Chapter 19: The Night Before

Rowan's POV

At midnight on the thirteenth of December I was still at the studio laptop, putting the last frame into the slideshow.

It was a photograph of Marianne's check number 4417, lying beside a laboratory vial.

Brooke's statement sat in the folder beside it.

It was six minutes of her at Fran's kitchen table, filmed on Sunday with her hands flat on the cloth.

She had said every word in it herself.

Rupert's grandfather's boy at the projector had texted me twice to ask if I was sure.

I wasn't sure of anything except the order of the slides.

The back stairs creaked.

Leah came into the studio in my flannel shirt and a pair of thick socks, with her hair down.

She was eighteen weeks along, and the curve under the flannel had stopped being something you could miss.

"You said you'd be up in an hour," she said. "That was three hours ago."

"I'm nearly done."

"You've been nearly done since dinner."

She walked around the counter and stood behind my stool.

Her arms came around my neck, and I felt her chin settle on top of my head.

I saved the file.

I shut the laptop.

"Tomorrow," I said.

"Don't." Her mouth moved against my hair. "Not tonight. Tonight there's no Marianne in this building."

I turned on the stool.

Her face was flushed, her eyes bright and a little unsteady.

I had learned in six weeks that she looked like that when she'd decided something.

"The backdrop," she said.

"What?"

"The long white paper, on the roll. Do you shoot people against it?"

"All the time."

"Brooke stood on a roll like that, in the cream gown." She tilted her head. "I want to be on it with you, with the lamps off and the door locked."

"I want something that happens in this room to be mine."

I stood up.

I locked the front door.

I switched off the lamps one by one, until only the safety light over the stairs was left.