to listen to this inane weather report from another person’s life. ‘God, I don’t know why I’m saying this… But you have no idea who or what Jennifer is.’

  Incredibly, Shane found himself inching towards her. ‘Go on.’

  Joan patted his hand, as if regretting having to tell a child these terrible things. ‘Let me spell it out. Your precious wife has kept big secrets from you. No one knows but Jennifer, Mom and I – her family. Of course, we’d assumed that you knew. But… she never told you.’ Joan looked straight at him, a hard stare that she cut off after a few seconds. Then she lowered her voice and asked, ‘Are you positive that you don’t want to sit?’

  Suddenly there was a noise from the hallway. Keys in the door. For a peculiar moment Shane felt like he was about to be caught in flagrante delicto by his wife with her sister.

  He muttered, ‘She’s home.’

  The study door opened, and Jenny entered, beaming. For a few shocked moments, her smile struggled to stay lit like a fading coal. Withdrawing a tissue from her pocket, she balled it in her fist like a stress ball; offended, angry. She then blinked three times, seemingly making a wish for her sister to disappear.

  It didn’t work.

  The two Donaldsons faced each other, and they stared like fighting dogs across a pit. Shane’s gaze moved between them, and he reminded himself to be very, very careful.

  Joan cleared her voice ‘As I was saying, Shane, there’s something you should know about my little sister.’

  Shane folded his arms, feeling an odd sense of unease. He was aware that in the future he would remember this moment forever, because of what was about to happen.

  16

  3.35 pm: When Jenny closed the front door, she’d wondered if that was her sister’s voice. But it couldn’t be. She didn’t want Joan calling in. The voices turned to whispers. She didn’t want Joan in her house. She opened the study door. Joan was in her house.

  Now, Jenny took a moment to soak Joan up. Joan wasn’t the most capable or most personable of Vera’s children, but from her earliest years she’d taken the crucial slot in the Donaldson house as the thinnest. It was something she knew her mother would always appreciate. To achieve that goal, she gave herself an eating disorder that, of course, no one in the family ever directly commented on. No doubt, the disorder also gave her a sense of control – which was important, considering she’d handed over all other control of her life to her mother. Jenny remembered her sister going to the bathroom before the conclusion of every meal and then returning to the table, where the only comment would be the occasional, ‘You shouldn’t eat so fast,’ from someone. Joan always had gum on her.

  Joan nodded as if Jenny was a barely remembered bore whom she was surprised to find standing at the edge of her party.

  Jenny asked, ‘Why are you here?’ Light reflected off a spectacular diamond on her sister’s finger. How many fucking carats is that thing? ‘Actually, scrap that. I don’t care. Just get out. How could you come here on the day my husband gets out of hospital after nearly being killed and… and… our home being burgled?’

  Joan sucked in her lip to let Jenny know two things: one, that she was trying to exhibit appropriate sympathy and two, that she was obviously faking it. Then she said, ‘Oh God, just how much do you expect to milk from your little adventure?’

  Jenny took a hesitant step towards her sister. ‘Wow – it must’ve killed you to know that we were being talked about on the news and written about in the papers all weekend. It would’ve reminded you that I’m the only one in our family, besides Dad, that actually did something constructive with their life. I mean… with the opportunities that were handed to you on a plate – money, prestige, contacts – you still managed to end up as this sad fucking wreck of humanity that stands before me. But at least you’re sober and managing to keep your voice down. Baby steps, Joan, yeah?’

  Joan’s small ears had turned red, like angry embryos. Speaking with the gritted tone of a person who believed she had a great deal of patience, she asked, ‘And what achievements of yours are we talking about? As far as I’m aware, you designed a very singular department for LaLucia? But listening to you on the radio, you’d swear you’d got yourself a seat on the bloody board. And as for your social media feeds – well, I’m sure when you read your own Facebook page, you actually wish you were that person.’

  ‘So, you did listen to me on the radio, and you do snoop on my social media. Brilliant. Thanks. You’re even more wretched than I thought possible. Now, for the last time, get out of my house.’ Jenny didn’t even want to share her air.

  Joan didn’t move. ‘I suppose we all pay for Jenny’s sins.’ Then, bringing some subterranean string of thoughts close to the surface, she looked at Shane and said, ‘Even you must realise that by now?’ However, with a flick of her hair, she malleted that bud of revelation back to where it had come from.

  Shane prompted Joan. ‘You have something to tell me that’s so shocking I need to be seated? I’ll stand, thank you.’

  Jenny shuddered as another life closed in on her.

  Joan smiled. ‘Oh yes. That. I almost forgot. Jennifer, don’t you think it’s about time Shane knew the truth?’

  ‘Get out.’ It wasn’t a scream. It was the cold, over-enunciated command one gave to automated phone systems.

  ‘He is your husband. Almost your childhood sweetheart. If you’re both so in love, surely you share everything? Are you going to tell him, or shall I?’

