Page 2 of Too Close To Home

But typical Hartswick, the mist began its slow descent from the moor.

It rolled thick and low over the ridge, sliding down into town, creeping along dry-stone walls and hedgerows. Streetlamps became blurred halos suspended in white. Tourists called it picturesque.

Locals called it Wednesday

Emily slowed at the entrance to the woodland. Beneath a weak solar lamp stood the information board she’d passed hundreds of times. Hartswick Wildlife Trail. Badgers near the beck. Tawny owls at dusk. A laminated map showed the circular dog-walking route, alongside a warning that the narrow game trails branching into the woodland could easily be mistaken for footpaths.

But beneath the board, there were old notices layered over one another. A village jumble sale, a missing tabby, and a poster for last year’s Christmas market. And, almost hidden beneath them, a weather-beaten scrap of paper: REWARD FOR INFORMATION. HAVE YOU SE—

The rest had rotted away.

Emily barely registered it. Hartswick was full of old stories. Girls who’d gone missing. Blokes people whispered about after a few pints. Things that had happened years ago to other people.

Girls who hadn’t been careful.

She’d had danger drummed into her from birth. Hold your keys. Turn your location on. Don’t talk to strangers.

So she took hold of those keys and stepped through.

The mist was thicker beneath the trees, weaving between branches and sagging low over the bracken. Village noise faded behind her until all she could hear was the distant hum of the bypass and the soft drip of condensation from leaf to leaf.

It was peaceful, really.

She’d walked this path hundreds of times. Daylight. Dusk. Sideways rain. Hungover after the summer fair.

This was home.

She was only nine minutes from home.

So she pulled out her phone and switched on the torch. The beam hit the mist and flared white, reflecting straight back at her. She lowered it to the ground instead, picking out wet gravel and bronze leaves while everything more than a few metres ahead dissolved into nothing.

“Brilliant.” She lowered the angle, trying to aim the beam at the ground instead.

Her phone buzzed in her palm, and she nearly dropped it, heart jolting hard enough to sting.

Dad: Have you left yet?

She rolled her eyes, breath fogging in front of her. Yes, she’d left. Yes, she was walking. Yes, she was fine. She didn’t reply. Another buzz followed almost immediately, anyway, and her stomach flipped for a different reason this time.

Leo: Hey. Did you sort it with your dad?

She smiled, mood lifted.

He said no but I’ll figure it out. Can’t wait to see you xx

Three dots appeared instantly.

He doesn’t control your life. You’re basically 18. Pack a bag and get the train.

She slowed, the mist pressing closer around her; the torch beam flattening everything into a pale blur. She wasn’t stupid. She knew Leo didn’t mean tonight. He meant the gig. Manchester. Neon Arcade. Freedom. Not this damp lane and her dad checking the clock every ten minutes.

You make it sound easy, she typed back.

It is. You said you hate it there. Come to Manchester. Stay with me.

Her pulse skipped.

She shoved the phone back into her pocket before she could think too hard about it and believe it might actually happen. Her dad would never agree. He’d insist on driving her. Dropping her off. Picking her up. Like he’d insisted on taking her to and from her shifts at the pub. But she’d sorted that, hadn’t she? Told him Claire’s mum had it covered.