Nothing has felt right since Elle rented out her house . . .
I’M IN YOUR HOUSE
There’s a new coldness. A shift in the atmosphere. The prickling feeling that someone is watching her every move from the shadows.
I’M IN YOUR HEAD
Maybe it’s all in Elle’s mind? She’s a writer – her imagination, after all, is her strength. And yet every threat seems personal. As if someone has discovered the secrets that keep her awake at night.
AND NOW I KNOW YOUR SECRET
As fear and paranoia close in, Elle’s own home becomes a prison. Someone is unlocking her past – and she’s given them the key…
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EXTRACT
Pushing open the front door, I’m immediately aware that the air
smells different. Something earthy and damp, mixed with the residue of someone
else’s cooking.
The wind sucks the door shut, slamming
it behind me with a startling clang.
Then silence.
No one to call out to. No one to greet
me.
I drop my handbag onto the oak settle
beside a pile of neatly stacked post. I glance at the bill resting on top, then
look away. I slip off my shoes and walk barefoot into the kitchen.
Sea and sky fill
the windows. Even at dusk the light is incredible. Two gulls wheel carelessly
on the breeze, and beneath them the sea churns. This is why I fell in love with
the house, which was originally a rundown fisherman’s cottage that hadn’t been
modernised since the sixties.
I read somewhere that the beauty of a
sea view is that it’s always changing, no two days are the same. I remember
thinking the statement was pretentious – but actually, it’s true.
Pulling my gaze from the water, I scan
the kitchen. The long stretch of granite surface is clean and empty. A note is
tucked beneath the corner of a terracotta basil pot. In my sister’s
handwriting, I read:
Welcome home! All went well with the Airbnb. Pop over for a
glass of wine when you’re settled. Fiona x
I missed her. And Drake.
I’ll go over tomorrow, suggest a beach walk, or a pub lunch somewhere with a
play area so Drake can roam.
Right now, all I have the
energy for is taking a long bath with my book.
I reach into the cupboard
for a glass, and as I draw it towards the tap, a movement by my fingertips
causes me to drop it, the tumbler smashing into the sink. A thick-legged house
spider scurries from the broken pieces to take up a crouching position in the
plug hole.
I shiver. There’s just
something about the way spiders move – the jerkiness of all those articulated
legs. With a sigh, I resign myself to the new task of removing the spider from
the house. Catching it in a spare glass, I head for the front door.
The flagstones are freezing as I climb down the steps barefoot, then
wince as I pick my way across the gravel to the far end of the driveway. This
bugger isn’t getting back in. I set down the glass, then nudge it over with my
toe, before hopping back. The spider remains motionless for a few moments.
Then, with a flurry of black legs, it scuttles away.
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