The Beauty of the End (26 page)

I put the letter down. This was what Lara was talking about. April's comment,
I'd find out
. It's why April never exposed Will, too, because he would have told the world what she'd done, without a thought for the most devastating of consequences—for Ella.

Tired of life, April had chosen death, but there's no doubt in my head. For Ella, and for me, too, we would choose life. Just as she pulled me back from the hilltop a long time ago, in a sense she's saved me again—this time from alcoholism and apathy.

All those years, April and Will had kept their secret, until it was discovered by the one person who stood to lose the most. Their daughter.

In the box are a couple of photos, including a heartrending one of April and a baby. He's smiling. There's the heart-shaped stone and spotted feather I remember from way back. A few other things, but then I find one of our wedding invitations, which brings a lump to my throat.

As I read the letter a second time, I hear the echo of April's voice, before it's lost, among the fields, the hills, and beyond. I sit there holding it, my last gift from her, undecided whether I'll show it to Ryder. Now she's gone, what difference will it make to anyone?

If the right questions are asked, the truth may yet come out at the trial. Or if Ryder finds out how Theo died . . . That'll be the measure of Will's decency, because there's Ella to think of. Ella, the person who matters most. And it occurs to me to keep the letter for her to read in the future, at some point, so she will know what kind of woman her mother was.

The breeze finds its way through the open door, fanning the flames that have burst into life. Noticing the slow curl of smoke across the room, I walk over and throw the window open, as I do, disturbing the dozens of moths that have settled while I've been away. Forgetting the letter, I watch them, the delicate shading of their wings, the barklike patterns that camouflage them, as they flutter outside, drifting away, a small cloud that blends into the landscape.

As the last of them fade away, I think about April. Much as there are people who'd like to try, chalking up huge legal bills in the process, I'm not sure they'll ever prove she killed Norton. But the way I see it, it doesn't matter. However you look at it, Norton's was a worthless life, just as Will got what was coming to him. You don't need the police and highly paid lawyers to work that out.

I remember what she said, a long time ago. Maybe she was right. We'd felt too much happiness. Maybe when you live as intensely as she had, feel such extremes of emotion, you burn out before your time. It's how I'll remember her. A blazing star that broke the greyness of my ordinary little life.

After carefully folding the letter, I replace it in the box. That afternoon, fueled by a need for change, I run, five miles, hard. Years ago, I used to run, but I'm older, unfit; it's too far, too soon so that I'm out of breath, damp with sweat, when I reach the point along a wooded lane where the trees open out.

I gaze at the view that lies before me. A cold front has passed through, sweeping away the fog and drizzle, leaving crystal-clear air, so that I can see for miles, across hills and fields, to the sliver of sea on the horizon.

As the sun's rays break through the clouds, lighting the lane in front of me, I'm thinking of April. Then my thoughts turn to Ella, only instead of my usual angst at what they've both been subjected to, I feel an unexpected rush of warmth. And with it, a new perspective. April made her choice. What matters now is Ella. And I have the strangest conviction she'll be fine.

Suddenly, the chains that for so long have bound me fall away. Stepping out from the shadows, I start to run again, without their weight, faster, lighter; feeling the weak sun's touch on my skin, the pounding of my heart underneath; leaving a past that has held me back, moving on.

Debbie Howells is the author of
The Bones of You
, her debut thriller which sold internationally for six-figures in several countries. While in the past she has been a flying instructor, the owner of a flower shop, and a student of psychology, she currently writes full-time. Debbie lives in West Sussex with her family, please visit her online at DebbieHowells.com. Please visit her website at
DebbieHowells.com