The persistent drizzle was getting a little sharper against my cheeks, and I glared up at the sky. Just what I needed. I’d be even more saturated by the time I made it back to the car, if that was even possible. But what choice did I have?
I was still there a few minutes later when I heard the distinctive hollow plinks of raindrops on metal. I squinted into the dark, ears pricked.
Plink. Plunk. Plinkety, plink, plunk.
I switched on the flashlight and aimed it toward the sound, seeing a side path veering off the main one toward what looked like a... clearing? Or... shit, was that lawn? My heart ticked up. The cottage. It had to be Heligan Cottage. And serial-killer homeowner or not, I was done sitting in the damn rain.
I grabbed my briefcase and made my way toward the sound, dodging puddles and sucking mud as I went. Lightning flashed overhead, and as I stepped onto the wet grass, a rumble of thunder rolled across the heavens. I tugged my hood further over my head and looked around. There was no sign of a house or any lights indicating one close by. Two large greenhouses filled most of the space, each about forty metres long and ten metres wide. They appeared to be made of glass and looked somewhat old-fashioned.
Plink. Plink. Plink.The sound echoed around the clearing and I refocused on a small wooden shed sitting under an old macrocarpa. The tree’s canopy dripped water onto the shed’s tin roof.Plink. Plink. Plunk. Plink. Plunk. The sound began to drum faster and faster as the heavy clouds opened and the rain began sheeting.
“Christ!” I was so damn tired of being wet. I ran to the shed and tried the door. When it opened easily enough, I jumped inside, relishing the immediate shelter.
The space was divided in two with a wall down the middle. The half I’d stumbled into stored a range of gardening equipment: wheelbarrows, bags of potting mix, chicken feed, and a few bales of what looked like straw, or maybe hay—I didn’t have a clue about the difference.
Beyond the dividing wall, I could hear chickens clucking and buk-buk-bukking, with the occasional squawk thrown in for good measure. They were no doubt protesting my sudden intrusion, and I didn’t blame them. But the sound was oddly soothing and I found myself smiling.
I checked my phone and blinked at the time. Seven pm. I’d been wandering the forest for almost forty minutes, not the fifteen it felt like, and my body ached from head to toe. Phillip had at least stopped texting me, so that was something, I supposed.
The rain reverberated on the shed roof like machine gun chatter, and the chickens started muttering again. I studied the corrugated iron above me and sighed. It was hardly restful, but nothing was going to drag me outside until the rain eased. I was done with disappearing dogs and creepy forests. They rated right up there with cheating arsehole boyfriends and ex-best friends.
May as well get comfortable.
I deposited my briefcase on the floor and arranged the straw bales into a passable excuse for a bed. I’d stay until the rain let up and then head back to my car and call for that tow. The shed was warm-ish and dry, which was a whole lot better than the alternative. And for a guy who equated camping with a three-star hotel, that was really saying something.
I shrugged out of my coat and set my muddy shoes and socks aside. Then I took my suit jacket and its matching filthy trousers and hung them over a roof truss in a vain hope they might dry a little. Which left me in my briefs and business shirt. A folded tarp sat on a far shelf by the door, and I blessed my good luck. The flashlight died before I could grab it, but I patted around until I managed to locate the thing and haul it down. Then, with the tarp wrapped around me like the world’s worst sleeping bag, I settled atop the bales of straw and contemplated the shitshow of my life.
Rain thundered on the iron roof, while through the wall, the chickens brazenly shared their opinions on their unexpected guest. Sleep, it seemed, would be out of the question. Even a bit of rest was a long shot. At least I wasn’t getting rained on. If anyone had asked me that morning what the day would bring, I would never in a million years have thought it would end with me sharing a shed with a bunch of chickens, a broken heart, and a crumbling life.
The serial-killer option was still looking good.
CHAPTER TWO
FRIDAY
RYDER
“Ziggy! Breakfast!”I walked to the edge of the deck, bracing for impact, but the backyard remained quiet. No excited yips signalling an incoming over-excited miniature dachshund ready to launch himself into my arms. No rustling of bushes. No irritated commotion in the henhouse as he barrelled past them. Nothing stirred the peace of the garden bar the call of a tui feasting on nectar in harakeke flaxes growing next to the kitchen window.
“Mmm.” I walked down the steps and onto the lawn to survey the rambling garden, my pride and joy, and the fruit of a decade’s worth of hard graft, penny pinching, and sweat. When I’d moved into the cottage ten years before, a couple of tired old flower beds were the only nod to a garden that existed. Everything had needed work, and a lot of it.
Stripping and polishing the floors was high on the list, along with a new roof, new bathroom, and a new kitchen. The to-do list had grown significantly shorter over the years but it hadbeen an excruciatingly sluggish process to get there. With no money to rely on tradesmen for anything but the truly expert work, doing most of it myself meant a steep and clumsy learning curve. Without my best friend Tap and hismostlyenthusiastic but sometimes grumbling help, I wouldn’t have achieved half of it. The cottage was by no means finished, but all projects were currently on hold while I was caught up in legal issues with the damn council.
The garden was a different story. Working in the soil soothed my soul, and the garden received plenty of love and attention regardless of any council fuckery. The lush lawn and sprawling flower beds were drenched in sunshine for the first time in two days, and I took a second to appreciate their cheerful spring colour and take stock of any storm damage. Some plants had taken a battering, their spring flowerings bruised, the cherry blossoms looking particularly despondent. I made a mental note to get to work with my pruning shears and loppers on the weekend, but the overall effect still cheered my heart.
Besides, that was spring for you. A tempting glimpse of summer with the occasional tail-whip of winter just to keep you on your toes. Gardening was somewhat like playing golf. Pockets of self-congratulatory bliss followed by torturous periods of disappointment and even occasional devastation when a weather bomb obliterated all your hard work in a few hours. If the weather and soil gods aligned, you may as well be wearing golden gardening gloves. If not, you could be wasting hundreds or even thousands of dollars on plants that refuse to thrive in the face of theoretically perfect growing conditions.
A little like love, I supposed. Whoever came up with the pithy saying, ‘Bloom where you’re planted,’ clearly hadn’t met my ex, who, after professing his undying love, had then upped sticks and left me for a job running a celebrity assistant service somewhere in Sweden.
Nor had they considered the fact that even strong, healthy plants needed nourishment and attention. Just like falling in love, you can’t simply plant something and then piss off and expect it to flourish.
Unless it’s a weed, of course. Refer back to my ex.
“Ziggy! Come here, boy. Come on.” I scanned the underbrush for any tell-tale shaking of foliage that would indicate Ziggy barrelling along one of his many shortcuts back to the cottage. I’d given up hope trying to ‘re-educate’ him out of my garden, and taken the simpler route of transplanting hardier shrubs along his well-worn paths. No points for guessing who won that battle.
“Ziggy?” My heart rate picked up as I scanned the wider garden. Being late for breakfast wasn’t in my tiny terror’s DNA, and a niggle of fear ran through my belly. Ziggy hated thunder, and he’d slept, burrowed under the covers next to me, the entire night. As per our usual routine, I’d let him out when I took a shower so that he and Myrtle could argue with each other through the chicken wire, but he was always back for breakfast. The fact that he wasn’t didn’t sit well with me one little bit.
I returned to the kitchen and moved the bacon off the heat. I donned an open shirt over my boxers, slid my feet into a pair of well-worn jandals, and headed into my garden, coffee in hand, to look for Ziggy.
