I pull the curtains tight in the living room and the hallway, then run up the stairs to check the windows and close the curtains in the two bedrooms. I know that even a tiny gap in the fabric is enough for a long-lens camera and a photographer with enough patience.
When it’s all done, and I know everything is secure, I slump down on the top step and catch my breath.
Is everything locked? What am I forgetting?
And that’s when I hear it. The crunch of a footstep outside on the gravel.Already?I hold my breath, listening hard. Shit, the police won’t be here for half an hour. It could be a reporter, a photographer, or it could be someone else. We didn’t leave fourteen years ago because of the media alone. We left for our own safety. I think of the house phone lying downstairs on the armchair, my iPhone next to it, turned off.
I listen for another footstep. Nothing, just the pop of the fire downstairs.
I stand and start to take the stairs down, wincing at every creak. Outside, a fox shrieks in the distance, and I pause as the plaintive call echoes out through the woods. But no sound of footsteps. Perhaps they have headed around the back. If I can make it into the living room, I can grab my iPhone, and then I can run back upstairs and lock myself in the bedroom. I can call the police from there.
I continue down the stairs, holding my breath. And then I hear the footsteps on the gravel again, two steps this time, someone turning, right by the front door. I freeze. And then the knocking starts. Three heavy pounds on the door.
Oh, please God, no.
I stand frozen mid-step and watch as the door handle moves, rattling against the lock. And then I run—I bolt down the stairs, run to the sofa, and dive for my mobile. The screen flashes white. I hear the footsteps outside. Whoever it is, they’re on the move. They could easily burst through the thin Victorian windows. I pocket my iPhone, which is still powering on, and grab the house phone as I dart into the kitchen and head for the patio doors. I could make a run for it into the woods behind the house. I could double back on myself through the trees, make a break for the car and head to the hospital, at least there’s security there. But I remember my car keys are still on the ledge in the front hall.
Shit.
I can’t hear the footsteps anymore.
Then, right next to me behind the curtains, a loudbangon the patio doors. I shoot away from them, my heart thundering. Someone’s right there. And then a man’s voice comes, furious and gruff, “I know you’re in there, Marni. Open the door!” I retreat farther back into the kitchen until my back comes up hard against the basement door.
I’ll be safe down there.
Gently I raise the latch and ease the door open, peering down into the darkness below. A chill wells up from the basement. I leave the door ajar enough to shed some light down the stairwell but I leave the lights off. I don’t want to attract his attention. Feeling my way down each cold stone step, I creep into the darkness.
At the bottom of the stairs I make a break toward the closet on the far side of the room. But, as I run a brutally sharp stab of pain shoots up through my foot, then another, then another. I fly forward, landing hard, sprawled across the basement floor. Pain thunders through my hands now too as they connect with the sharp objects littering the floor. I try to muffle my reaction but I can’t help but cry out at the sheer intensity of it. Raw with wounds, I curl tight into a fetal position—the pain is everywhere. I hold a hand up to the half-light and see the dark wet marks blossom across my palms. Blood. My eyes slowly adjust to the darkness and I see the floor around me is glittering with bright slivers of broken glass caught in the moonlight. I try to crawl to my feet but let out a moan of agony and drop back down. Above me, through the smashed basement window, two booted feet appear, and I’m suddenly blinded.
A flashlight, I think. I squint up into its glare. The man’s voice comes again. “What the hell are you doing down there, Marn? Why aren’t you answering your sodding phone?” I try to shield my eyes from the glare of the probing flashlight to see the face above me, but as I do he must catch sight of my bleeding hands.
“Jesus Christ, Marn, you’re bleeding! Are you okay? Wait—just stay right there, don’t move. I’ll…I’ll jump down.”
“Chris?” I ask, bewildered.
“Yeah, of course. Who did you think it was? There’re basically only two police officers around here.” A big tall figure drops down through the broken window into the basement next to me with a grunt. “Oh God. Listen, just don’t move, shit, there’s glass everywhere.”
“What’s going on, Chris? Why the hell did you break my window?”
34
DR. EMMA LEWIS
DAY 11—WALKING ON BROKEN GLASS
“It was Zara, wasn’t it?”
He looks up from my foot, tweezers in hand. “I don’t know,” he answers thoughtfully. “You mean who broke the window? Or your cover?”
My bleeding feet rest on a towel-covered cushion on his lap as he delicately removes each splinter of glass. Chris had carried me up from the basement and put me on the sofa before he headed off to find a first-aid kit for my wounds.
“Didyoutell her? Who I was?” I ask.
He looks up at me, his feelings clearly hurt. “What? No, of course not. Why would you think that?” He holds my foot firmly in his hand now and pulls.
“Ah! Jesus, Chris. This hurts so much.”
“Don’t be such a baby.” He smiles, amused. “I can’t believe you thought I was coming to get you. That’s hilarious. Oh God, not hilarious that you thought someone was coming to get you obviously, but I mean that it might be me—” He fumbles to a stop.
