He tipped his head to one side, a motion that wasn’t quite a nod.

“Well. I’ll be letting you get back on with it then, lass.”

When he’d shuffled some distance away, Heather turned to watch him go. He didn’t seem like a typical spa customer, and she couldn’t imagine why he had dragged himself all the way up the hill on a rainy day, but as he reached the foyer she saw the blond woman come out from behind the desk to greet him, and watched as they chatted together for a few minutes. Perhaps, she reasoned, the receptionist was a relation—a granddaughter, or a niece.

She stayed in the café for another couple of hours, digging deeper into forums about counter-culture, about drug use and the history of Fiddler’s Mill, but didn’t find anything that suggested who might be trying to mess with her. Eventually, she packed up her things and left, heading out into a day that had grown a little brighter. The clouds overhead were breaking up, letting through tantalizing glimpses of a soft, dreamy blue sky, and she walked out across the grass with no clear thought as to where to go next. Nikki, at least, was away from the cottage and safe with Harry. They were probably downing pints in some quaint country pub by now, talking about old ghost stories and eating a ploughman’s lunch. The thought was a comforting one and she clung to it. Better to think about that than worry about what she might find when she got back—another note, a dead bird. Something worse.

She was so lost in those thoughts that when her phone rang it took her a few seconds to recognize the sound. Heather pulled the phone out, assuming it must be Nikki or even Ben, but instead it showed a withheld number. She pressed receive, and an automated voice told her she had an incoming call from HMP Belmarsh, and that she should stay on the line if she wished to be connected.

All at once, she felt exposed again. She looked around, but she was alone. The line of Fiddler’s Woods marched off to her right, and the big house was a small shape far behind her. Not sure what else to do, she waited to be connected.

“Hello?”

She knew his voice immediately. A surge of conflicted emotions made her look at her feet; he sounded worried. Did serial killers get worried? It seemed like too human a reaction.

“Mr. Reave? Why are you phoning me?” She paused, and shook her head. “How do you even have my phone number? I seriously doubt the police gave it to you.”

“Listen.” But he didn’t continue, and she could just hear his breathing, slow and measured.

“What is it?” Abruptly she felt furious, outraged that he could call her in the middle of the day and cause her stomach to tighten with what was undeniably fear. She wanted to hit something. Hit someone. “What do you bloody want?”