Free What to Do When Someone Dies by Nicci French

fool of.’
    He led me through the hall and down a corridor lined with photos. They weren’t the kind Greg and I have – had – on our walls, improvised patchworks of snapshots showing us at different stages of our lives, but properly framed portraits. I caught glimpses as I passed: there she was, white flesh glowing above a low black dress; there she was again, hair swept up and a tiny smile on her lips. The kitchen was enormous, glinting with appliances; double doors leading out into the garden flooded it with light.
    ‘Black coffee?’ He was filling the kettle.
    ‘White,’ I said. ‘So, you had no idea about Greg – my husband?’
    ‘Why would we?’
    ‘What do you mean?’
    ‘The point of a secret affair is that it’s secret.’ I was getting very tired of this phrase. ‘Milena liked secrets.’ He scooped ground coffee into a cafetière. ‘It was what she was good at, secrets, gossip, rumour.’
    ‘So it wasn’t a surprise?’
    ‘Not really. The dying was, of course.’
    ‘What about your father?’
    ‘I don’t know. Didn’t ask. Here, coffee. Help yourself to milk.’
    I splashed in some milk and took a sip. It was strong enough to make me gasp. ‘So you’re not really sure?’
    For the first time a flash of interest, no, intense curiosity, crossed his face. His eyes narrowed slightly. ‘They died together,’ he said. ‘That’s pretty intimate.’
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘So what do you mean?’
    ‘I mean, there’s nothing you’ve found that shows your stepmother knew Greg?’
    ‘I haven’t looked. Why should I?’
    ‘And your father?’
    ‘My father?’ He raised his eyebrows sardonically. ‘Dad’s been working very hard since she died. He’s been busy.’
    ‘I see.’
    ‘You probably don’t,’ he said.
    ‘I guess not.’ I sighed and put down my cup, then stood up. ‘Thanks, Silvio.’ I wanted to put my hand on his shoulder, tell him he’d be OK, but I didn’t think he’d appreciate that.
    ‘You’re not what I’d expected,’ he said, at the front door.
    ‘What you expected?’
    ‘Of my stepmother’s lover’s wife.’
    ‘It sounds like you’re making fun of me,’ I said.
    Suddenly he flushed and seemed younger. ‘I didn’t mean that,’ he said.
    A thought struck before I walked away. ‘What was she like as a stepmother?’
    I thought he would shrug or say something sarcastic, but he went red and muttered something.
    ‘I imagine she wasn’t normal stepmother material,’ I said.
    ‘You shouldn’t have come here,’ he said. ‘It’s none of your business.’
    He pushed the door shut so abruptly I had to step back quickly so my foot didn’t get caught.

Chapter Seven
    There was one thing I knew I had to do before the funeral. I’d been thinking about it since the inquest, imagining what it looked like, and recently I’d even started dreaming about it – jerking awake from dreams of a deep pit in the middle of London, Greg’s red car hurtling to the bottom, bursting into flames there. Porton Way. I’d wake with images of his face pressed against the windscreen, his mouth open in a scream of terror. Or of his body crushed against Milena’s as flames licked them.
    If I’d asked Gwen or Mary, they’d have been eager to accompany me, but this was something I needed to do alone. And so, the day before the funeral when I was supposed to be making final arrangements, I headed east. It wasn’t an area of London I really knew, though it wasn’t far from where we lived (where you live, I corrected myself fiercely; not ‘we’ any more) and I mistook the route, getting off at Stratford. It took me about twenty-five minutes to walk to Porton Way, nearly getting myself killed as I dashed across the great arterial routes that lead east out of London. The sky, which had been grey when I left that morning, turned an ominous purple-brown; a storm was coming, and occasional raindrops splashed my cheek. A bitter wind was blowing over the London streets, whipping up litter