David nodded. ‘You see my potential when nobody else seems to.’
‘Your parents seem scared of you sometimes,’ I said. ‘Why is that?’
David shrugged, his lips twisting in a small, private smile. ‘They’re not scared ofme, exactly. They’re scared of what I might do.’
His comment seemed final. As if he didn’t want to say any more about it.
But I felt the reassurance of that power wrapping itself around me each time David stepped into the room. Each time he turned his attention to me, I would see the same strange dread in Mrs Webb’s eyes and a wary watchfulness from her husband.
I felt as if I was holding something delicate and thrilling in my hands. David was protective of me, and now he was here, my whole life with the Webbs had been transformed.
I couldn’t work out why they seemed so worried.
42
Saturday
Merri
On the day of the drinks party, my skin seems to have shrunk during the night. When I wake, my body feels tight and sore, as if I might be coming down with something. I want to pull the covers over my head and go to sleep. But every time I close my eyes, the photographs flash behind the lids and I want to throw up.
I’m halfway through pulling out the wine glasses when I realize I’ve forgotten to buy some fancy olives and a few other nibbles. Dev had offered to organize tonight but, without being cruel, his idea of a drinks party would probably extend to a few bottles of beer and slices of pizza. Job done. I wanted something more refined than that, so I said I’d sort it out, that I’d welcome the distraction. But little things keep slipping through my fingers, details I’d usually obsess over. Instead, my head is full of how we’re going to catch our traitor.
I blow out a shaky breath and grab my keys. I’ll pop to the deli in Bowness: a breath of fresh air will do me good. Keep me grounded.
The village is only a ten-minute drive from Lakeview House, winding through a backdrop of scenic hills and past the glittering lake. Today, every turn feels too sharp, every shadow stretching a little too long. My fingers tighten aroundthe steering wheel, my palms damp as I force myself to focus on the road.
I pull into the small car park. It’s almost empty, just a dusty old Land Rover parked to one side.
The bell above the deli door rings shrilly as I step inside. It’s small and inviting in here, with wooden shelves behind the counter lined with artisan breads, jars of locally made chutneys, and exclusive cheeses wrapped in waxed paper.
In one of the glass displays, more temptation waits. Assorted marinated olives and slices of cured meats arranged like a work of art. Another showcases delicate pastries that wouldn’t look out of place in a French patisserie.
It’s the kind of place where even the simplest items feel like utter luxury – and the prices remind you of it.
The shopkeeper glances up with a smile. Something registers in her eyes – recognition, maybe. I’ve been in here once before with Tilda. Or perhaps it’s something colder I can sense. Accusing.
I approach the counter and make a start. I select a couple of sourdough loaves, some packets of Italian meats, a punnet of whipped salted butter and, while she’s wrapping the goods, I cast my eyes over the olives. ‘It’s handy having such a well-stocked shop like this nearby,’ I say, my tone bright. ‘We’ve just moved to the area.’
‘Yes,’ she says, her voice flat. ‘You’re the people who won the house, right?’
‘That’s right!’ I’m encouraged until I realize she isn’t smiling. ‘We’re just settling in and getting to know the area.’
‘Yes,’ she says, her tone cool and a bit off. ‘So I heard.’
The words land between us like a stone. I point to a couple of types of olives and a wedge of cheese to add to the other items in my basket. I can’t wait to get out of here.
That’s when I feel it – a prickling at the back of my neck. I glance to the side. Two women are standing by the packets of dried pasta, heads together and talking in low voices. One catches my eye and turns away too fast. But not before I catch the cold, cutting stare she sends my way.
Do they know who vandalized our windows? Would they even tell me if I asked? These places become closed shops when outsiders look for help. Have any of the people in here seen the photographs online? Maybe one of them has even made a nasty comment.
The packed shelves and display cabinets crowd in. This place feels less quaint and more claustrophobic with each second that passes. I hear the shopkeeper say a figure and I swipe my credit card over the payment terminal, bundling my purchases into my canvas shopping bag before I head for the door.
Somewhere behind me someone laughs – sharp, loud, deliberate. I don’t look back. The tinny bell rings again as I leave, louder this time, the sound clawing at my nerves.
When I reach the car, I see the damage immediately. A long, jagged scratch carved into the paintwork, running the length of the driver’s side.
My breath catches in my throat. For a second, I just stand there, staring, my brain scrambling to make sense of it.
