It is as if whoever wrote it had just read my mind.
I tug down the note and turn to scan the terrace, suddenly certain someone is still here, the hairs on my arms rising as my eyes fly over everything in sight. But there is no one there. I slip my hand onto the door panel and the door mechanism clunks open as I quickly push into the house and shut the door hastily behind me.
And yet inside I feel no safer, the thought of another person lurking beneath me, around me, anxiety inducing in the extreme.
Then I remember the CCTV footage. I set the alarm before I left and I know for a fact that I am the only person with access to the security system. Whoever left the note will have been captured on video.
“Bathsheba,” I articulate, raising my voice to activate her, but she does not respond. I forgot that she stopped working. Instead I quickly head to the main console in the kitchen and manually activate the lights and air-conditioning myself before opening the CCTV system. The footage is there, recorded, intact.
I scroll back to when I left the house and watch myself, ghostlike as I head out of sight down the stone staircase. I scrub through the footage quickly, hoping to catch sight of anything, then to my huge surprise I do. I freeze the footage.
A man.
A man coming up the beach staircase. A man, not a woman, and coming from outside, not inside, the house. I zoom in. He is older than I would have expected, perhaps in his fifties, about five foot nine, wearing some kind of work attire. I press PLAY again and watch as he heads around to the doors and tries to enter. He cannot. I relax ever so slightly and watch as he cups his hands and peers into the darkened house. He must see nothing of note so he then heads around to the front door. I tense again as I watch him write the note and affix it. He steps back from it, a thought occurring, and then disappears around the property. I pick him up on another camera as he walks toward an outbuilding I had not noticed before. Perhaps a pool pump room or something. I fast-forward as he does something to the door and eventually it opens. I watch him step inside and then the CCTV cuts out. There is no more footage. I look at the last time stamp; the power was cut to the system almost three hours ago and has not returned.
I look up from the console, confused. It doesn’t make sense. All the lights and electrics in the rest of the house appear to still be working, which means the CCTV must be on a separate system. I run to the window to see if I can see the small outbuilding the man must have entered. It is just visible through the foliage, but the door is shut once more. I think about going out there to investigate but I don’t like the idea of that at all.
Back at the console I cannot restart the cameras. Fear mounting, I call James again, but the concrete prohibits the signal. I need to go out onto the terrace to call him. Instantly panic rises at the mere idea of going out there. But what choice do I have?
—
OUT ON THE TERRACE I call James but he does not answer. I leave a brief message: “James, it’s Nina. Sorry to bother you again but I’m not sure what to do. There’s been another note. I have the man on CCTV. He somehow disabled the CCTV but it recorded him before then. There’s no damage to the property that I can see but I’m just a little shaken and not really sure what I should do—anyway. Call me if you can or email the house and I’ll call you back. Just a little concerned.”
I hang up and quickly text the only other person I know on the island.
Joe, thank you for lunch and listening to the whole mad situation.
There’s been another note and I’m absolutely bricking it. You have
the address. I promise this isn’t a cry for help—though in fairness it
literally is a cry for help. I have coffee, wine, two spare rooms—so
don’t worry about all that. Please come keep me company in a non-
sexually-threatening way. Nina (The real one, I think). x
I hit SEND, run back into the house, and lock the door.
I stand in the kitchen, lost for a moment, before the cold breeze from the air-conditioning unit makes me realize that I am drenched in sweat, its dampness cooling against my skin.
I need a shower, especially if anyone is coming over.
I quickly scan the CCTV footage again, concentrating this time solely on the locked basement door, scrubbing through for any movement whatsoever.
There is nothing. No one is living down there.
It is only when I head to the wet room, lock the door, and slip under the hot rainfall shower, steam tumbling around me, that I see another note, this time stuck to the giant floor-to-ceiling mirror opposite me. A note inside.
I leap back from it, almost losing my footing in the shower. The man was inside the house too. He might still be here.
I quickly turn off the shower and grab a thick white towel from the heated rail, wrapping it tightly around myself. Because I realize, with sickening clarity, that I didn’t check the rooms when I got back.
I eye the locked bathroom door, the only manually locking door in the house. I am, at least, safe in here for now. But my phone is in the kitchen, on the counter.
I step toward the note, my wet feet slipping on tiles as I tug it sharply from the fogged mirror. The steam-weakened tape comes away easily.
I flip the note over but the back is blank. I reread its scratchy words:
