I hear a throat clearing coming from the kitchen. And, chancing my luck that Will is busy back there, I snap forward, emboldened as I creep down a few steps and peek into the basement room. It is an office. A desk takes up half the room, on it various computer screens with technical-looking scrub bars and time codes.
I am about to straighten up and turn on my heel, when I suddenly notice another door, beside a coatrack, on the opposite side of the room. It has a lock, the large keyhole gaping.
A shot of adrenaline pumps through me as I listen for noises from above. There are none, just the gentle whir of the air-con down here. I can always plead ignorance if someone catches me, I figure.
I dart down the remaining stairs into the basement office, dodging furniture as I beeline for the door.
I pull the handle but, just as anticipated, it is locked. Without thinking, I drop onto my knees and peer through the keyhole.
In the pinhole darkness, I can make out the bobbled walls of a soundproofed cell—
“Er, hello?” a sharp male voice comes from behind me. I promptly smack my face into the door, then turn, rising to my feet, hand to head. A smartly dressed man in a navy jumper, his shirt collar popping, is staring at me, a coffee mug in his hand, a vaguely irritated look on his face. “Can I help you?” he adds, clearly grateful I’m no longer on my knees. If I’m not beetroot red, it’s a miracle.
“Oh God. Sorry—I was being nosy. Then really, really nosy. Sorry. I’m an awful person. Frankie, Number Eighteen.” I apologize, immediately, surrendering all sense of dignity and the will to live.
His face contorts, then he lets out a laugh that comes off as a little rude.
“Oh, a friend of Arabella’s. I think I’ve seen you around, yes. Welcome, Number Eighteen. I’m Will. Were you looking for anything in particular in my recording booth, or are you just a fan?”
It’s a recording booth. I suddenly recall Arabella mentioning Will was a composer for film.
I weigh my responses and hope for the best.
“Just having a neighborly snoop, really.”
“Ah, well, carry on—don’t mind me.” Will goes back to sit at his desk, flips off the air-con, pops on his headphones, and resumes work in spite of me still standing there right beside him.
I linger momentarily after the mildly psychotic dismissal, then, when it’s clear he’s being serious, I slink out behind him, somewhat cowed.
Back upstairs, deeply embarrassed, I fudge facts and tell Arabella I got lost and walked in on Will while he was working. I’m sure they’ll discuss it further once I’m gone, but thankfully I won’t be here for that.
As I listen to Arabella tell me more about her children, her job in public relations, and her charity work, I take in the silver-framed photos that crowd the baby grand positioned by the front bay windows.
My eyes pluck out the ones with Will, his look distant in almost all of them, his eyes cast off camera, away from where everyone else’s are trained.
“Does Will have another studio?” I ask when the conversation finally loops back around. “A workspace somewhere else?”
Arabella frowns slightly, as if the answer eludes her before finally landing on it.
“Yes, he did rent one, not too far, a few years back. Before Stevie was born. But then we converted the basement so it seemed silly to keep it. Why?”
“No reason,” I answer, knocking back the last of my tea. “I guess I just wondered if it’s strange always being in the house together?”
“Oh, we aren’t. I’m only work-from-home every now and then days, mostly in the office or traveling for work. And he overnights every now and then in a hotel—to get the creative juices flowing.”
By the time I leave Arabella’s, I have serious concerns that Will may still have a studio nearby. That and the absolute certainty that Arabelladoesknow what Greg meant about my house, but is refusing to tell me.
Chapter 34
The Worst Possible Timing
Blue does not come home,but I watch his tracker dot bounce from garden to garden, street to street.
All I need to find out where Anna is being held is for Blue’s tracker to stop moving for a decent amount of time, but when I open the tracking app, the blue dot is still bopping merrily along.
I consider my plan again: once I have the address of where Anna is, I will take it to the police and lie if I have to; I’ll tell them I heard Anna screaming, if need be. The ends will justify the means, a little lie to save a life.
My phone pings in my hand with a text message. It’s the address of a vibey new local restaurant. I frown at my screen until I figure it out: my “real” date with Matt. His words ping onto the screen beneath the first message.
