Page 47 of Beautiful Ugly

“Oh yes. Sandy read all of Charlie’s early drafts, she was the only person who did. I think he shared all of his stories with Sandy, eventhe ones he never published, before they stopped speaking that is. Sandy was heartbroken when Charlie killed himself.”

What?

“Charles Whittaker committed suicide?” The words stammer out of me.

“Yes,” she says. “Sorry, I presumed you knew. I think that’s why the place was empty for so long. He did it in the cabin where you are staying, hung himself from one of the wooden beams in the ceiling, and it was a while before they found him because, like I said, he preferred to keep himself to himself. Sorry, I’m such a blabbermouth. I shouldn’t have mentioned it.”

My head is spinning. My chest hurts. I feel sick.

“And Sandy read all of Charlie’s first drafts?” I ask.

“Every single one. Are you all right, my love? You’re looking a bit peaky.”

“Yes. Fine. Thank you. I’ve just remembered that I need to be somewhere,” I tell her, standing up so fast I accidentally knock the table.

“What about your pint? You haven’t finished it—”

“Another time. Sorry.”

“Well, we look forward to seeing you again sometime soon,” she says.

I’m out the door and across the road in less than a minute, Columbo trotting beside me as though he thinks this is a game. It’s not. I am sweating and it has nothing to do with how fast I am running. Why did nobody tell me that Charles Whittaker killed himself? Stealing his last novel, which despite the changes I’ve made is exactly what I’ve done, now seems so much worse than before. And if Sandy read the first draft she’ll know what I did, then everyone will know. There won’t be a new book deal, or a new home, or a new anything. Kitty will dump me as a client, my career will be over, and I’ll be finished.

Ihaveto get the manuscript back.

The sign saysCLOSEDand the door to the corner shop is locked but I knock on it anyway. When nobody answers I knock a little louder until I can see Cora through the glass coming toward me. She opens the door, but only wide enough to stick her head through the gap.

“We’re closed for the rest of the day, out of respect. Did you forget something?” she asks.

“The parcel, I’ve changed my mind. I don’t want to send it.”

“You’re too late. It was collected just after you left the shop. It’ll be on the mail boat by now.” I feel sick and I’m shaking. “Are you always like this when you send a new book to your agent?” Cora asks, looking mildly concerned.

“Yes,” I say, because it is the truth and I am.

But I’ve never been this worried before. Because, despite all the editing, I know that the book I have just sent to Kitty isn’t really mine.

But what if Sandydidn’tread Charles Whittaker’s first draft of this book?

Then nobody would know what I’ve done and everything might still be okay.

I need to find her.

DULL ROAR

Iremember the way to Sandy’s house without checking the map, but I find it hard to concentrate on the road ahead. My worries bleed into all other thoughts, soaking them in anxiety. The old Land Rover now feels like a disobedient beast to drive, it’s too slow, but Columbo seems to enjoy sitting up front and sticking his head out of the window. At least someone is having a good time.

It doesn’t take long to get to the House on the Hill. The dark gray exterior looks even more forlorn than the last time I was here, and despite the turrets on either side, this is no fairy-tale castle. I’m dismayed not to see Sandy’s pickup truck parked outside but knock on the door anyway. It takes Midge a long time to answer, so long that I was about to give up and walk away, but then the door finally opens. She looks very different from the smiling, bubbly woman I met a few weeks ago. Smaller, as though she has been deflated. Midge is wearing a tatty old pink dressing gown even though it is early afternoon, and no makeup. Her hair looks unwashed and her eyes are red as though she has been crying. She doesn’t speak, just stares at me. I remember Cora saying that the shop was closed out of respect, but I didn’t think to askout of respect for what. There is obviously something going on that I am not aware of.

“I was looking for Sandy. Are you okay?” I ask.

“My sister isn’t here.”

“Do you know where she is?”

“This isn’t a good time, Grady.”

I can see that.