‘So you think even that brick through the window wasn’t just a random vandal? You think it’s connected?’
A spark of vindication flares in my chest. ‘That’s exactly what I think. We need to find out who took those photos, Dev,’ I continue, my voice rising up an octave. ‘Whoever did this has been inside our house and, seeing as nobody has broken in – as far as we can tell – it must be someone we know. Someone we invited here thinking they’re genuine.’
Dev’s frown deepens. For once, he doesn’t interrupt, doesn’t downplay what I’m saying. Encouraged, I press on, a plan tumbling out of me before doubt can creep in. ‘But it’s hard to believe one of our new friends would do anything like this.’
Dev watches me carefully, his expression unreadable. ‘And just say we discover it’s definitely not one of them, what then?’
I stand up, stiff and suddenly cold. My pulse thunders in my ears as I try to make sense of it all. I’m struck by a sudden urge to leave this place and go back to what we know. Our old home in Nottingham. But Paige is installed in the semi now. We’re trapped here.
Dev’s question hangs in the air, heavy and suffocating. I don’t have an answer.
Then my line of thought gets darker still. What if the culprit is someone who knows about my past? People gossip,stories are passed on … It could be someone I’ve never set eyes on who knows who I am. The six degrees of separation theory … It’s too horrifying to entertain and I shake my head, forcing the thought away.
The unease lingers, hooked tightly into my chest. Outside, the light is fading. The clusters of trees look thick and darker than ever. The vista is open and wide but standing here, with fear writhing inside me, I feel like a bug under a microscope.
I tell Dev then – I just blurt it out in the middle of everything else – about the man I think I saw in the trees. ‘It’s not my imagination, Dev. There’s someone out there. He’s watching the house. I think he’s watching me. I keep catching glimpses, like a small movement, but when I try to focus on it, there’s nothing.’
He pauses and frowns, then says kindly, ‘You’ve had a lot on, Merri. Maybe your mind’s just … I don’t know … filling in blanks. There’s no reason for anyone to be watching you, is there?’
When I don’t say anything, Dev stands up and crosses the room, his warm hands finding my shoulders. His grip feels steady, grounding. ‘We’ll handle this, Merri. Together. We won’t let anything spoil our happiness here.’
I swallow the words that are threatening to spill from my mouth.
It might already be too late for that.
38
Thursday
Dev
The next morning, Dev moves quietly through the kitchen. He’s got the radio on low and the chugging of the coffee machine is helping to lighten the atmosphere. Silly as it seems, the house feels different today – the air seems heavier, as if it’s filling up with worries and tension.
He cracks two eggs into the pan, the shells making sharp little clicks. The toast pops up, slightly more burned than he’d like, but it’ll do. Merri’s nerves won’t be helped by perfect toast. While the eggs cook, he glances at the wide glass doors and windows. He and Jack cleaned off the paint, but the scratches must remain until the replacement glass arrives.
Beyond the mess, the landscape rolls out in soft greens and misty blues, the trees standing tall and indifferent to their worries. It should be peaceful. Itwaspeaceful, before the windows were defaced, before the hostile glances at the pub burrowed into his skin, like ticks.
The coffee machine sputters, steam hissing as he fills Merri’s new favourite mug – hand-painted, from a small pottery shop in town. Dev butters the toast, slides the eggs on to a plate and sets everything on a lap tray.
Merri has been so wound up since the vandalism, flinching at every sound, every shadow. And now this. The revelationthat personal photographs of their home have been plastered all over social media in her name.
The comments were horrible, even more worrying than the photographs. Dev wouldn’t admit it to Merri, but even he feels as if everyone around here has started to resent them. After the unpleasant glares, and the muttered remarks at the pub, he feels freaked out, too.
After Merri told him about the photographs being posted, an idea had occurred to him. Very warm weather – albeit with a low risk of a flash storm on Saturday evening – had been forecast for the weekend. Maybe asking friends round for drinks on the terrace would help cement their feeling of belonging here.
He’d thought it could even be a dry run for inviting more people in a few weeks’ time when they’d got to know some. Show everyone they were just an ordinary couple, not here to disrupt anything or impose. But now, after Merri’s revelation about the photographs, he wonders if the drinks party couldn’t serve a more important role in rooting out a traitor among their new friends. If indeed that is the case.
They’d invite just Jack and Sarah, Simon and Tilda.
He’s noticed Merri has spent less time on the terrace since her claim that she saw someone hiding in the trees. She’s also started closing the glass doors instead of letting air in, as had become their habit.
Initially, Dev had dismissed what she’d said as nerves, even though the fear in her eyes had been real enough. But now – although he’d never say so – he has his doubts.
Still, if they don’t nip this in the bud, it will fester. Dev can imagine it already – the creeping anxiety, the sleepless nights. It has the potential to snowball into something bigger, something that might push Merri to want to leave the place.
That was why he’d made a call yesterday after she’d toldhim about the photos, and now he’s going to have to tell her what he’s done. He knows she’ll kick against it. He’s certain of that. He’s just not completely sure why.
He takes the tray and heads upstairs. In the bedroom, Merri is still curled up under the duvet, the blinds cracked just enough to let in a sliver of light.
