Read Online Never Coming Back by Tim Weaver - Free Book Online Page B

searching his in-tray for a checklist he’d printed out that morning. “I hope you’ll both keep me up to date with how it’s going once you get back.”
    â€œWe definitely will,” Carrie said.
    â€œWhen do you go?”
    â€œThursday.”
    â€œTwo more days to get a killer suntan, then.”
    The women laughed.
    â€œSorry about this,” Schiltz said, pulling the in-tray toward him. “I printed out some things I need to go through before I can give you the final sign-off, and now it’s gone missing.” He moved from tier to tier, unable to find it. “Old age never comes gracefully.”
    â€œCan we help?” Carrie asked.
    â€œNo, it’s fine. I obviously went and left it somewhere this morning.” He got up. “You two make yourselves at home. If I don’t return in five minutes, send a search party.”
    He headed out into the living room, looking for the paperwork, checking drawers and cabinets, before moving to the kitchen. There was nothing in either room. He circled the decking area, even though he knew he hadn’t been out to the pool that morning, then came back inside and headed upstairs. He didn’t remember taking the checklist up to his room, but inside a couple of seconds he found it there, perched on his bedside cabinet.
    â€œOld age really doesn’t come gracefully,” he said quietly.
    Scooping up the form, he returned to the study.
    As he entered, Annabel was in a standing position again, hands gripping the back of the chair, gently lifting her legs, one after the other, like a ballet dancer. Carrie had moved too: she was behind her daughter, standing at a cabinet in the corner, where eight photographs—all in frames, each frame different—were lined up on top. She had her back to Schiltz and was leaning toward one of the photos, phone in her hand at her side.
    â€œI think I’m getting the hang of this,” Annabel said.
    He smiled. “You’ll be a ballerina before you know it.”
    Carrie turned, surprise in her face, as if she hadn’t realized Schiltz was back. But there was something else too. Something he couldn’t put his finger on. Was it guilt? His eyes drifted to the photos. There was nothing worth seeing: just pictures offriends and family, taken over the course of Schiltz’s sixty-six years. He dropped the form on to the desk and moved across to where she was standing. She slipped her phone into her pocket and smiled warmly at him, and he started to wonder if he had read too much into her look.
    He took in the nearest photo: the eightieth anniversary of the golf club, him at the front with the runners-up trophy he’d won that day. He liked that photo. He looked good in it: slim and lean, not too gray, tailored suit jacket and a blue open-neck shirt.
    â€œAre you jealous of my runners-up trophy?” he joked.
    Carrie looked embarrassed now. “Sorry. I was being nosy.”
    â€œIt’s fine. Be as nosy as you like.”
    She nodded, her eyes returning to the photos. He watched her for a moment and saw her attention fall on a picture right at the back. “When was this taken?” she asked.
    He reached for the photograph she was referring to and brought it toward them. The picture must have been over forty years old. Schiltz couldn’t remember the last time he’d looked at it.
    â€œGoodness,” he said. “I’d forgotten this was even here.”
    â€œI like your fashion.”
    He smiled. “Pretty dashing, eh? I guess this must be the early 1970s.”
    â€œYou were all friends?”
    Schiltz looked at the three men in the picture, their arms linked around each other’s shoulders. Schiltz was one of them, standing to the left. The picture had faded over time, become a little discolored and frayed at the edges, but the frame—and the photo’s position away from the window—had helped to disguise the damage.