CHAPTER 35

ELIZA

When Eliza was dropped off, Monica wasn’t home – she was still at the station, where she had tearfully ignored Eliza.

She was so angry at Con! She quickly collected her things and drove herself back to her own house. She’d shared that cottage with Denni for most of last year, just the two of them, auntie and niece . . . but really, Eliza had been of a blend of big sister and mother.

She drove up the driveway to her cottage, at the end of a steep block, the long grass brushing the underside of the car. The lawn was overgrown with blackberries and bracken ferns, and a riot of bursting yellow daffodils.

The cottage itself was small, crooked, haphazard on the steep country block, although the previous owners – an elderly couple with a lot of grandchildren – had edged the whole front wall with a large timber deck. The walls were trailed with deep green English ivy that grew wild up to the roof.

Eliza had fallen in love with the entire house at first sight, and had bought it from the elderly couple for a steal. She could barely stand to look at it now; this would be her first night sleeping in the house since Denni’s death. The rusting barbecue on the deck, the creak of the rooster weather vane, the broken back fence – every part of it brought back painful memories.

But Eliza had to live here now. She couldn’t stay at Monica’s.

But it was the truth. I don’t need to feel guilty about telling the truth . . .

Tom deserves to take the fall, no one is denying that . . .

She sat in the parked car, smothered by guilt over Wren. What would her niece’s life look like now? How long until Monica forgave her?

She pounded the steering wheel in anger.

All because Con lied to me. How could he do that? How could he?

She climbed out of the car and stood in front of the house.

I was tricked. He led me into doing exactly what he wanted. Him and the commander both!

Never again.

A couple of hours later, Eliza lay back in the little bath, full of hot water and lavender oil, holding a glass of wine on the edge of the tub. Gentle music played from her phone while afternoon rain played on the roof, a comforting pitter-patter.

I have permission to be okay.

But she’d forgotten how creepy the house was, creaking and cold. As though Denni’s ghost – malevolent, vengeful – haunted the walls.

Then she heard pounding on the front door. She lurched, spilling the wine. The knocking continued.

She climbed out of the bath, wrapping a white bathrobe around her, and crept to the front door. She opened it a crack.