I had learned a lot about Nick Thomas over the last few days of stalking him, and I drove home feeling invigorated. I had even bought myself a little present, so much was I enjoying my new hobby. It had been a surprising thrill, to watch him from so close and not get caught, follow him on his daily trips to the same café, and to a loud, techno-filled gym on the high street after work, and even as he walked around the nearby deer park with the trench-coat woman, coffees in hands. He had a new phone already; I saw him checking it as he waited for a turmeric latte, whatever that was. From the phone I’d taken, I’d learned that he spied on Suzi, watched her every move via cameras and Find My Friends. That he had some kind of spyware on her phone and laptop, noting every keystroke she made – the internet told me this was easy to buy, not even expensive, and I wondered if things would have been different had I known that sooner, had I used it on my husband. I learned that Nick could also control the temperature of the house, the music that played, the code to the door lock. He could leave her out on the road if he wanted to, freezing on the desolate highway, and he was notified every time the door was set or disarmed, so he knew exactly when she entered and left the house. As I drove home, avoiding the piles of slush on the roads, I turned it over in my head like an enjoyable challenge. How could I use this new-found knowledge to get what I wanted most of all? I should warn Suzi that Nick would find out whatever she was up to. But how to explain how I knew that?

When I got home that night, Ivy Cottage looked dark and uninviting. Willow Cottage was similarly unlit, and I wondered if she was out, and if so where she was. Up to no good, most likely. I bent down to the plant pot where I hid my key and felt a press of depression all over me – despite myself, I had enjoyed being in town, among people and lights and music. Perhaps it had been a mistake to come out here to live, to the silence, the smell of damp that always greeted me in the cheerless cottage. The key was not there. My fingers scrabbled in soil. To my confusion, I saw that it was in the door already, which was unlocked. Had I left it like this, distracted by my new project? Inside was dark and sad, no one home waiting for me, no lights turned on or food in the oven.

But it wasn’t true that no one was there. As I reached for the light switch, a hand closed over my wrist. And a voice said my name.

‘Elle.’

PART THREE

PART THREE

Alison

Alison