Deception on His Mind by Elizabeth George Read Free Book Online Page A

done, after everything she'd known, after everything she'd been told and had loyally kept to herself because that's what friends did when they were best friends, right …?
    “I want you to have it.” Rachel strove for the sort of tone one used when paying a visit to a house where death had paid a visit first. “I just came to say that I'm most awfully sorry about … well, about your … loss.”
    “Rachel,” Sahlah said quietly. “Please don't.”
    “I understand how bereft you must be. Despite your having known him for so short a time, I'm sure you must have come to love him. Because—” She could hear her voice tightening. It soon would be shrill. “Because I know you wouldn't marry anyone you didn't love, Sahlah. You always said you'd never do that. So it only stands to reason that when you first saw Haytham, your heart just flew to him. And when he put his hand on your arm—his damp, clammy hand—you knew he was the one. That's what happened, isn't it? And that's why you're so cut up now.”
    “I know it's hard for you to understand.”
    “Except you don't look cut up. At least not about Haytham. I wonder why. Does your dad wonder why?”
    She was saying things she didn't mean to say. It was as if her voice had a life all its own, and there was nothing she could do to bring it under control.
    “You don't know what's going on inside me,” Sahlah declared quietly, almost fiercely. “You want to judge me by your own standards, and you can't because they're different to mine.”
    “Like I'm different to you,” Rachel added, and the words were bitter. “Isn't that right?”
    Sahlah's voice softened. “We're friends, Rachel. We've always been and we'll always be friends.”
    The assertion wounded Rachel more than any repudiation could have done. Because she knew the statement was just a statement. True though it may have been, it wasn't a promise.
    Rachel fished in the breast pocket of her blouse and brought out the crumpled brochure she'd been carrying with her for more than two months. She'd looked at it so often that she'd memorised its pictures and their accompanying pitch for the Clifftop Snuggeries, two-bedroom flats in three oblong brick buildings. As their name suggested, they sat above the sea on the South Promenade. Depending upon which model one chose, the flats had either balconies or terraces, but in either case they each had a view: the Balford pleasure pier to the north or the endless grey-green stretch of sea to the east.
    “These are the flats.” Rachel unfolded the brochure. She didn't hand it over because somehow she knew that Sahlah would refuse to take it from her. “I got enough money saved to make the down payment. I could do that.”
    “Rachel, won't you try to see how things are in my world?”
    “I mean, I
want
to do that. I'd see to it that your name—as well as my own—went on the deed. Each month, you'd only have to pay—”
    ”I can't.”
    “You
can,”
Rachel insisted. “You only think you can't because of how you've been brought up. But you don't need to live like this for the rest of your life. No one else does.”
    The older boy stirred in the cot and whimpered in his sleep. Sahlah went back to him. Neither child was covered—it was far too warm in the room for that—so there was no adjustment to make in any bedclothes. Sahlah brushed her hand lightly against the boy's forehead. Asleep, he changed positions, his rump in the air.
    “Rachel,” Sahlah said, keeping her eyes on her nephew, “Haytham is dead, but that doesn't end my obligation to my family. If my father chooses another man for me tomorrow, I'll marry him. I must.”
    “Must?
That's mad. You didn't even know him. You won't know the next one. What about—”
    “No.
It's what I want to do.”
    Her voice was quiet, but there was no mistaking what the firmness of her tone implied. She was saying,
The past is dead
without saying it. But she'd forgotten one thing. Haytham Querashi was dead as