  All the nerves in Jenny’s body became eyes – reading the situation, moment by moment. It was as if her sister was talking about another woman, someone who had died a long time ago in another place, far across the ocean. The problem being that this dead woman’s problems were still hanging around – as if they hadn’t buried her deep enough.

  Jabbing her father’s corkscrew into the lid of a Cabernet Sauvignon on the drinks cabinet, she expertly worked the cork free. Then, sloshing some – and a bit more – into a balloon glass, she raised it to her lips, taking just enough time to signal her complete lack of interest in what Joan had said.

  Baring her teeth as the wine hit the back of her throat, Jenny thought, some people are just bad. Everything they want to do is bad. If it didn’t start bad with them, they’ll turn it bad. People like Joan are polluted, their depths contaminated.

  Jenny flung the glass at her sister.

  It was the first time she’d ever done anything like that. Joan was too shocked to either duck or jump to the side. The glass flew by her head and exploded against the library wall behind Shane. Most of the wine dashed to the wooden floor, splashing up against Joan’s shoes and trousers. Some drops landed on Shane’s desk and the rest dribbled down the spines of several hardbacks. For Jenny, her rage felt righteous and strong, as if all her misery had been transformed into a powerful currency.

  Shane raised one arm, exposing a sweat patch the size of a dinner plate, and pointed his palm at Jenny, conveying, ENOUGH!

  Joan looked down to her feet, almost embarrassed, the way someone would if an elderly relative were causing a scene. She removed a tissue from her trouser pocket and wiped each of her shoes clean of spattered wine, then dropped the tissue into the wastepaper bin.

  Calmly, Jenny said, ‘I won’t miss with the bottle.’

  Joan swallowed and then cleared her voice. ‘I came here to see you, actually. Mom has been calling you all morning and—’

  ‘Mum didn’t call. But she did text. Once.’ It never even occurred to Jenny to ask her sister what Vera wanted. If she’d sent Joan, then either Joan didn’t know or she’d never tell. Triangulation – that was how her family communicated. Instead of talking to each other directly about important topics, everything had to go through a third party – and that party must always be Vera. It meant that their mother was the family interpreter.

  Joan said, ‘Call. Text. Whatever. Mom wants to talk to you. She needs to. It’s important. She sent me here to make sure you—’

  ‘Message received. Get out.’

  ‘I try and I try, and it always ends like this. I just want to… Oh, fuck you, Jennifer. Fuck. You.’ The expletives carried the added weight of those uttered by people who rarely curse.

  As Joan’s heels clicked through the hall, Jenny unreasonably felt that somehow the bearded stranger back at LaLucia was the physical manifestation of all the nefarious elements that had invaded her life, to such a degree that they did not even feel her thumb on the scale.

  The front door opened and then slammed. Jenny exhaled. Joan was gone. Disaster averted. For now. Jenny lived a charmed life, and she wasn’t going to apologise for it.

  ‘What’s going on?’ Shane’s voice was low, his tone solemn.

  She stood there, looking at him, admiring how her husband had the vigour of a young man and yet the cunning of an older man. It made it hard to imagine him ever being vulnerable. Suddenly, she realised that she was waiting for Shane to take over, to make it all better. In the past she’d always been able to go straight to Shane and tell him about whatever was worrying her – whether it was work or family – and she would immediately relax, knowing that she had a real friend; someone who unquestionably would jump into that dog pit with her and who was cheering her on as she tried to clamber out of it. But now, for the first time in their marriage, she was alone with these problems. She was the only one who could fix this.

  Jenny knew that twenty-five years ago, Shane had fallen for her because she was naïve and even ignorant and that meant that he’d been able to look after her and teach her – and that had made him feel like a man. She was no longer that person, but Shane was still playing the same role – and she still loved him and never wanted him to change. Jenny just had to make sure that he didn’t notice who she now was. More importantly, she had to make sure that he never found out what her sister was talking about. The only way to do that was to give him something else; something lesser – to sacrifice a different secret.

  In other words, to get out of this mess, things would first have to get worse.

  ‘Shane,’ she said. ‘I’ve done something awful.’

  17

  3.45 pm: Rounding the desk to his black leather executive chair, Shane’s phone, next to the laptop, buzzed the arrival of a text. He glanced down. Unknown number. Again?

  IT’S TOO LATE. YOU’RE IN IT NOW. THERE’S NO WAY OUT.

  ‘Just a minute,’ he muttered and tapped out, WHO IS THIS.

  Shane looked across the desk to his wife, who was still standing in the middle of the room, holding the broken stem of the wine glass. He was not going to add to her worries by telling her about the note that had accompanied the flowers and the bearded stranger he’d spotted outside the house and then, of course, these stupid anonymous texts that may imply that he was being watched. Besides, he didn’t need the possibility that, like Detective Murray, she would continue to doubt him.

  A second text arrived.

  YOU WON’T BE LIKE YOU WERE BEFORE EVER AGAIN.

  Looking out of the window he wondered, who was this great and all-powerful Oz that was watching him? Shane turned from the view, put away his phone and sat into his chair. He warned himself: No one’s spying on you. It’s a coincidence. Paranoia is just another term for being afraid. Get your shit together. Folding his hands behind his head, he watched Jenny as if she were his habit, his due; and he did one of those things he was very good at – he listened.

