Hide and Seek by Amy Bird

else. I lose my footing on the stairs.
    “Will!” shouts Ellie, putting a hand to my back to stop me falling. It’s enough for me to recover my footing.
    “All right?” asks Dad, from his end.
    I nod and we carry on. I don’t want to trip again. So I avert my eyes from what I saw. A small sticker, next to the initials, of a piano. Ellie is right. This crib was his.
    But that means nothing, I tell myself, as we carry the crib into the living room. So, maybe the crib belonged to Max Reigate at some point. Maybe he gave the crib to my parents as a christening present, complete with a piano blessing. Maybe anything.
    We all assemble in the living room and stare at the crib. Mum joins us.
    “It’s rather dusty,” says Dad (because I’m still calling him that, strange crib notwithstanding).
    “Not dusty enough to hide those initials!” says Ellie. I turn to her and shake my head.
    “It’s a lovely crib,” I say. “Thank you.” I give Mum a squeeze on the shoulder. She lays her chin against my hand. We stay a moment like that.
    Then Ellie breaks the peace.
    “Now, time to look at these photo albums!” she says. She is still clutching the third, unfamiliar album.
    “I’ll get the others from the dining room,” I say. I don’t know what is in her mystery album, but I don’t trust it, or her. If she has some idea of a family showdown to end the evening, assembled round her ‘proof’, I don’t want any part of it.
    “No need,” says Ellie, waving the album.
    “Where did you get that?” demands Mum.
    “From the loft, with the others,” says Ellie, all innocence.
    “It’s a personal album,” Mum says. “There’s nothing of Will in there.”
    “Oh, I don’t know,” Ellie says. “I had a quick look, and I thought there’d be some stuff he’d like to see. You in the 70s, the old Dartington family home. Your friends.”
    Ellie’s eyes are shining. She is working up to a Poirot moment, I can tell. The right timing as well – Sunday evening, prime ITV3 crime viewing. And à la the famous sleuth she assembled us all here, in what could pass for a drawing room. She’ll show us whatever photo she’s found, list a stream of mad conjectures, probably produce a murder from somewhere, and then she’ll never be welcome in the house again. At least Poirot’s ‘little grey cells’ functioned properly, unaddled by whatever pregnancy hormones are taking hold of Ellie’s brain.
    Ellie is starting to open up the pages.
    “You know,” I say, “I’d much rather just see the pictures of when I was little. Not sure I need to study Dad’s kipper ties.”
    “No, Will. I think you really need to see your father’s kipper ties.”
    Mum is advancing towards the album. “Ellie, darling, Will’s right. And it’s getting late; some of us have to work tomorrow, remember?”
    Oh – Mum shouldn’t have done that. Play the ‘job’ card. Guaranteed to piss Ellie off.
    “OK, Mrs S,” says Ellie sweetly. “To speed things up, how about I just show Will the particular photos I found that I think would be of special interest to him?”
    She begins flicking through the album.
    Mum leans in and snaps the album shut. “No. Borrow the other ones. It’s late, and we need to get the crib in the car. John will drive you home.”
    She pulls the album away from Ellie. As she does so, the pages open slightly, and something flutters out to the floor.
    It’s not a photo. It’s a letter, with a little red ribbon tied through the top of it. A love letter. I reach down to retrieve it for Mum, but Mum is quicker than me. The letter is in her hands before I can touch it. But not before I can make out the signature.
    It is from Max. Max Reigate.
    And it’s signed ‘fondest love’.

Chapter Eleven
    -Ellie-
    Will is still in denial, even after he sees the letter.
    All the car journey home, he prattles on to his ‘Dad’ about how excited he must be to be a grandfather. If fake dad is excited, he hides it pretty well. Most