But she could only distract herself with cat thoughts for so long. The letter called her by her real name … her childhood name. She had only taken her mother’s maiden name of Noble because of the anonymity it offered. Back then, when her mum’s side of the family took her in, it seemed like the natural thing to do. She felt the familiar spiral of panic and shame spreading up her body. Just when the abuse about her husband had died down, it seemed that someone was intent on dragging up her own personal hell. What did the sender of this letter want with Sarah Middleton? It was the invasion that bothered her. Someone creeping around her overgrown garden. A hand darting through the cat flap. She had been so spooked last night that she’d done a full sweep of the house. The back door had been locked. There was no forced entry and she had thoroughly checked upstairs. So why was she still standing here, staring at the damned letter?

Letters were more personal than emails, more intimate somehow. Her senses heightened, she re-read the handwritten words.

Dear Sarah,

Congratulations are due. How you have managed to stay beneath the radar in a small town like Slayton is impressive. People underestimate you, don’t they? But then, you have a forgettable face. Your clothes blend in … even your house feels like it’s hiding. We’re not that different, you know. I too am underestimated by the grand folks of Slayton. Not for much longer, I think.

You slouch when you walk, did you know that? You keep your hair long, so it shadows your face. You think people can’t see who you really are. Don’t worry. The residents of Slayton are too wrapped up in their own lives to notice little old you. Heaven forbid that the papers would get hold of your true identity. But then, Blackhall Manor has always stolen your limelight, hasn’t it? You should pay the old place a visit. It would be happy to see you again.

I’m sure by now you’re wondering who I am and why I’m writing to you. Maybe you think I’m a crackpot, or some kid with too much time on their hands. I imagine all sorts of thoughts are going through your head. I know a lot about you, Sarah, but I’m not here to suggest that we meet if that’s what you’re wondering. I don’t think you’re ready to play the Midnight Game yet, are you? Have you figured out who I am? No. Of course you haven’t. You’re not really cut out for policing, are you, Sarah? If incompetency was a sport, you’d come in first every time.