Chapter 8

It was astonishing, Nell thought, surveying the remains of breakfast, the amount of mess both Chris and Maude could generate. She did her best to tidy up, vaguely aware she should eat something. She covered up Carolyn’s plate of blondies – too rich, too sickly – maybe some toast, maybe later.

The shoe had been abandoned on the table. She picked it up and after a moment or two’s unease – the leather was creased and dirty, the stitching was rotting in places, and even with the dust wiped inexpertly away by Maude, there was something faintly unclean about it – she settled for putting it in the cupboard under the sink. She would ring the letting agency before Chris and Maude got back, but not right now. There was something else she needed to do first.

She retrieved the pregnancy testing kit from her bag and, running her dates through her head just one more time, she made her way upstairs.

She was sitting on the side of the bath, reading through the instruction leaflet when she heard it.

A door slamming shut, rattling on its hinges, startling her.

They were back. She refolded the leaflet clumsily and shoved it into its box, pushing the whole thing to the back of the bathroom cabinet. She’d have to find a better hiding place for it later.

She went out onto the landing. ‘Hello? Chris?’

They must have forgotten something, or perhaps Maude had changed her mind. ‘Hello?’

There was no reply.

But there was someone there. She could feel it, a shift in the atmosphere; she wasn’t alone.

She walked slowly downstairs, expecting someone – Chris, Maude, maybe even Carolyn again – to come into view, smiling, apologising for startling her. But no one did and the silence was alive, as if there was someone just out of sight, waiting.

‘Maude?’

She hesitated.

‘Carolyn?’

She couldn’t think why Carolyn might need to call back, delivering more baked goods, perhaps, in another attempt to lay claim to the drying ground. The more she thought about it, the more Nell was convinced that Carolyn knew perfectly well she had only the haziest recollection of their schooldays, and what was more, she suspected she was enjoying the mild discomfort this uncertainty provoked.

But if it wasn’t her . . .

Someone chancing their luck then, hoping to find the cottage empty, hoping to get in and out before anyone noticed.

Her phone was in the kitchen, on the counter. So was her bag, her wallet, her money, credit cards. It would be inconvenient to lose them, but ultimately they were all replaceable. But she’d called out; hiding wasn’t an option.