The Millionaire's Wife Page 12

  I remain seated and let my husband dry and bandage my foot.

  ‘I forgot to get your whisky,’ I murmur.

  ‘Let me finish this, then we can both get dry and have a drink, yeah?’

  ‘Thanks.’

  He smiles up at me, rainwater dripping from his hair onto my jeans.

  ‘I wonder how much garden we lost,’ I say, picturing that holly bush tilting and sliding away.

  ‘Not too much, I hope. It’s all the rain we’ve been having. Plus my great clod-hoppers trampling near the edge. I’m so stupid. I should’ve listened to you, Anna.’

  ‘At least you’re safe. That’s the main thing.’

  ‘We’ll have to get someone to come and take a look at the cliffside. It might need serious work to shore it up.’ He looks up at me. ‘There, all done. Does it hurt?’

  ‘No, it’s fine. Thanks, Dr Blackwell.’

  ‘Now, I’ll dry off the little hooligan who started all this.’ Will straightens up and walks over to the cupboard where we keep Bo’s stuff. He takes out a towel and scoops Bo up in it, rubbing at his fur. Bo squirms and growls, thinking it’s a game, biting at the edges of the towel. After a minute or so, Will deposits him into his furry bed, and he flops down with a contented sigh, his nose buried under his tail.

  ‘I think we need to dry off, too,’ I say with a shiver, sliding off the stool and testing my weight on my injured foot. To my relief, it feels fine, just a little sore.

  ‘That was weird, though, wasn’t it?’ Will says, staring out of the kitchen window. ‘That hole in the fence – I’ve never noticed it before. And that meat on the cliff edge . . . What the hell was that doing there?’

  This is the moment to tell Will what’s really going on, but I’m too shaken up to know where to start, I need some time alone to think about how to broach it. I don’t want it to come out the wrong way. ‘We’ve never had a tiny puppy before,’ I say. ‘I guess a hole in the fence isn’t something we’d necessarily pay attention to if we didn’t need to.’

  ‘I suppose.’ He turns back to look at me, his expression thoughtful. ‘But it’s still a bit odd, don’t you think?’

  I shrug, faking nonchalance. ‘We’ll have to get a new fence panel.’

  ‘Yeah, looks like we’ll have to take a trip to a garden centre.’ Will says raising his eyebrows and smirking.

  ‘Ha ha,’ I reply. But inside, my gut clenches and my throat tightens. Was Fin out there earlier, watching us? Is he out there now? Dark spots appear at the edge of my vision. I lean on the island and breathe in slowly. And out again. In. And out. My perfect life is being taken apart. Soon it will be completely destroyed . . . if I don’t do something to stop it. To stop him.

  Chapter Eighteen

  ‘Anna. Anna!’

  ‘Huh?’ His sharp tone jolts me out of my mini-panic attack.

  ‘I think Bo’s about to throw up!’ Will strides across the kitchen to where Bo’s body is heaving, his head thrusting forward as he retches and gulps.

  I grab the weekend newspapers off the coffee table just in time to shove them in front of Bo as he pukes all over the sports section. Chunks of undigested chicken breast, raw meat, froth and blood soak into the newsprint.

  ‘There’s blood!’ I cry.

  ‘It’s probably just blood from the raw meat he ate.’

  ‘But what if it’s not? What if it’s his own blood?’

  ‘No-o,’ Will says, bending down to soothe and stroke Bo as he continues retching. ‘Do you think it might be? Do you think he’s going to be okay?’

  ‘He doesn’t look okay,’ I say. Would Fin really do something so evil? ‘Will . . . that meat . . . I think he might have been poisoned.’ Bo is panting and heaving again. ‘We need to get him to the vet’s.’

  ‘Yeah,’ he stares up at me, still stroking Bo. ‘Okay. You’re right. You call them while I clean him up.’

  We’ve already registered him with a local veterinary clinic, so I grab my phone and call the number.

  ‘Vet’s on the Corner, can I help you?’ The receptionist’s voice over the phone is calm and efficient.

  ‘Our puppy’s only four months old and he’s vomiting blood and panting,’ I say, my voice breathless and wobbly.

  ‘Are you registered with us?’

  ‘Yes. Our dog’s called Bo. Bo Blackwell.’

  ‘Bring him in now,’ she says, still calm, still efficient. ‘Mark will see him straightaway.’

