Page 158 of Pull Me Under

He never knew she tried to reach him.

He never knew he had a daughter.

He died thinking she didn’t love him. And the proof that she did was sitting in an empty cottage, waiting for someone to open the door.

I fold the letter carefully. Slide it back into its envelope.

Helen’s address is at the bottom. Bristol.

She’s still there, probably. Still waiting. Still hoping someone will come.

I could go.

The thought surfaces before I can stop it. I could get in the car tomorrow and drive to Bristol and knock on her door and say, I’m Gareth’s daughter. I found your letters. I’m so sorry it took this long.

I could meet Lily. This sister I never knew I had.

I don’t know.

But sitting here in the dark, surrounded by secrets and silence, I know one thing for certain.

I have to do something. Not just for me, and not just for Jude, who may always resent me now he knows the truth about my dad and his mum.

I’d do it for the tragedy of everyone involved and for the little girl who never knew her dad.

Whether I’m talking about myself or Lily, I no longer know.

Chapter Thirty

JUDE

I’ve memorised the pattern on the ceiling tiles.

Seventeen holes across. Twenty-three down. Three hundred and ninety-one holes per tile, give or take the ones obscured by the light fitting. I’ve counted them three times now. Got the same number twice.

It’s something to do. Something that isn’t thinking.

Dad’s been asleep for hours. Or pretending to be. Hard to tell with him – he’s always been good at shutting people out, and what better way than unconsciousness? The doctors come and go, check his charts, adjust his drips, speak to me in calm, measured tones about recovery and prognosis and lifestyle changes going forward.

I nod. Say the right things. Don’t process any of it.

The chair has moulded itself to my body. Or maybe my body has moulded itself to the chair. Either way, we’ve become one entity – me and this plastic seat and the view of my father’s slack face and the smell of antiseptic and recycled air.

I should eat. Should shower. Should change out of these clothes that still smell like salt water and fish guts and the worst morning of my life.

I don’t move.

I told the boys you didn’t want them.

The words keep circling. Vultures over carrion.

The letters. I burned them. Every one.

Twenty years.

And it was a lie.

She wrote to us. She tried. And he burned the evidence, one letter at a time, until there was nothing left but ash and silence.