Discarded M. Hunter (the snowy day read aloud TXT) 📖

I eat out, regardless of who is paying the bill. I’m sure it’s partly my need to please mixed in with my upbringing, when my parents would encourage us to eat within our means.

‘All I’m saying,’ Maddie adds, waving her hands in a pacifying gesture, ‘is I wouldn’t put all my eggs in one basket. It’s been, what? Six months?’

‘Eight,’ I correct.

‘Well, there you go, eight months and he’s not found anything even though he’s now working with a team of qualified and experienced detectives. You’d be better off chasing leads on your own. I bet you’d do a better job of finding out what really happened.’

Is Maddie saying what I think she is? It’s always been a bone of contention – my wanting to investigate and write about Anna’s disappearance – but Maddie has always discouraged me. Is this a change of heart?

‘You think my next book should be about Anna?’ I ask to clarify, but my heart sinks when she shakes her head.

‘No, I’ve told you before, Emma, your publisher and your readers want something more up to date. No, what I’m saying is you should do some private digging on the side. You don’t have to turn it into a book, and if anything I’d have thought you’d want to keep that side of your life more private anyway.’

‘I do,’ I acknowledge, even though I don’t agree that there would be no reader interest in my sister’s backstory.

Maddie suddenly snaps her fingers. ‘That reminds me.’ She reaches down into her enormous handbag and rifles through it, before withdrawing an envelope and sliding it across the table. ‘This is that picture that was sent for you care of the office.’

I’d almost forgotten about the black and white still of Faye McKenna and can’t resist slipping the image out of the envelope to look at it closer.

‘Did you manage to find out any more about her?’ Maddie asks.

‘Not much,’ I admit. ‘She’s listed on the missingpeople.org site, and I found a couple of stories from local newspapers from when she disappeared in November 1998, but it doesn’t seem her family have made an application for financial support to the foundation, so I’m really not sure why they would send the picture to the office.’

‘Well, I wouldn’t worry too much about it then. You’ve got enough on your plate already, which also reminds me, I was contacted by Reflex Media – the production company who adapted Monsters for television – and they’d like to option your account of Aurélie’s return.’

I can’t say this news is a surprise given the media interest generated in Aurélie’s return last year after fifteen years away. It feels almost inevitable that someone would request the rights to televise or trivialise the story. Since she returned to France late last year she’s been in isolation, avoiding the public eye, but I think part of that is because her father – the great politician Remy Lebrun – is coaching her on how to court the media.

‘My advice would be to hold out for more money,’ Maddie says, sliding on her tortoiseshell bifocals and studying the offer letter before handing it to me. ‘Any option money will have to be split with the Lebruns, so you have to think of the figure on the table as half of what is quoted there.

My mouth drops at the printed figure. Even a fifty per cent cut is more than was offered for Monsters.

‘I’m pretty sure they won’t be the only company interested either, so I should be able to play a couple of them off each other to get the price up. Leave it with me. Okay?’

I pass her the letter back and nod. ‘Thank you, Maddie. I don’t know what I’d do without you managing all these affairs for me.’

She beams at me. ‘That’s what I’m here to do. I just wish you’d let me handle your romantic affairs too.’

I return her chuckle, and await the inevitable interrogation about Jack and Rick.

Chapter Eighteen Now

Weymouth, Dorset

Whenever I feel lost, or uncertain which direction to take, I know there’s somewhere I can always go to find some context, and ultimately prioritise the important stuff against the anxieties that I just can’t control. They also say mums give the best hugs. Watching my mum’s deterioration as a result of Alzheimer’s is something I don’t think I’ll ever get over. I’ve said before that it really is one of the cruellest diseases a person can be subjected to, and the effect isn’t just on the sufferer, but also on their loved ones too. I never wanted to see my mum end up in a nursing home before her sixty-fifth birthday (that’s not even an age, is it?) but it was what her physician recommended, and at least I know she won’t come to any harm.

Tragically, her condition has gradually worsened, and these days I’m lucky if I manage to time it when she’s having what the nurses refer to as ‘a good day’, which essentially means her memory is in better working order and she won’t mistake me for one of the nurses or – worse still – a total stranger. We’ve both learned to adapt to the situation, and when it isn’t one of the good days, I tell myself that next time might be better and play along with her view of who I am. I still get to talk to her about my life and immediate worries, and I think it helps that any judgement she confers she won’t remember anyway. I suppose that makes it easier for me to be honest with her about my feelings because the slate is wiped clean each time.

Approaching the wrought-iron gates that add a Gothic air to the listed building, I already know I can’t bring myself to tell her what was discovered at the Pendark site yesterday. At best, it isn’t Anna’s remains, and it would be cruel to worry Mum unnecessarily; and if the worst is confirmed,