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Authors: Emily Winslow
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mean?”
“What?”
“How is uni difficult?” I tilted my head up to look right at him. I didn’t blink.
“It’s just—” He opened and closed his hands. “Work. It’s hard.”
“Oh.” I looked at my thin slippers and he ducked his head to catch my eyes.
“Was that the wrong answer?” He tried out a smile.
“I’m at the Open University. I might apply elsewhere. Maybe.”
“John’s is good.”
I waved my hand in front of my face as if scattering flies. “So many tourists.”
“I know. I live in the Cripps Building, though. Not so many round there.” Cripps funded a lot of Cambridge architecture in the sixties. It’s not what people photograph.
“Are you doing all right, Mathilde? Is there anything you need?”
We were still standing in the hall. I covered my cheeks with my hands. “I’ll get us some tea.” He followed me into the kitchen.
I’d taken all the rubbish out, but a mound of black bags by the back door looked like I wasn’t hygienic. “That’s all for the charity shops,” I explained.
But he was more concerned about the window. “What happened here?”
“Somebody—but it’s all right. They’re gone now.” I put water in the kettle. I plonked cups onto saucers.
“Somebody what?”
“Somebody broke in to the house.” The damp clothes caught up with me, and I shivered. “But I cleaned it up.”
“Have you called the police?”
“No!” I said. “Nothing’s gone.”
“Then why do you think—”
“Maybe they ate something?”
“Mathilde …”
“I don’t know! But the house being messed with isn’t the worst thing that’s happened recently, so forgive me if it’s not the first thing on my mind!” Tears bubbled over my lashes just as the kettle shrieked.
“Mathilde,” he said again.
I fiddled with my collar, bending and unbending it.
“Is there anything I can do?” he pressed.
He was so close that I could feel his voice on my face.
I shook my head. I didn’t need anything. Not anything, but: “Would you like to stay the night?” I said.
It just popped out of my mouth. It got out and I couldn’t take it back.
“What?” he asked, looking from side to side, even though there was nothing in particular on either side of him.
“No,” I explained. “I didn’t …” I rubbed my cheeks.
“Mathilde …” he said. I started undoing my buttons. “Mathilde, no,” he said. “Stop!” He pushed my hands down, and I wrestled away from him. My shirt fell open between us.
He looked at me. I was leaning forward, and he was above me, looking down. I put my hand on my breast, covering the white bra cup. My breathing lifted and dropped my chest, over and over.
“I’m sorry,” he said. He slammed the front door.
I lifted back the corner of the living-room curtain. He mounted his bike. He pedalled in quick, forceful bursts out of the yellow lamplight.
CHAPTER 8
CHLOE FROHMANN
T he CSI team is already at work in the brook where the hammer and shirt were found. Their full white coveralls cover, well, all of them but the face. It’s unlikely they’ll find anything. The blue unisex sweatshirt had been wrapped around the hammer and the sleeves knotted to make a tight parcel; the person who did that wouldn’t just throw something extra in on top. And anything from their person—hair or fabric caught on a branch in the wild tangle on the banks—would be impossible to link, even if it’s lasted this long, which itself is remote.
Commuter traffic shuffles along beside us on Trumpington Road. On a sedate parallel street on the other side of the brook, a line of schoolchildren marches towards the Botanic Garden. Teachers try to distract the students from looking at us, but it’s impossible. As they pass, they become little owls, heads turned nearly all the way around to keep us in view.
“Why here?” Keene wonders. All those schoolchildren, all those commuters, the tall terraced houses overlooking the brook. It hardlyseems a safe
“What?”
“How is uni difficult?” I tilted my head up to look right at him. I didn’t blink.
“It’s just—” He opened and closed his hands. “Work. It’s hard.”
“Oh.” I looked at my thin slippers and he ducked his head to catch my eyes.
“Was that the wrong answer?” He tried out a smile.
“I’m at the Open University. I might apply elsewhere. Maybe.”
“John’s is good.”
I waved my hand in front of my face as if scattering flies. “So many tourists.”
“I know. I live in the Cripps Building, though. Not so many round there.” Cripps funded a lot of Cambridge architecture in the sixties. It’s not what people photograph.
“Are you doing all right, Mathilde? Is there anything you need?”
We were still standing in the hall. I covered my cheeks with my hands. “I’ll get us some tea.” He followed me into the kitchen.
I’d taken all the rubbish out, but a mound of black bags by the back door looked like I wasn’t hygienic. “That’s all for the charity shops,” I explained.
But he was more concerned about the window. “What happened here?”
“Somebody—but it’s all right. They’re gone now.” I put water in the kettle. I plonked cups onto saucers.
“Somebody what?”
“Somebody broke in to the house.” The damp clothes caught up with me, and I shivered. “But I cleaned it up.”
“Have you called the police?”
“No!” I said. “Nothing’s gone.”
“Then why do you think—”
“Maybe they ate something?”
“Mathilde …”
“I don’t know! But the house being messed with isn’t the worst thing that’s happened recently, so forgive me if it’s not the first thing on my mind!” Tears bubbled over my lashes just as the kettle shrieked.
“Mathilde,” he said again.
I fiddled with my collar, bending and unbending it.
“Is there anything I can do?” he pressed.
He was so close that I could feel his voice on my face.
I shook my head. I didn’t need anything. Not anything, but: “Would you like to stay the night?” I said.
It just popped out of my mouth. It got out and I couldn’t take it back.
“What?” he asked, looking from side to side, even though there was nothing in particular on either side of him.
“No,” I explained. “I didn’t …” I rubbed my cheeks.
“Mathilde …” he said. I started undoing my buttons. “Mathilde, no,” he said. “Stop!” He pushed my hands down, and I wrestled away from him. My shirt fell open between us.
He looked at me. I was leaning forward, and he was above me, looking down. I put my hand on my breast, covering the white bra cup. My breathing lifted and dropped my chest, over and over.
“I’m sorry,” he said. He slammed the front door.
I lifted back the corner of the living-room curtain. He mounted his bike. He pedalled in quick, forceful bursts out of the yellow lamplight.
CHAPTER 8
CHLOE FROHMANN
T he CSI team is already at work in the brook where the hammer and shirt were found. Their full white coveralls cover, well, all of them but the face. It’s unlikely they’ll find anything. The blue unisex sweatshirt had been wrapped around the hammer and the sleeves knotted to make a tight parcel; the person who did that wouldn’t just throw something extra in on top. And anything from their person—hair or fabric caught on a branch in the wild tangle on the banks—would be impossible to link, even if it’s lasted this long, which itself is remote.
Commuter traffic shuffles along beside us on Trumpington Road. On a sedate parallel street on the other side of the brook, a line of schoolchildren marches towards the Botanic Garden. Teachers try to distract the students from looking at us, but it’s impossible. As they pass, they become little owls, heads turned nearly all the way around to keep us in view.
“Why here?” Keene wonders. All those schoolchildren, all those commuters, the tall terraced houses overlooking the brook. It hardlyseems a safe
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