“Marie!” Felix’s voice calls out. “There’s a box for you!”

Heart pounding, images of all the nasty things I’ve seen in horror films, such as dead pets, birds or other such gruesome warnings, makes me drop my chopping knife and rush to him.

The front door is wide-open.

“Why did you unlock the door? Don’t ever do that!”

Tears fill his eyes. “I wanted to be helpful—you’re busy.”

My conscience pricks immediately. “I’m sorry, darling.”

I hate the person who is doing this to me even more for making me live in fight-or-flight mode every time something that should be perfectly innocuous occurs.

Resting on the step is a cardboard box, a standard one used for deliveries. A message is scrawled on top.

Thought you could do with this. Greg.

I lift it up; it’s not too heavy.

“Did you see a man leave this?”

Felix shakes his head.

“Okay, thanks, sweetie, go back and finish watching your show.”

I carry it through to the kitchen and place it on the counter. Curiosity takes over. I pull the sharpest pair of kitchen scissors out of their holder and slice through the beige packing tape.

After my adrenaline spike, the contents are oddly anticlimactic. Home CCTV security equipment. It doesn’t eliminate Greg as a suspect completely, not yet, but I can’t deny it’s thoughtful of him after my accusations and outburst earlier.

My back aches. It’s been a long day. Yet, it’s win-win, I think as I study the instructions. If the mystery person is Greg, the messages will stop. If not, I’ll finally get proof of who is behind everything.

Twenty-Eight

I wake up early, bursting with excited anticipation. I had fixed up the CCTV after a fashion the night before. Downstairs, disappointment kicks me twice in short succession: once when I see the mat is devoid of any suspicious envelopes (what’s wrong with me?!), and again when the footage is blank. Frustration hits as I try to figure out what I’ve done wrong.

Stuart and the children appear in the kitchen before I’m any the wiser. Caught up in the morning rush, my day begins before I feel properly ready. My new toy will have to wait.

I write Deborah a heartfelt card, which I drive over and pop through her letterbox. I hope it does the trick. As I emerge from my prenatal class, my phone rings. It’s the school; they’ve not been able to contact Stuart. I’m summoned in because, Felix, of all children, kicked another child. It’s not until I’m in the headteacher’s office, defending Nina and Stuart’s son, that she drops a second bombshell. The child Felix allegedly kicked is Tamsin’s. It would be.

“Why did you kick Harry?” I ask as we walk home.

“Because he said that his mum said you were wicked. I know what wicked means and I didn’t like it.”

My blood runs cold. Wicked is a word frequently used in the threatening cards and it’s not a word I hear commonly used outside of children’s stories. How dare she say such a thing to a friend of Felix’s.