Chapter 7: What Sandra Knew
My husband didn't move from the kitchen doorway.
I didn't invite Sandra further in.
She stood on the hallway tiles, hands still clasped, and I looked at her and tried to find the woman I'd known for eleven years — the one who brought soup when Mia had chickenpox, who watered our plants when we went on holiday, who had a spare key to our house that I'd never once thought twice about.
"The spare key," I said.
Sandra's face changed.
"Chloe had it," she said.
"She'd had it for months.
I didn't know she'd given it to Ryan."
"But you knew she had it."
"Yes."
"And when she came home at half past two and told you what had happened — the first thing you did was tell her to say nothing."
"Yes." The word was barely audible.
"My daughter was in that house," I said.
"Six years old.
Alone on a sofa while a houseful of strangers moved around her.
One of them sat next to her smelling of alcohol.
And you knew, and you said nothing, and you watched me."
Sandra pressed her lips together.
A tear ran down one side of her face and she didn't wipe it.
"I panicked," she said.
"I know that's not enough.
I know there's nothing I can say that makes it enough.
But I panicked and I made the wrong choice and I have been sitting in that house for the last four hours trying to work out how to come and stand in front of you."
"Where is the ring, Sandra?"
"Chloe told the police it went to a boy called Marcus.
He lives about three miles away.
Ryan gave it to him last night — Marcus had been at the party earlier and Ryan owed him money.
He used the ring to settle the debt."
My husband made a sound that wasn't quite a word.
"So my grandmother's ring was used as currency," I said.
Sandra flinched.
"Yes."
"Does Marcus know where it came from?"
"I don't know.
Chloe doesn't know.
She only knew Ryan gave it to him."
I turned and walked into the kitchen.
Not to get away from her.
Just because I needed to move.
I stood at the counter with my back to the room and looked at the garden through the window — the garden that still had bottles along the back fence, that still had a paper plate caught against the base of the rose bush I'd planted the year Mia was born.
My husband came and stood beside me.
Not touching.
Just there.
After a moment I turned around.
Sandra was in the kitchen doorway now, not having been invited, but I didn't tell her to go back.
"The police are going to Marcus?" I said.
"Yes.
Chloe gave them the address."
"And Ryan?
What's happening with Ryan?"
"He's been asked to go in for a formal statement.
His mother is taking him this afternoon."
"His mother," my husband said flatly.
"Great."
"I know how this looks," Sandra said.
"Do you?" He wasn't shouting.
He was worse than shouting.
He was very, very quiet.
"Because from where I'm standing, your daughter ran a party in our house while our six-year-old sat in the middle of it.
She let her boyfriend steal from our bedroom.
She turned our camera toward the wall.
She coached Mia to stay silent.
And then you — you, Sandra, who has a key to this house — you found out at half past two in the morning and you told her to cover it up."
Sandra's chin dropped.
"You're right," she said.
"Everything you just said is right."
"I want the key back," I said.
She reached into her pocket immediately.
Set it on the counter between us.
The little yellow keyring I'd put on it so it wouldn't get lost.
I'd bought that keyring at a garden centre the summer before last.
I picked it up and put it in my own pocket.
"What happens now," I said, "is not up to me.
The police are involved.
That's where it is.
But I need you to understand something." I looked at her steadily.
"If that ring doesn't come back, I will pursue every option available to me.
Every one."
Sandra nodded.
She was crying properly now, quietly, not performing it.
"I'll do anything I can," she said.
"Anything."
She left.
The front door clicked shut behind her.
My husband picked up his coffee mug, found it empty, set it back down.
"Marcus," he said.
"Yes."
"What if he's already sold it on?"
I didn't answer, because I didn't have one, and we both knew it.
My phone rang.
PC Hartley.
I answered before the second ring.
"We've spoken with Marcus," she said.
"He has the ring.
He's surrendering it voluntarily.
He states he had no knowledge it was stolen property."
I sat down on the nearest chair.
"He has it," I said.
"Yes.
An officer will bring it to you this evening.
I'd estimate between six and seven."
I looked at my husband.
His hand went over his mouth.
"Thank you," I said.
My voice came out strange.
Smaller than I intended.
"There's more," PC Hartley said.
"Ryan Marsh came in with his mother an hour ago.
In light of the witness statements and the evidence we've gathered, he's been formally interviewed under caution.
We're also looking at two prior incidents that may be linked to him."
"The necklace," I said.
"The Facebook post."
"Among other things.
I can't say more at this stage, but I want you to know the investigation isn't limited to what happened at your address."
I thanked her again and ended the call.
The kitchen was quiet.
Outside, the afternoon light was shifting, going golden the way it does in late summer, and the garden looked almost peaceful from this angle if you didn't look at the fence line.
"They're bringing it back," I said.
My husband nodded.
He was looking at the table.
"Tonight," I said.
He nodded again.
Then he looked up, and his eyes were bright in a way I hadn't seen since we pulled into the drive fourteen hours ago and the headlights found the cups on the grass.
"Good," he said.
May you like
Just that.
Good.
