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But if anything is unlucky for them, it’s the number three. Because in a year’s time, they won’t be three friends any longer. One of the girls will disappear, and it won’t be Frances Adams.
My brain jumps back a step, because I sense something going on under the surface here. Oliver, property development, breakfast with Great Aunt Frances, and ground plans.
If I were writing this as a novel, Elva’s decision not to call the police would be flagged as suspicious behavior.
I hear his resonant voice say the word hemlock, but my head swims. I feel faint and unnatural and strange, before my bones seem to melt and an arm pulls me into a chair. The word hemlock echoes again before everything goes dark.
I understood how scared Frances was, and how few friends she had. The least I could do was continue to believe her, while the rest of the village whispered behind her back.”
“My favorite chess saying is very simple: You can play without a plan, but you’ll probably lose.”
I consider using another notebook to elaborate on each person, as if they were characters in a story.
Because he certainly isn’t going to tell me what information he was blackmailing Archie Foyle with now.
I’d been trying to write books about murder while there was an actual dead body in my basement.
“I’ve read these pages, and the Frances in them doesn’t strike me as a killer. She’s sensitive and smart and—” “Maybe there are two writers in the family, if she’s won you over that well.”
He reaches out a hand to help me up, so I take it.
In books, when the person investigating a murder starts getting threats, it means they’re close. Or they’re on the right track, at least.
Frances didn’t write “Now that they’ve had the baby,” she wrote “Now that they’ve got the baby.” And when I read it a second time, the phrase She does look like her mum, though, which is a shame has an entirely different ring to it.
And that’s the thing with lies: They’re much easier to believe when it’s an idea you like.
Then I immediately feel horrified, because I hate that I’m looking at every person who knew Frances and trying to see through them as if they’re a set of lies rather than a human being.
“The battery in this car needs to be taken out and charged, and I guess when I put it back, I didn’t connect it properly.” But the creases on his forehead deepen, and he scratches his chin, looking puzzled. “Maybe I’m just getting old,” he says, but his face is uncertain.
So I decide to ignore his instructions about the polytunnels, and I walk straight into his “fragile ecosystem.” Which, it turns out, is row after row of extremely healthy-looking marijuana plants.
Peter said, “This is amazingly generous of you, Ford, what you’re doing for us. And for Emily.” And Ford said, “I’m glad to help you all, but I’ll be honest. I’m not doing it for you, and I’m not doing it for Emily. I’m doing it for Frances.”
I didn’t know yet how much stronger gravity gets when you see the messy pieces of a person and breathe them in, make them yours.
