CHAPTER 75 The Kidnapper
The Kidnapper
She arrives back just after nine o’clock in the morning. I’ve been hiding, crouched at first, then sitting cross-legged, then reclining with my back against a neat stack of towels, for hours.
It’s a relief to finally hear the front door. A soft click, and she’s talking.
‘It’s fine, it’s fine, it’s fine,’ she mutters under her breath; she is talking to herself. Through the crack in the door, like all those weeks ago, I see her. Hair tied up, pale skin, today carrying a lever arch file and a Stanley cup.
She stops dead in the hallway, as though she knows somebody is here, or else perhaps this is something she routinely does. I watch her make slow progress through to the kitchen, putting a rucksack down carefully but in the doorway; she’s spooked.
She seems to relax after a few moments and starts to make a hot drink, possibly tea, I’m not sure. And this is my moment.
Another glance through the crack; it is absolutely, definitely her.
I step out of the cupboard, holding my rope.
She hears the noise, and instead of startling, her body goes completely still.
I hold my breath as she freezes, then turns to me in slow motion.
Her shoulders are up, her eyes round with fear that I am – that someone is – here in her space, that she had no idea.
Our eyes meet.
And then recognition flashes, as fast as headlights.
Earlier, I learned that Michaela Wyatt owns this house. And that, therefore, this is her daughter, who I have been searching for.
‘Lucy,’ she says softly, her voice all feathers. ‘Lucy Seaborn.’
I reply: ‘It’s me.’