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failed, and you sent a cyclist catapulting over a wall, would you just drive away and carry on with your day?ā€

ā€œPerhaps they were going so fast that they didnā€™t realise?ā€

She half laughs. ā€œBelieve me, when you hit fifteen stone of person, and a push bike, you know about it. I expect their car is damaged too.ā€

I step towards the front door to let them out. My head is buzzing. There is no way I will get any sleep tonight.

ā€œWeā€™re going off shift soon.ā€ She turns back to me. ā€œBut weā€™re passing these items on before we finish.ā€ She nods towards the items PC Robinson is holding. ā€œTo the officers taking over the night shift. And theyā€™ll also be studying nearby CCTV.ā€

ā€œIt sounds as though youā€™re doing all you can.ā€

ā€œOh yes. Tomorrow, we should know who killed your husband.ā€

* * *

Throughout the night,

whenever I have closed my eyes,

I have seen his body fly through the air.

Parted from the bike at the point of impact,

like one of those Evel Knievel motorbikes from the eighties.

Chapter 10

I wander around the house, picking things up and putting them in different places. Rob has always said that tidying this house comprises moving each pile of crap to a different place. Itā€™s true. Itā€™s always a clean house, but we have accumulated a lot of stuff between us.

I need to keep busy. I canā€™t shake Bryony out of my head. Why has she been repeatedly ringing my husband today? I wonder if she knows he is dead yet.

Eventually, the anguish drives me to grab my mobile and open Facebook. Iā€™m not a big Facebook user. I follow Otley Chat, and an earlier post shows at the top of my newsfeed, asking why Denton Road is closed. I scroll down the thread, noticing several people have grumbled about the inconvenience and how it has made them late. Selfish sods.

Someone has then posted - have a heart you lot. A man has died there this morning. Then thereā€™s an outpouring of do-gooder wishes and speculation who it might be and what has happened. I feel sick. Hereā€™s our situation, out in the public domain, for people to pass the time of day with. They will then forget about it and it will become tomorrowā€™s chip paper as Grandma would say.

I donā€™t know Bryonyā€™s surname. I type Bryony into the search bar and a whole list of them come up. Iā€™ve seen her in passing a couple of times, so can quickly rule out the women listed. I click through to Robā€™s profile page. His cover photo is one of the golf course, and his profile picture is one of Jack. Rob wasnā€™t a big Facebook user either. In fact, the last post from him was two months ago and was something crass about how Leeds United have done.

I scroll down his friends list and there she is, larger than life ā€“ Bryony Rose. Why does she have to have such a nice name? Sheā€™s one of these wholesome yoga and meditation types. Iā€™ve always felt resentful of her. She smiles up from her profile picture and is so pretty that I hate her.

When Rob and I first got together, he carried on meeting Bryony for coffee for months. They even had yoga sessions together. I had to put my foot down. Who wants to get into a relationship with someone meeting their ex? I had offered to step back whilst he decided who it was that he wanted to spend his time with. I clarified that he couldnā€™t have both.

I had more kick-ass about me in those days. Rob promised he would stop seeing her, but now, it appears it was all rekindled. For a moment, anger absorbs my reality and I have to remind myself that heā€™s dead. Gone. I will never see him. Ever. Again.

I couldnā€™t understand why theyā€™d split in the first place if they couldnā€™t bear to stay apart, but it was apparently all to do with finances. Rob told me Bryony was a liability and squandered everything they had. He had described her as ā€˜a non-conformist.ā€™

When it came to money, Rob was as tight as a duckā€™s arse, so I imagine he would not have coped well with that. Since Iā€™ve known him, he has been governed by money. As a paid-up member of the rat race, he made enough to cover bills and his lifestyle, but could never progress from that. He wanted financial freedom, but few ever achieve such a thing, working for an employer. So whilst heā€™d tell anyone whoā€™d listen about his ambition and drive, the fifteen-year commitment he had shown Bracken Furniture told a different story.

In opposition to Bryony, who could never rub two pennies together, I had received nearly everything from my grandmotherā€™s estate. Mum once told me that this is all Rob ever saw in me. Perhaps she was right. Maybe that is why Rob decided between Bryony and me so easily when I gave him an ultimatum.

I canā€™t believe Bryony and Rob are even Facebook friends. It is so blatant and out there, seeing it in black and white. Until recently, Iā€™ve had no reason to check. I scroll down her page, hoping I donā€™t see any evidence of get-togethers between them, relaxing slightly when I see a photograph of her with a young girl. Then with a man. However, the caption reveals him to be her brother, and the girl appears to be her niece. I click onto her about information. Because she offers yoga and meditation sessions, her number is publicly available. I copy and paste it into my contacts, listing her as Ex. Then I press call. Just when I think itā€™s going to voicemail, a syrupy-sweet voice says hello. I hate her voice too.

ā€œIs that Bryony?ā€

ā€œSpeaking.ā€

ā€œI want to know why youā€™ve been trying to ring my husband today.ā€

Thereā€™s a click as the line goes dead. I try again. Six rings later, voice mail kicks in. This is Bryony

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