I catch my breath and try to refocus. I can do this, I remind myself. I look at my watch. It is already 3:07 p.m. Aoife will be here in three minutes to get me.
I enter the basement room and flick on the lights. There’s only cinema seating and tables, covered in plastic coating just like the night before.
I wander over to the only other door and open it; the white tiles of the toilet blink into view as I flick on the light.
I pull out my phone and open the GPS tracking app. The blue dot appears ahead and to my right.
I straighten. I’m not mad.
I look up in its direction: it is to the right of the cinema screen wall. I head toward it and gently rap on the wall’s surface, checking for a hollow. My rap does not echo; the wall is solid.
“How’s it all looking?” a voice comes from close behind me. “All structurally sound?”
I jump, letting out a yelp. There’s no way to cover it.
He frowns. “Was there anything in particular you were looking for in the walls?” he asks, his tone wry.
In his hands, two glasses of red wine glimmer in the basement light.
“Yes,” I say, doubling down on this odd new vibe. “I’m looking for the bodies.”
He coughs out a surprised laugh, his eyes not leaving mine for a second. “Right. And? Any luck yet?”
“No. But I haven’t finished looking.”
Aoife will be here any minute now.
He offers up either of the wineglasses for me to choose. I look between them, unsure which he wants me to pick. Both could be poisoned, of course.
“You first,” I say, indicating the glasses.
He shakes his head. “Wow. You’re being really silly—you know that, don’t you,” he says before taking a big slug from one of them and then another slug from the other.
I reach out and take the second one. He laughs.
I knock back my entire glass of wine, a splosh of red whipping out of my glass onto the vacuum-sealed carpet. When I come up for air, I tip the glass back toward him.
“Refill, please,” I say, wiping my mouth on my sleeve. Now he has to go back to the kitchen.
There’s a mild hint of concern around his eyes. “Frankie, I think we should probably—”
At that exact moment the doorbell bursts to life upstairs, surprising us both, the air suddenly electric between us.
“Shit,” he says, looking back to the stairs, then to me.
The doorbell sounds again, followed by a flurry of loud, insistent knocking.
Aoife.
Matt frowns deeply. “Jesus Christ. Sorry, this is so weird. I didn’t even know that bell worked. No idea who that is. I’d better—”
He turns to leave and I watch him disappear up the stairs to the front hall, where I hear him open the partition door, shut it behind him, then open up the front door. Then the sound of muffled voices.
I have only a few minutes, tops. I whip a look around at the windowless room. She’s not in here. But if I can maybe find her window outside, if I can take a photo of it, it’ll be enough to take straight to DI Cobham.
Aoife’s distinctive voice is audible as I bolt back up the stairs into the kitchen, my entire body loosening ever so slightly at the sound of her. I’m safe, almost safe.
I burst out into the sheltered garden. There are no houses visible beyond its tall trees and bamboo.
