“No one. It’s nothing.”
It’s the final straw.No onedoesn’t drive away in a cloud of exhaust smoke, andnothingdoesn’t push a grown man to his knees. Yasmin simply cannot maintain this charade a moment longer.
“We’re finished,” she says. “You’re pathetic, Rhys.”
Yasmin walks away without looking back. She doesn’t care, now, what people think. She doesn’t even care what—or who—has prompted this extreme reaction from her husband. She only cares—as she has for most of her life—about herself.
Sixteen
January 4
Ffion
“I’m guessing this isn’t a social call.” Huw Ellis leans over the scaffolding, a high-visibility apron stretched over so many layers, he looks twice the size. He’s small but wiry—the sort of man you might underestimate in a pub fight.
“I need a word with you. Can you come down?”
Ffion had driven around town until she’d found Huw’s white van parked in a cul-de-sac. He’s working on a two-story extension with three other guys, one of whom gave a wolf whistle that he turned into a cough when he realized who the gaffer’s visitor was.
“You want me, you come up.”
“Stop playing games, you tosser. This is a serious—” A hard hat drops at her feet. Ffion sighs and squashes it over her hair before clambering up the ladder with neither speed nor grace.
At the top, Huw props one foot against a stack of slate tiles. “Haven’t seen you for a while.”
“Been busy,” Ffion says, looking out across the rooftops. Llyn Drych is spectacular from up here. The water sparkles in the winter sun, clouds scudding toward the village as though hurrying from the mountainous dragon looming above it. At the far end of the lake, smoke curls from the tiny cottage in which Angharad Evans lives with her rescue animals. All Ffion’s life is here, laid out in a patchwork of forest green and gray slate, and the silvery mirror blue of Llyn Drych.
“The murder investigation, is it?” Huw seeks out Ffion’s gaze. “How are you keeping?”
“You were at the New Year’s Eve party at The Shore.”
“Me and half of Cwm Coed. You’re looking well.”
“Why did you go?”
Huw puts a hand on the scaffolding. His skin is tanned and rough, his fingers scarred by years of work. He never wears gloves at work, even in the depths of winter. “Come home, Ffi,” he says softly. “I miss you.”
“You hate that sort of party.” Ffion blinks hard. The cold is making her eyes water. “Small talk and champagne. Posh canapés. Why did you go?”
“Don’t be like this.”
“Did you go to try and get back the thirty grand Rhys owed you?” Ffion examines her husband’s face for signs she’s hit the mark, but he’s looking at her with such intensity, she has to turn away.
“Ffi.”
“We’ve been through this.”
“I love you,” Huw says, quietly but forcefully, and Ffion stares at the lake and wishes she were out on the water, racing the wind. “I’d do anything for things to be back the way they were.”
“Please don’t make this any harder than it is already.” Ffion doesn’t mean to sound angry, but her words come out clipped and hard. “I only came because it looks bad for you. Thirty grand, Huw! Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Bit hard to do that, when you’ve gone out of your way to avoid bumping into me.”
Ffion flushes. She didn’t realize it had been so obvious. “You should know that we’re processing the prints from the crime scene. If yours are found in Rhys’s office—”
“Of course they’ll be there!” Huw laughs. “Ffi, I worked there. Fitted windows, finished the flooring. I dealt with the snags after they’d all moved in. I’ve still got keys to the place.”
“Should you still have keys, if you’re not working at The Shore?”