I’d laughed.
Not because it was funny.
Because I didn’t want an argument.
I’d said the sentence I’d used my entire adult life.
“She means well.”
Maia had looked at me for several seconds.
Then she’d said:
“That’s not what I said.”
I hadn’t understood.
Or maybe I hadn’t wanted to.
The safeguarding lead eventually came back out.
She looked at me.
“Mr. Beckett?”
“Yes?”
“Your wife has told us some things.”
I stood.
“What things?”
She glanced toward the room.
“Things that need to be taken seriously.”
My mouth went dry.
“Is she safe?”
“Tonight, yes.”
“And when she leaves?”
The woman looked directly at me.
“That depends on you.”
I didn’t understand.
Then she asked:
“Does your mother still have access to your house?”
I swallowed.
“Yes.”
“How?”
“She has an emergency key.”
The woman’s expression changed.
Not dramatically.
Just enough.
“Does your wife know she has it?”
I nodded.
“Does she consent to your mother having access?”
I turned toward the room.
Maia was watching us through the glass.
The safeguarding lead asked again.
“Mr. Beckett?”
I looked at my wife.
She lowered her eyes.
Then she shook her head.
Once.
Almost imperceptibly.
No.
And suddenly the fish bones weren’t the beginning of the story.
