And Justice There Is None (43 page)

“I lost my baby,” Gemma confirmed bluntly. “I thought you would want to know.”

“I am so sorry, my dear. Why don’t you tell me everything?”

As Gemma related the story of Karl Arrowood and Marianne Wolowski, of little orphaned Evan Byatt, who had become Marc Mitchell, the elements joined together in her own mind in a way they had not until that moment. “It all seems such a terrible waste,” she said wearily. “And there are so many questions that will never be answered now. So many ‘what ifs,’ so many little choices that might have changed everything, might have prevented …”

“You’re thinking you could have prevented the loss of your child?”

“If I hadn’t worked so hard,” Gemma cried, the words tumbling out. “If I had never adopted the dog from Bryony. If I had never talked to Marc … If I had never doubted whether or not I should have the baby … That’s the worst of all …”

“You cannot torture yourself with ‘what ifs.’ What happened to your child is no one’s fault—not yours, not that poor, twisted man-child’s, not God’s. Some children die, some children live. As will you, my dear …”

G
EMMA WALKED HOME FROM
A
RUNDEL
G
ARDENS
. I
T HAD GROWN
dark, and the glow of the street lamps etched the bare branches of the trees as sharply as an image in Ronnie Thomas’s photographs.

She thought of Marianne—Angel—of Bryony, of Alex. All had faced loss and gone on. Angel had built a life for herself and her daughter, Eliza; Bryony had consciously focused on her friends and her work. And Alex had indeed turned down Karl’s inheritance, Gemma had learned, choosing to live a life of his own making. How had they found the strength?

When she reached the house, it was silent. Kit had gone to a new friend’s; Kincaid would be fetching Toby from his after-school care.

She let the dogs out and put on the kettle. Then, on an impulse, she reached for the bold yellow-and-red teapot that sat in the place of honor above the Aga. It was daft to actually use such an expensive object, but it seemed to her that in a way it was sacrilege
not
to use it, and that Alex had understood. This pot had been lovingly designed and crafted for hands to grasp, for ordinary teas, for everyday lives—and those moments were all one had.

Suddenly the things around her seemed intensely beautiful; the scuff marks inflicted on the chair legs by the boys’ shoes, the dishcloth, a crayoned drawing hanging haphazardly from the refrigerator door.

Names formed in her mind … 
Angel, Marc, Dawn, Alex, Bryony, Ronnie
 … A chain of lives damaged or destroyed by Karl Arrowood’s actions … ending with her own child. And yet … Of all those affected, only she had kept what was most precious to her.

The water boiled, the steam rose from the pot, and Gemma sat down to wait for her family.

Deborah Crombie lives with her family in a small town in North Texas. She is currently at work on the ninth book in the internationally acclaimed Duncan Kincaid/Gemma James series. Visit the author’s website at
www.deborahcrombie.com
.