  ‘Thank you so much.’ I give Will a nod and we pull dry coats over our soaking wet clothes, slip on our shoes and leave the house, oblivious to the wind and torrential rain. ‘You drive the Land Rover,’ I say to Will. ‘I’ll take Bo.’

  Once we’re in, Will pulls out of the driveway. Bo is lying on my lap, panting, his eyes half-closed.

  ‘Hurry, Will. He’s in a really bad way.’ I stroke his tiny, damp body, praying the vet will be able to do something. ‘It’s okay, little one. It’s okay,’ I croon. ‘You’ll be fine.’ But I’m not at all sure that he will be.

  Will screeches into the vet’s car park, parking across three spaces, and now we’re walking as fast as we can into the practice, crossing the waiting room to the curved reception area.

  ‘Bo Blackwell,’ Will says to the receptionist in a loud voice. ‘We just called.’

  She nods and picks up the phone. ‘The Blackwell puppy’s here.’ She replaces the phone and gives us a sympathetic smile. ‘Mark’s coming.’

  We turn towards the door on our right, not bothering to sit down. Seconds later, the door swings open and a thirty-ish-year-old man in a white coat pops his head through the door, sees us standing there and beckons us to follow him.

  ‘Bo?’ he asks, as we walk down a corridor which smells of fur and antiseptic.

  ‘Yes,’ Will replies. ‘He’s been throwing up blood.’

  ‘But now he’s gone really still,’ I add, my voice wobbling.

  We follow the vet through to a small room with a high steel counter. I relinquish Bo, laying him carefully on the counter. He is barely moving; his eyes are half-lidded.

  The vet takes his stethoscope and places it on Bo’s chest. I hold my breath. Will takes my hand and squeezes.

  ‘Is he going to be okay?’ Will asks. ‘He ate some raw meat that he found outside. He was fine one minute, and then suddenly he threw up, and then he just lay there panting.’

  The vet holds up a finger to tell us to give him a minute. Unsmiling, he removes his stethoscope, letting it hang around his neck, then he rests his hand lightly on Bo’s ribs. Next, he places two fingers on the inside of Bo’s back thigh. Finally, after what seems like an age of waiting, he looks up at us. ‘I’m sorry,’ he says. ‘I’m afraid the little fella didn’t make it.’

  Neither Will nor I speak. We just stare from Bo to the vet. I’m not sure I heard him correctly.

  ‘Didn’t make it?’ Will says. ‘You mean . . .’

  ‘I’m afraid he’s gone,’ the vet says.

  I gaze at the inert little body on the counter top, unable to form a response. I place a hand on Bo’s side. ‘He’s still warm,’ I say. ‘Maybe you could . . .’ I trail off, realising it’s useless.

  ‘I’m really sorry,’ the vet says. ‘There’s nothing I can do for him now.’

  How can this have happened? I think of the joy we’ve had with him over the past few weeks. How he’s already become such a huge part of our family. How our home will feel so empty without him.

  ‘If we’d got here sooner . . .’ Will says, his voice breaking.

  ‘I’m not sure it would have made a difference,’ the vet replies. ‘Sounds like it all happened very quickly. And he was still so young, not strong enough to cope with such a strain on his system. I really am so terribly sorry.’

  Will goes on to explain the sequence of events to the vet, but I can’t latch onto his words. I’m staring at Bo, stroking his damp fur which has gone even curlier since he was out in the rain. I had already grown used to the fact that he
would be a part of our lives for the next ten to fifteen years. It doesn’t seem real. How can this little creature that had so much charisma and so much energy be lying here so still, so devoid of life?

  ‘Can you bring in the rest of the raw meat?’ the vet asks. ‘It sounds suspiciously like it was poisoned, but I’d need to test it to make sure.’

  Will explains about the landslide at the end of the garden, and how the meat has gone down the cliffside along with several feet of our garden.

  ‘Sorry, to hear about that,’ the vet says. ‘You should check that the meat didn’t end up on the promenade below. It could end up poisoning someone else’s dog. If you like, we can do an autopsy. Find out the cause of death that way.’

  ‘Okay,’ Will says, turning to me.

  ‘No,’ I cry. ‘No. Please, let’s just take him home, Will. Bury him in the garden. I don’t think I can stand the thought of him being . . . of . . .’

  ‘I know you’re upset,’ the vet says, ‘but I really do advise getting it done. If someone’s going around poisoning dogs, we need to warn people to be on the lookout.’

