The Girl Who Caught Fire by Lorna Dounaeva

Author:Lorna Dounaeva
Language: eng
Format: azw3
Tags: Mystery, Psychological, Suspense, Thriller, Fiction
Published: 2020-10-01T23:00:00+00:00

* * *

Dessie is sitting outside the pub at a wooden picnic table. He sits astride the bench, as if he has no idea how to sit properly. He’s as scruffy as ever, even in decent clothes. His suit trousers are a size too large, and his shirt hangs out at the back. I resist the urge to tug on it.

“I’ll go to the bar,” I call out, and leave the brothers to perform their weird handshake ritual.

At the bar, I order myself a double. The barman raises an eyebrow as I sink the shot and ask for another. Then I pick up the tray with the rest of our drinks and carry it back outside.

Dessie regards me with suspicion as I hand him his pint.

“Spitfire, right?”

“Yeah, cheers.”

Dessie seems shifty, I think. He keeps plucking at his tie, making it longer and thinner. He looks more like Christopher in his good clothes, but there’s something not quite right with his features.

“I hear you’ve been working for Warwick,” he says.

I try to shrug it off, but he keeps looking at me, like a disappointed parent. No, it’s more than that. It’s as if he’s seeing me for who I am now, having had time to go away and reflect.

I’m still not sure about you, he tells me with his eyes.

I try not to let him get to me. I’ve only got another hour or so of this, after all. But if Christopher sees the good in me, then Dessie sees the bad. He looks like he knows what I’m up to. Though, how could he? I’ve been so careful. I take a big gulp of my wine. What do I care about Dessie? What do I care about any of them? It’ll all be out in the open soon enough.

“We should get moving,” Christopher says, swigging back his beer. “Isabel will kill us if we’re not there for her big entrance.”

I bite my lip. He’s right. Isabel would be absolutely livid. Christopher and I stand up and gather up our things, but Dessie is still sitting at the table, apparently unconcerned. I shift my weight from one foot to the other. What does it matter if we’re on time or not? I’m here to wreck her big day.

Dessie takes one more gulp of his beer and then peers at the dregs in the bottom of the glass as if waiting for them to transform into another pint.

“You coming?” Christopher asks.

Dessie lifts one shoulder in a shrug. Talk about a downer. If he’s like this for a wedding, I’d hate to see him at a funeral.

We head out into the bracing, autumn wind, and I’m glad I left my hat in the car.

“What are you driving for? It’s only around the corner,” Dessie says, when we stop at the car.

“My feet hurt,” I tell him.

“I’ve only had the one,” Christopher adds. “I’m fine to drive.”

“Suit yourself,” Dessie says. “I’m going to walk on. I need to stretch my legs.”

Let him, I think as I take Christopher’s hand in mine.

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