The Missing One Read Online Free PDF

again.
    She gestures towards the study.
    Where else? Even at this time of the morning, the day after the funeral, he is up and working too.
    I shouldn’t be surprised, since this has been my father’s response to almost any difficult situation for as long as I can remember: retreat and work. Go to London. Work a bit more.
    But I am being unfair. He is reeling. Last night was awful. Why shouldn’t he cling to anything that will keep him upright? The moment she died, a grey veil dropped over his face, and now he is halting and unsteady, as if the blood is no longer pumping quite so efficiently around his body. Hedid what he promised to do in his guilt letter: he loved and looked after her until the end.
    Of course, nothing will be said about our encounter on the stairs. For as long as I can remember, my father and I have avoided discussing anything remotely personal. I imagine he will be mortified. I wonder how he is going to organize his life now. He can’t come down here at weekends to a cold and empty house. I imagine him driving down the village street and letting himself into the echoing hallway every Friday night. He can’t. Surely he’ll sell. Without her, our family home is just bricks and flint constructed around an unbearable, swollen absence.
    I butter Finn’s toast, spread it with Marmite and slice it into soldiers. He takes one, and examines it as if it is a fascinating artefact. Then he crushes it in his fist. His hair is all over the place, tangled into fuzzy knots at the back, his fringe too long, and beneath it his eyes are wide and dark-lashed – Doug’s chocolate-brown. He shoves a bit of toast into his mouth. I lean over and smooth his hair out of his eyes.
    And without warning I’m back there, by our bed, holding Doug’s phone, reading the two texts that have changed everything. How could he do this?
    There is a cafetière on the table and I grab it, and pour myself some of Alice’s thick coffee and sit down next to Finn, swigging at it. Alice drinks coffee all day. This is like treacle, growing cold. It can’t be good for her. No wonder she doesn’t sleep. I should eat something, but since I found Doug’s phone, I have felt slightly sick most of the time. But Iam so tired. I just want to go back to bed. I rub my face with both hands. I need a shower. Badly. Coffee.
    Alice comes over, stands by the table and holds up a finger at me. ‘I don’t think that’s realistic,’ she says into her phone. It’s strange to see her dominant and brusque. My little sister, I realize, is probably quite intimidating in a work environment.
    I have no idea how she could possibly focus on work right now. Still nodding into her phone, she points with one elbow at what looks like an old jewellery box on the table.
    She will want to divide everything up. Alice is obsessed with fairness. Maybe it’s a lawyer thing – or perhaps it is the old guilt at being the preferred daughter.
    â€˜Yes, quarterly.’ She gestures at the box again. Then she holds one hand over her phone. ‘I found that,’ she hisses, ‘in the back of her wardrobe. I think it’s just a few bits and pieces from her university days in California – but do you want any of it?’ She takes her hand off the mouthpiece again. ‘What’s the spend on that?’
    It is about the size of a shoebox but less deep, and covered in blue velvet. The corners are worn and the material has faded unevenly, with an oblong mark pressed into the padded lid as if it has been wedged behind something for years.
    Finn chews his toast. His cheeks bulge like a hamster’s; he looks at me expectantly.
    â€˜Is that toast
really
good?’ I say. He grins.
    Then slowly, I open the lid.
    An ivory carving about the size of a matchbox sits on topof a folded notebook. I lift it out and hold it up to the light. It is a fish-like creature with a hollowed belly