The Lies We Told Camilla Way (latest books to read .TXT) 📖

“I don’t—,” Clara began, but was interrupted by the sound of floorboards creaking overhead, then footsteps on the stairs. She looked from Rose to Oliver in confusion. For a strange, chilly moment she wondered if it was Luke she could hear—the disquieting thought occurring to her that his parents had lied to her, that Luke had been here all along. It took her a second or two to recognize the man who appeared at the kitchen door as Luke’s older brother, Tom.

They stared at each other blankly for a moment before Tom said, “Clara! What— Where’s Luke?”

She watched Tom as he listened to his father explain the reason for her visit. She had never quite been able to get a handle on Luke’s older brother, and had always found him a little stiff and pompous. Perhaps it was because the rest of the Lawsons were so welcoming that Tom’s reticence was more noticeable, but it had long seemed to her that he kept himself a little apart from his family, that there was an aloofness there that almost bordered on disdain. And though he’d always been polite enough to her on the rare occasions that they met, she’d never managed to break through his reserve.

It was unusual to find Tom at the Willows at all, in fact. Although he lived relatively nearby, in Norwich, he was not as close to Rose and Oliver as his younger brother was, visiting far less frequently than Luke did. Unlike Luke, physically he took after their mother rather than Oliver, inheriting her high cheekbones and blue, almost turquoise eyes—though apparently none of her natural warmth. She remembered Luke telling her once that Tom had split from a long-term girlfriend a year or so before, though Luke hadn’t known why. That’s Tom for you, he’d said. Closed bloody book when it comes to that sort of stuff.

“He’s probably just drunk somewhere,” Tom said now with the elder-sibling dismissiveness she knew drove Luke crazy.

She bit back a rush of irritation, and managed to murmur politely, “I hope so.”

“But what about this stalker person?” Rose asked anxiously.

Tom shrugged and, going over to his parents’ extensive wine rack, helped himself to a bottle. “Probably some unhinged ex of his,” he said, reaching for a glass. “God knows he’s had enough of those.” He glanced at Clara then and, perhaps catching her annoyance, looked a little abashed and added more kindly, if patronizingly, “I’m sure he’ll turn up soon. I really wouldn’t worry.”

Rose gripped her husband’s arm. “Oh, Oli, where is he? Where is he?”

“Tom’s right. He’ll turn up,” Oliver murmured, putting a comforting hand over hers, but though his voice was reassuring, Clara saw the worry in his eyes.

She got to her feet. “I’m so sorry for upsetting you all like this,” she said miserably.

“What will you do now?” Tom asked.

“I’ll call the police as soon as I get home, if he’s still not back. He’ll have been missing for twenty-four hours by then, so hopefully they’ll take it seriously,” she added, looking around for her bag.

“That’s actually a myth, you know,” Tom replied.

She blinked. “What is?”

“That you have to wait twenty-four hours. You can report someone missing whenever you like—the police still have to take it seriously.”

She picked up her bag, ignoring his know-it-all tone. “Well, anyway, I’ll be off now,” she said. “Mac’s back at the flat, calling around the hospitals. Just in case,” she added, seeing Rose’s alarmed expression.

“Oh God, oh dear—I don’t . . .” Flustered, Rose got to her feet.

“I’m sure he’ll turn up,” Clara said with more conviction than she felt. “Tom’s right, he’s probably just had a heavy night and is sleeping it off somewhere. I’m only going to ring the police to be sure.”

Rose nodded unhappily. “Will you phone me when you’ve spoken to them?” She and Oliver looked so fearful suddenly that Clara wished she hadn’t come. For the first time since she met them, their characteristic energy and vitality seemed to slip a little, and though they were only in their sixties still, she caught a disconcerting glimpse of the frail, elderly people they would one day become.

“Of course,” she said firmly. “Straightaway.” Quickly she hugged Rose, then kissed Oliver on the cheek before raising her hand and giving Tom a brief wave of farewell. “I’ll speak to you soon. I’m so sorry, but I better head back now.”

As soon as she got in her car, she phoned Mac. “Any news?” she asked.

“No. The hospitals say no one’s been admitted who fits his description—no one who hasn’t already been identified, anyway.” He paused. “I take it his mum and dad haven’t heard from him?”

“No,” she said quietly.

“Shit.” There was a silence. “How’d they take it?”

“Not brilliantly. Rose was very upset.”

“Fucking hell, I’m going to kill that stupid bastard when I see him.”

She gave a weak laugh. “Oh God, Mac. Where the hell is he?”

Mac didn’t reply for a moment and then, in a voice completely unlike his, said, “I don’t know, Clara. I really don’t know.”

FIVE

CAMBRIDGESHIRE, 1987

Our son, Toby, was born a few weeks before Hannah’s sixth birthday, and from the very first moment he was a joy. I adored being his mother, the way his eyes would follow me around the room, how he’d reach for me as soon as I drew near—the almost telepathic way we communicated. It was as though we were one person; he seemed to melt into me when I held him, his little head tucked tightly under my chin, the skin of his body warm against mine. I felt as though finally I was loved and needed in the way I’d always dreamed of being. We adored each other—it was as simple as that—and yes, I guess it did make Hannah feel pushed out a bit.

But I tried hard to make her feel included. I followed the advice in every book I could find about sibling rivalry, did my best to show