The Burning Air by Erin Kelly

Author:Erin Kelly [Kelly, Erin]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi, azw3
Tags: suspense, (¯`'•.¸//(*_*)\\¸.•'´¯)
ISBN: 9780670026722
Amazon: 0670026727
Goodreads: 15811533
Publisher: Viking
Published: 2013-01-01T08:00:00+00:00

29

APRIL 2012

WHEN I GOT to the church hall, Tara had already made herself a space at the front of the class. From a tattered, sausage-shaped bag made out of sari material, she unfurled a pink yoga mat and spent the minutes before the class began in the downward-facing-dog position, arse in the air, palms and soles in contact with the floor, evidently aiming for some future rather than present grace.

Afterward we were all given licorice tea that looked and smelled like plant fertilizer.

“Great class,” I said to Tara. “I feel inches taller.”

“You’re very bendy for a big man,” she said. I raised an eyebrow; her cheeks became embers. “What I mean is, you get all these big blokes in here who can lift their own bodyweight on a bench press but when it comes to balance and flexibility they’re all off kilter, they’re not used to using their own bodyweight as resistance . . . God, I’m rambling. What do you think of the tea?”

“Disgusting,” I said.

She laughed. “It’s very cleansing. I’m on a detox.”

“That’s a shame. I was going to ask you if you wanted to go for a glass of wine or something with me. But I don’t want to be a bad influence.”

She blushed again. “I’d love to. It’s just, I’ve got to get back to my son.”

“I understand,” I said, and left it there. I counted in my head: one, two, three, four—

“Next week, maybe?” she said. “A retox?”

“I don’t want to keep you away from your little boy.”

“Oh, he’s not that little. He could actually feed himself, but I’ve got nothing in . . . he’s fine if he knows I’m not going to be around. It’s only spontaneity that’s tricky. I’m Tara, by the way.”

“And I’m Matt,” I replied, pouring my licorice tea into an oversized cheeseplant pot. “I’ll hold you to that drink next week.”

The following week, she had painted her toes seashell pink and was wearing perfume and I knew things would go my way. Over a glass of nasty pub wine she told me things I already knew about her and I told her things about myself, some of which were true.

“If you live in London, what are you doing here in Saxby?” she said.

“Last week, it was business,” I said. “I’ve got an interest in a new spa-hotel not far from here, and I’m on the lookout for staff. Far easier to take a yoga class than to interview a yoga teacher.”

“And what brings you back this week?” she said, running her finger around the rim of her wineglass. The feed line was so obvious I was almost embarrassed by my reply.

“You.”

She smiled. “Jake’s staying with my parents tonight.”

Half an hour later, we were entering her flat. I barely had time to register the interior—textiles everywhere, rugs, throws, and kilims on the walls as well as the floor—before her hands were on the buckle of my belt. Half a minute later, with one hand on each of her shoulders and

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