Page 1 of The House Swap

PROLOGUE

She doesn’t notice me when she goes to sit down, brushing past my chair as if I’m not even there.

But I see her.

Loose strands escape the ponytail her hair is tied back in, framing her pale face, and she smells of lavender. They all have something that sets them apart. That’s how I remember them. And this is hers.

When the waitress approaches, she glances briefly at the menu, even though she already knows everything on it. Two lines crease between her eyebrows as she frowns in concentration.

‘Could I have a peppermint tea, please, and a flapjack?’

She speaks the words softly, her voice warm and polite.

I lower my eyes, just in case she notices me. Watching too closely makes people uneasy. They can sense it, even if they haven’t seen you looking. I’ve learned that.

The waitress returns to the counter and when I glance the woman’s way again, she has her phone out and she is smiling at something on the screen. It’s an unguarded smile, the type people make when they think they’re alone, even in public, and I wonder what she is looking at. Is she reading a message from someone or has she seen something amusing on social media?

I don’t dwell on it. There’s no need. Instead, I observe and take note. There’s a comfort in it now. The noticing, and the quiet collecting of details.

After a few minutes, her order is brought to the table and although I sip my coffee, pretending to scroll on my own phone, I notice every detail. The way she holds her cup. How she brushes the crumbs of the flapjack from her fingers after taking a bite. The brief lift of her head whenever the door opens.

I remain where I am. Just another shape in the background. Someone she doesn’t notice, so will never remember. That’s the easiest part. It always has been.

When she leaves, she doesn’t look back.

That’s fine.

They never do.

PART I

1

THURSDAY 22 OCTOBER 2026

Poppy Taylor was halfway through rinsing shampoo from her hair when her phone began to vibrate angrily against the edge of the sink. Ignoring it, she finished in the shower before shutting off the water.

As she wrapped herself in a towel, the buzzing sounded again.

Someone was impatiently trying to get hold of her, and a sliver of apprehension stirred in her gut. Were her family okay? Her mum and dad would be at home, her sister working nights, but what if there was a medical emergency?

Picking up the phone, she wiped steam from the screen.

It wasn’t a missed call. Instead, there was a notification that she had messages on Facebook. Several, she realised, as she opened Messenger, glancing at the names of the people contacting her. All of them were connected to the book community.

She opened the first one from Karen Castle, a reader and wannabe author who followed her editing business page.

How could you do this to him, Poppy? He trusted you.

What?

She started to reply, to ask Karen what the hell she was talking about, but she could see the woman wasn’t currently online. Instead, Poppy came out of the message, clicking on another one from a prolific book blogger, Anna Blyth.

I’ve just seen what you’ve done. You should be ashamed of yourself!

Poppy’s chest tightened, even as confusion had her frowning.

Further down the list of unread messages that were now stacking up, she spotted a familiar friendly face. Rebecca Kennedy was a bestselling author she had worked with several times.