If I go back I might see what exactly?I can’t work out from his tone if this is an instruction or well-meaning small talk.
But he holds my gaze, his voice low as he continues. “I bet as soon as you get through those gates, what happened will seem so much smaller. It’ll feel more manageable.” I remember what he did for me this morning, how he saved me, how profoundly safe I feel with him.
Is there something there, at the house, that he wants me to see? Or am I just imagining things again?
I give him a smile, trying to lighten the weight of the moment and draw a line in the sand. Enough for today. “Thank you, Matthew. But just to be clear,” I joke, “we definitely didn’t have gates—it wasn’t that kind of place.”
He hesitates, lost for a second before realizing I’m joking, then a flash of relief bursts across his face.
38
DR. EMMA LEWIS
DAY 13—TIME TO GO HOME
I get up early the next morning, slip straight into my running clothes, and let myself out quietly into the thick muffling snow. The air’s crisp and fresh and I pick up my pace as soon as I’ve pushed through the low hinged gate at the back of the lodge. I thought about going out the front entrance, but it’s too early to make small talk with the officer stationed in the car out there, Sergeant Greene. And I’m pretty sure he’d veto a morning run and I desperately need to clear my head before going back to work today or I’ll go mad.
He took over last night from Graceford, and aside from taking him out a coffee before bed, I haven’t said two words to him. He’s a higher rank than Chris and Graceford and he’s certainly less amenable. Chris was waiting with him when Graceford and I got back to the lodge last night. Apparently after that night the local police wouldn’t be able to offer twenty-four-hour protection, Chris explained. I guess Chris had told Sergeant Greene this news might be better coming from him. Inside, over tea, Chris explained my options: either I could head back to London and they could liaise with my local force on options going forward or I could leave tomorrow with the protected-persons unit, witness protection, if I felt a continuing threat to my safety.
“Are you joking, Chris?” I’d scoffed. “You seriously think I’m going to change my name again? Run away from this shit again? What about Matthew? I’m his doctor.”
Chris tried to be understanding but the facts had an inescapable harshness. “Okay, maybe the protection unit is a little extreme,” he admitted. “But you were attacked today. It was an attempt on your life, Emma. And the media are still at the hospital, and trust me, there are a lot of weird people out there. Maybe London is the best option. I don’t think staying on this job is a good thing for you or your patient at this stage.”
He didn’t stay long. I told him as he left that I’d think about it and make a decision soon.
I let my stride stretch out as I creak across the fresh snowfall, my feet and bandaged hands still tender from the basement glass two nights ago. As I find my rhythm my breath deepens, its reassuring huff and the dampened sounds of the forest working to quiet my mind.
So, do I stay or do I go?
Up ahead I see a worn path leading off the main track; it’s narrow and overgrown but bends back toward the lodge. I should stay close. I turn off and head into the denser wood, branches scratching and pulling, but I keep my pace.
Stay or go?
I think again of what happened to me yesterday—the attack, the anger that vile stranger had toward me. He wanted to take my life. He wanted me to die. I think of the chants and the pickets outside the hospital, and yesterday’s headlines. And I wonder in earnest if all of this was really worth it.
I came here for my career but I’ve stayed for Matthew. To help Matthew, because I’m his doctor and I’m the best and he needed me to stay.
But if I’m honest, that’s not my only reason. I’m here because of what he said to me that first night. The way he spoke to me. The things he knew that he couldn’t possibly have known. And more than that, the little things about him that seem so familiar to me, his gait, his eyes, the slope of his strong shoulders. No matter how crazy it sounds, the truth is, I’m here because he reminds me of my father. Plain and simple. It’s just a feeling. I have put my life and family and career in jeopardy for a feeling. But there is something there, there’s something he’s not telling me. I think of what he did tell me yesterday. He told me to go back home. I might see something if I go back to that house. Perhaps this is what I’ve been waiting for.
Ahead the path opens out into a small snow-patched clearing. I slow as I approach, sensing it before I see it. Something about it not quite right.
Something in the undergrowth ahead, a dark huddled mass. I stop abruptly, a shot of pure adrenaline exploding through me.
A man. Someone’s here. I’m not alone. I see him crouching close to the ground, the figure, peering out from the tangled branches—as if somehow just bending behind the bush might mask him from my sight.
I flinch back immediately, stumbling away from the figure, a thought flashing through my mind:Has Simon Lichfield been released?My sneakers catch on a root and I tumble down, my eyes still glued to the unmoving figure. I freeze, paralyzed in the horror of the moment, but as I look on the figure seems to morph. I catch my breath—it’s not my attacker, it’s not a man at all, it’s an object, some kind of bulky fabric, large and strung incongruously onto the winter undergrowth. The draping of it imitating the bulk of a human figure.
A surge of relief bursts through me and I let out a laugh of pure unadulterated joy.Thank God. Oh, thank God. I am such a moron.
I take a moment before scrambling up to my feet. Nothing to be scared of, just good old-fashioned paranoia. Though, I remind myself, someone really did try to kill me yesterday, so maybe this error is less paranoia than due diligence.
Cautiously I approach the mass. Rich burgundy and deep navy, expensive-looking, it has an open zip running jagged along its length. A discarded puffer jacket—like Matthew’s. No, it’s too large for that. Suddenly I realize what it is.
It’s a sleeping bag. Weird.
I wonder how it got here. This is private property, far from the road. The bag couldn’t have been flung from a car, dumped as garbage. No, it must have been brought here by someone, then abandoned. I feel the relief drain from my body. Someone has been sleeping out here, just yards from the lodge where I’ve been staying all alone. I tell myself not to jump to conclusions.
In London it’s not unusual to stumble on homeless encampments while running through the woodland parks, but out here, miles from the nearest village, so close to the lodge, the sleeping bag doesn’t quite sit right. And it doesn’t look like the kind of thing someone down on their luck might own.
