Page 81 of The Clifftop Cottage

He drew in a steady breath and opened the door. Wind rushed in at once, sharp and cold, tugging at his coat as if impatient to claim him back.

The soup sat untouched on the table, garlic thick in the air.

Then he stepped outside.

The door closed with a muted click.

Erica stood there, listening to his footsteps fade along the gravel path.

The cottage settled around her again.

She wrapped her arms around herself.

The stillness pressed in, different this time.

Like a quiet ache of having sent something away before she knew whether she needed it.

Before her mind could catch up, her gaze drifted to the laptop.

Andrew Peters’ email still sat unopened.

Waiting.

27

The call came just after nine.

Erica almost didn’t answer. The email still sat unopened on her laptop. The number was unfamiliar but local. For a moment she stared at it vibrating against the table, the name Andrew Peters hovering in her mind like a watermark.

It stopped.

Then began again.

She picked up.

“Erica Hayes speaking.”

“Ms Hayes.” The voice was smooth, measured. Pleasant in the way polished wood was pleasant. “Andrew Peters.”

Of course.

“I did email,” he continued lightly. “I wasn’t sure if you’d had the chance to respond.”

“I’ve been busy.”

A small pause. “Yes. So I gather.”

The cottage felt colder suddenly.

“I won’t keep you long,” he said. “I’ve had a few conversations this week. Concerns have been raised.”

“Concerns?”

“Your recent enquiries. The historical angle you’re pursuing. It’s created … unrest.”

“It’s history.”

“History,” he agreed gently, “is rarely as simple as we’d like it to be. Especially when presented without full context.”