  ‘Please, Will,’ I say, taking his hand. I know very well that the poisoned meat was meant for our dog alone, and a burning rage begins to swell in my belly.

  ‘Thank you,’ Will says to the vet. ‘But I think we’re going to take Bo home.’

  ‘Okay.’ The vet nods. ‘Sorry, I wasn’t able to save him.’

  ‘Not your fault,’ Will says. ‘Thanks for seeing us so quickly.’

  ‘Hold on.’ The vet opens a metal cupboard and pulls out a flat piece of cardboard. He swiftly turns it into a small pet carrier. ‘It might be easier to put the little chap in here.’

  ‘Thanks,’ Will says. He turns to me and I nod.

  This is like a waking nightmare, like I’ve entered some alternate reality where nothing is as it should be. I bend down and place a kiss on Bo’s silky head, stroking his warm body one last time. Will does the same before placing him inside the box and carrying him out of the consulting room. He hands his credit card to the receptionist who offers her condolences, and we wait while our payment is processed. I can’t believe Bo has gone.

  My phone buzzes, announcing a text message. I reach into my bag and pull it out. I can already guess who it’s from, dread and anger vie for space in my chest. I stare at the screen with glazed eyes:

  I set it all up for you, and you wasted the opportunity. All you had to do was nudge him over the edge. No more second chances. I’m going to do it myself.

  I can’t put this off any longer. I can’t not act. It’s time to tell Will what’s going on. Fin has killed our dog and Will is next on his list. I toy with the idea of limiting the truth. Of telling Will that Fin is simply a deranged ex-boyfriend trying to split us up. But I can’t do that. My husband deserves to know what he’s up against. I need to tell Will that Fin has killed before. If I am to keep him safe, I must tell him the absolute truth. And I must tell him tonight.

  But what if I lose him?

  What if he stops loving me?

  Chapter Nineteen

  We’re home.

  Will pulls into the driveway and turns off the engine. As dusk blooms around us, we sit in the car next to one another, Bo’s body in the carrier on my lap. I breathe in wafts of his damp fur, but I can’t cry. Not yet.

  ‘We should bury him now,’ Will says. ‘While the ground’s soft.’

  ‘Okay.’ My body is cold, my limbs heavy with sadness, but my brain races with the tasks that lie ahead. First we must bury our dead dog, then I have to tell Will that he could be next. If it wasn’t so bloody terrifying, I would laugh at the absurdity of it all. Am I losing my mind? It certainly feels that way.

  ‘Anna?’ Will is already out of the Land Rover. He’s opened the passenger door and is waiting for me to get out, too. I pass Bo to him and slide out, closing the door behind me. We stare at one another for a moment, our eyes glistening. Will clears his throat and I turn away, head towards the front door and slot my key into the lock. The wooden door is stiff, swollen with rainwater. I give it shove and it finally scrapes open. Bo doesn’t come rushing into the hall to greet us. The house is silent and dim.

  Will heads straight through to the kitchen while I disable the alarm. I straighten up and press my palms against the wall, leaning there for a moment, taking a breath, working out exactly how I should tell my husband about my ex-boyfriend.

  ‘Anna!’ Will calls me from the kitchen. ‘You don’t have to come out with me if you don’t want. Why don’t you go and have a bath?’

  I take a breath and dump my bag on the hall table. ‘No, I’m coming, too,’ I say, walking into the kitchen where Will waits by the back door.

  ‘I thought we could bury him under the Monkey Puzzle tree,’ Will says.

  It’s a good spot, halfway down the garden on the right-hand side. I nod. ‘I’ll get his bed and his toys. He should have them . . . with him.’ My voice breaks, but I press my lips together, trying to cut off my emotions. I need all my strength.

  Will turns on the exterior flood light and opens the door. The wind gusts inwards making me catch my breath and shiver. I gather up Bo’s bed, his tug-of-war rope, squeaky ball and blue, furry rabbit, then I follow Will out into the garden where he’s already standing under the tree, head bowed, spade in hand. It hits me then that Fin could still be out here. I’ve no idea how he managed to get into our garden before, but if he did it once, he could do it again. It’s not safe for Will to be out here. But we have to bury Bo.

  I jog up to the house and lock the back door. Then I head over to the shed and grab myself a spade. With both of us digging, we’ll be quicker.

