The message was short, and to the point:
Running away doesn’t solve anything.
As I sat there, lungs frozen, a second appeared:
Do you think you can get away with what you’ve done?
My heart skittered inside my chest, as a rising flood of panic sent my head reeling. I could barely focus on the third message:
I don’t.
I dropped the phone onto the bed as if it had morphed into a venomous spider. At some point my body must have clicked into action, because when Daniel burst in moments later, I was quaking in the far corner of the room, hands clutching the collar of my pyjamas.
‘What’s happened?’ he asked, voice sharp with alarm as he scanned the room.
It took another few moments for me to compose myself enough to speak. ‘Nothing!’
‘That yell didn’t sound like nothing.’
‘A… a spider. On the bed. It shocked me, that’s all.’ I tried to laugh.
He focused on the bed, frowning. ‘Do you want me to chuck it outside?’
‘No! No. It’s fine. I can deal with spiders. It gave me a shock, that’s all.’ I rubbed my face with both hands, embarrassment supplanting the fear.
My phone pinged again, from somewhere in the rumples of the duvet. I resisted the urge to grab it before Daniel might see the message, even as my heart near exploded.
He shook his head, one hand gripping the back of his neck.
‘For a split second there, I thought someone from last night had broken in,’ Daniel managed a shaky smile, dropping his hand back down.
‘You really think that’s a possibility?’ I asked, jerking my head towards the window.
‘No.’ He smiled for real then. It was ridiculous how even with the dread of the new messages, that smile felt like the first kiss of spring sunshine.
I grew gradually more aware that Daniel and I were standing in my not-especially large bedroom, both of us wearing our nightclothes.
Ping.
‘I’d better get that.’ My voice had dropped to a whisper. I so did not want to get it.
‘Yeah.’ Daniel ruffled his hair. Was it my imagination on overdrive, or was he flustered? ‘I was hoping to jump in the shower while Hope was settled.’ He disappeared around the door frame, only to reappear a second later, just long enough to say, ‘Good luck with the spider.’
The latest ping turned out to be Becky, apologising for bailing on us so quickly the night before, and asking if I needed any help clearing up. I declined. Spending a good few hours clearing up the cider-tasting mess might help take my mind off both the far bigger mess that seemed to have followed me here, and the potentially even bigger one I would be landing myself in shortly if I didn’t get a grip on my amorous feelings.
Perhaps unsurprisingly, clearing up the barn, spending a fruitless couple of hours flicking through wallpaper online, taking Hope for a long walk in the opposite direction to the village, all utterly failed to stop me churning over the latest messages in my mind. Over and over and over they went until I was ready to chuck my phone in the Maddon.
My initial instinct was to block the number. But then they’d only get a new one. If I let this number keep messaging me then when the police investigated my gruesome murder, they’d have all the evidence in one conversation. Plus, I’d tried ignoring them – running away – and it hadn’t worked. As I tramped along the country lanes and footpaths, Hope strapped to my chest, one thought repeatedly sifted to the surface: I would rather know than constantly wonder about it. If things reached the point where I felt genuinely in danger – if,please no, they gave even the slightest indication that they knew where I was – I would speak to the police. I would definitely speak to Daniel. And then I would have to decide whether to face them, flip things around and try to contact the Alami family, or pack my bags and find somewhere else to hide.
The following day, Tuesday morning, I’d heard nothing more. I drove into Mansfield and bought a new phone, updating my Ferrington contacts and my family with my new number and then putting my old phone in my bedside drawer with the promise to myself that I’d only check it once a day. A promise I managed to keep for an impressive hour and fifty-seven minutes.
‘You need to stop worrying about what they might do to you,’ Daniel told me, as we tucked into a late dinner of pumpkin gnocchi on Friday evening, once Hope had settled in her cot.
‘What?’ I dropped my fork, splashing creamy sauce on my jumper, which made feigning cheerful confusion at his comment rather pointless. I did gather my wits quickly enough to realise that thetheyhe was talking about wasn’t thetheyI was worrying about.
‘When I took Hope for her nine-month check-up today, people mentioned it, but I don’t think anyone’s gunning for you.’
‘What did they say?’