  Jenny began to speak from the middle of the room. A few minutes later, she was still talking while seated in the two-seater sofa opposite Shane’s desk. Despite the preposterousness of what he was hearing, he remained calm. It was as if he was watching the secret life of his wife being revealed, like trouser pockets being pulled inside out.

  When Jenny was finished, Shane greeted this new information with a long, long silence. It was as if he was still listening to what he’d just heard. Incredibly, the secret that Joan had spoken of was no longer the primary focus of his mind. Instead, something much more important now occupied it. Shane stood and went to the drinks cabinet. Twisting open the lid to a Jameson, he poured a glass and swallowed it in one gulp.

  Then he poured himself another.

  He’d survived a burglar trying to kill him. He’d watched that burglar die right before his face. There was the possibility that there was another man out there wanting revenge; a possibility that no one but he deemed imaginable. There were even threatening texts from someone who seemed to know his every move. Now, inconceivably, there was this betrayal. He hadn’t thought it possible to squeeze more bad luck into seventy-two hours.

  Jenny said, ‘I feel terrible. I didn’t want to hurt you.’

  He gave her a wintry smile. ‘You want me to feel sorry for you? Really?’

  Jenny went to reply but no sound emerged. Sad and defeated, she was like an adolescent who had let her house get trashed while her parents had been away.

  ‘So, despite our agreement; despite it not being your money; despite most of it being mine… you, behind my back, and against my expressed wishes… you’ve given it to Otto?’

  ‘I invested it with Otto.’

  ‘You gave that asshole all our savings when, after weeks of talking about it, arguing about it, fighting about it and making up after it, we decided that we weren’t going to do it?’

  ‘I’m just sick of everything in our future being about mortgages for a tiny apartment, and moving costs and decorating expenses and what we can or can’t afford.’

  ‘It’s called real life,’ Shane snapped. Sometimes it felt like he was married to a spoilt child who wanted to be ultra-happy all the time; a child who didn’t understand that you can’t even be normal-happy all the time.

  ‘Look, it was—’

  ‘You don’t get to talk anymore.’

  Jenny made a steeple of her hands that half concealed her face. Shane couldn’t read her expression and he assumed that was the point. His wife was betting their savings on a dream. The dream being that Otto, via alchemy, would transform their four hundred thousand into over one million euros within twelve months. And all because Jenny wanted to anonymously purchase Clareville from Vera. Once the deposit was paid, Otto would again appear to heroically secure the mortgage by guaranteeing it against her future options and dividends from his investment portfolio. It was reckless and it was naïve.

  ‘Jenny, all our savings would have to be in it, so it’s a stupid investment. And we agreed – we’re not stupid. But look what you just did. Behind my back. I mean – what the fuck?’

  ‘But we’ll get every cent back in twelve months. And then some. In fact, we’ll be… if not very rich, then very comfortable.’

  ‘Jenny, you invest what you can afford to lose, and we can’t afford to lose anything. You know this. Therefore, it’s not an investment. It’s a gamble. It’s gambling everything.’

  ‘We’re not going to lose, Shane. Trust me. Trust Otto. We’re not both wrong.’

  Shane gave a tight smile, a passive aggressive way of communicating that he didn’t care what Otto thought. ‘We work hard at our careers. So what if people like Otto think making a ‘decent living’ is akin to having some kind of embarrassing disability? Working hard brings rewards.’

  ‘Hard work – that’s your plan?’ Jenny stared at Shane as if he’d just pissed on the floor. She stood from the two-seater to emphasise the importance of what she was about to say. ‘Hard work hasn’t made you rich. It hasn’t made anyone rich. Hard work makes people ill.’

  ‘Jenny, Otto doesn’t need our money. In his world, a million doesn’t mean anything. What you want to put into it, wouldn’t even register as a decimal error in what those guys are pumping in. People like you and me with our type of money – they consider us less than roadkill. And Otto doesn’t give a damn about your obsession with this house either. So, tell me, why is he pushing you so hard on this investment? Huh? Why?’

  Jenny replied in a staccato manner – like she was stabbing words with a pitchfork. ‘Because – he’s trying to give us free fucking money.’

  ‘And if I believed that then, again, the first thing I would ask myself, is, why? Jenny, when someone goes out of their way for you, there’s always an angle.’

  She folded her arms. ‘I’m having difficulty understanding why anyone would want less when they could have more. I mean, it’s not as if you struggle just to walk around without smashing your head into walls. In other words, Shane, you are not a fucking moron. Jesus, this isn’t twenty-five years ago. Do you want to regret this for the rest of your life, too?’

  ‘Think carefully about what you’re going to say next, Jenny.’

  ‘Remember who I am, Shane. I know exactly what you did way back then. I was there when you did it. And Otto was there as well. So, obviously, he also knows your story. All of it. Including the parts you’d like to forget ever happened.’