  Will has already marked out the grave. Bo is tiny, but we’ll still need to dig down deep to make sure he stays safe. The grass is waterlogged, so the earth squelches beneath our spades as we slice through mud, stones and roots. Before long, I’m sweating, the tingle of new blisters on my fingers. Bo’s carrier squats beside us, a dark, sad shape on the lawn. Soon, the hole is too deep to bend into so Will lowers himself into the ground and continues digging from below. I stand aside to avoid being splattered with even more mud, casting my eyes around the floodlit garden, the scent of wet earth in my nostrils. But there is nothing to be seen or heard apart from the hiss of the wind and the crash of the waves beyond.

  Before long, Will hoists himself out of the grave, wiping his brow with a mud-smeared arm, but only succeeding in spreading more of the stuff across his face.

  I squeeze his arm.

  ‘Shall we . . .’ He points to Bo’s carrier.

  I nod. Will bends to open it, but I pull him back. ‘I’ll get him.’

  Will stands aside and leans on his spade while I crouch down and open the soggy cardboard flaps at the top. I lift Bo out and give a sob as I feel the little guy in my arms, his body already stiffening as rigor mortis sets in. Again, I wonder how this energetic bundle of life can be gone.

  Will takes him from me and lays him in his bed. Suddenly, we’re hugging and crying.

  ‘Who would have done this?’ Will says, anger twisting his voice. ‘It can’t have been deliberate, can it?’

  ‘Let’s bury him first,’ I say, giving myself a shake. ‘Then we’ll talk about it.’

  ‘Okay.’ Will sniffs.

  We rise to our feet, holding Bo between us. ‘Hang on,’ I say, while I reach down to gather up his toys and place them in his bed with him.

  Will finally lowers him into the ground. Neither of us wants to be the first to shovel the earth over him, but somehow we do it. And, just like that, it’s done. I’m not sure which is worse – burying our puppy, or the thought of what must come next.

  ~

  Will has fired up the log burner in the lounge. We’ve showered and changed and I’ve poured us each a glass of wine. My body has warmed up, but a coldness has settled inside me, a dark chill spreading outwards.

  ‘To Bo,’ Will says, raising his glass.

  ‘To Bo
,’ I murmur, hardly able to get the words out. My throat is tight, my chest constricted. I sit next to Will on the sofa watching the yellow flames dance inside the burner.

  ‘Maybe we should have let the vet do an autopsy,’ Will says. ‘Now we’ll never know what really happened to him.’

  ‘Will,’ I say. ‘I know what happened to him.’ I gaze across at my husband to register his expression. But he just gives me a sad smile.

  ‘He might not have been poisoned,’ Will says. ‘It might have been something–’

  ‘No.’ I cut him off. ‘I mean I actually know what happened . . .’ My heart begins beating inside my ears and I’m trying desperately not to cry. I have to get this out. He has to know what’s going on.

  ‘Anna, what is it?’

  ‘You know I had a boyfriend at school – Fin.’

  ‘Yeah. You told me about him when we first started going out. A surfer, right?’

  I nod.

  Will is frowning now, staring hard at me. I’ve started this, so I must push on and tell him the rest. ‘The thing is, Will . . .’

  ‘You don’t still love him, do you?’

  ‘God, no!’ I say. ‘Absolutely not.’

  ‘Okay.’ Will exhales. ‘I thought, for a minute you were going to say . . .’ He takes my hand and kisses my knuckles.

  ‘It’s nothing like that,’ I say, wondering if he’ll think what I’m about to tell him is better or worse than what he thought. ‘Just please let me finish explaining.’

  ‘Of course.’ He lowers my hand back onto my lap and takes another sip of his wine. I take a large gulp of mine. The wood burner roars and my cheeks grow hotter with every passing second. I place my glass on the arm of the sofa and shift my position.

  ‘Fin has issues,’ I say. ‘Serious issues. The reason we broke up is because he was becoming delusional, bordering on insane. When we were together we were dirt poor. We lived in his dad’s shed. It was a pretty desperate situation.’ I glance up at Will and he’s looking at me, nodding, sympathetic. I swallow and continue. ‘Fin used to come up with these mad ideas for us to make some money. I always thought he was joking. But towards the end of our relationship, I realised these ideas of his, they weren’t jokes. They weren’t hypothetical. They were real plans that he wanted us to go through with.’