Page 106 of The Cottage at Brambleton Hall

Sammy caught it, something warmer than before. She gave the stew another poke.

Magnus’s gaze moved briefly around the kitchen – then back to her. ‘How long is your guest staying?’

The spoon stopped just above the surface. ‘I’m not sure,’ she said. Chloe would stay as long as she liked. She always did. When they were teenagers, she sometimes stayed overnight, hidden in Sammy’s bedroom without Jean knowing, smuggled out in the morning before the house woke up. That wasn’t going to work here. She stirred again, slower now.

‘Clarity is useful,’ he said.

Sammy looked at him. ‘Yes,’ she said. And meant it.

You brought the wrong mix together. Walking home that night, Nate’s words followed her all the way back to the cottage.

The path was hard underfoot, baked all day, the dust lifting with each step Sammy took. With no rain for weeks fissures had opened in the ground. A bee worked slowly through the purple-flowering wild marjoram meandering like her thoughts.

She’d overworked it, like a sauce pushed past the point where it would hold. She should have kept it simple. Gone with Nate. Sammy stepped around a crack in the path. The cottages came into view; Nate’s gorgeous garden brimming with colour and purpose. Beside it hers was little more than a messy tangle of grass with a wooden bench. Had she blown her chance with Nate? Or . . . had Chloe blown it for her?

Sammy tipped her head to one side, listening. A blackbird singing from the hedge – clear liquid notes. But there was no competing man-made sound from her cottage.

Sammy reached the front door – unlocked as she expected – pushed it open, and noticed Chloe’s handbag, then jacket on the chair, the scarf around the flowers, a plate with crumbs.

She shut the door behind her, calling out, ‘Clo?’

Nothing. She checked the kitchen table for a note, scanned the coffee table, shoving aside two tea-stained mugs and a plate in case it was hidden beneath one of them: she never told me she was going out. A small, tight feeling pressed in her chest. Jimmy?

She reached for her phone. Called. It rang. And rang. Sammy was half expecting it to click into voicemail when Chloe’s voice came through thick and blurry. ‘Hello?’

Sammy’s grip was so tight she feared she might crush the phone. ‘Where are you?’

‘Oh . . . where am I . . .’ Chloe said, words slipping over each other. A yawn. ‘I came to find you at the house – well, not find you . . .’

The line went dead in Sammy’s ear. She stood rooted to the spot her mind flicking backwards to making the stew, to her hand reaching for that bottle of wine. The empty one she had been sure was half full.

Everything clicked into place. Half an hour to fetch those bay leaves – well, and to be with Nate. The back door was propped open. Chloe, assuming she could do whatever she wanted.

I didn’t say yes. But I didn’t say no.

She hit the redial button.

No answer.

And again. That time it went straight to voicemail.

She typed fast.

WHERE ARE YOU?

Pressed send.

No reply. No answering dancing dots.

Her keys were already in her hand, the metal biting into her palm as she stepped back outside.

The ground crunched under her feet as she jogged down the path back to the Hall.

This was her fault. She pushed on, heart pounding. Ahead of her the house loomed, every step tightening the space between what she knew and what she feared she might find.

Sammy reached the back door and went for her key, yanking the chain up, tangling it in her hair.

She saw it again – this door wedged open, the boot scraper holding it. Chloe would have seen that. Would she have taken it as an invitation? Sammy shuddered. She jabbed at the lock once, twice, before the key finally slid home.