My Husband’s Wife

Chapter 11 Eden

EDEN

I feel like something inside me has died.

This morning I was looking forward to spending quality time with my husband and meeting some of the people who live in Hope Falls at my first exhibition.

Now my whole life has turned upside down and, just to add to the chaos, I think I might have broken the law by throwing a policeman’s car keys into the sea.

I don’t want him to drive me to the next town and have me locked up; I needed to slow him down.

I have never been in trouble with the police, never been accused of any crime.

But I am so far out of my comfort zone I can’t see my way back, so I do what I always do and run.

Up the hill and toward the house I know is mine.

It’s raining now and I’m soaked to the skin by the time I reach Spyglass.

I’m pleased to see that Harrison’s car is still gone, and that my Range Rover is still parked in the driveway.

Once I have found what I’m looking for inside the house I plan to get out of here.

I presume Harrison and the woman pretending to be me are still at the art gallery; it certainly doesn’t look like there is anyone home, but I have no intention of trying the front door again.

I just need to get inside, find something to prove that I am the real Eden Fox—I’m guessing my passport should do it—then get out.

I walk to the back of the property, pick up a rock, and smash the glass door.

Then I reach inside, twist the handle, and let myself in.

I search the kitchen for my phone but it isn’t on the counter where I left it.

I can’t find my purse either, which means I can’t find my driver’s license.

I stop and stare at the room, remembering our first night in this house.

It was the last time Harrison and I made love.

We christened our new home right here on the kitchen counter.

Harri seemed reluctant at first, which was not like him.

I didn’t take it personally—I thought he was just tired from the move and the long drive from London—and after I got a little champagne inside him he relaxed.

I’ve always known how to turn him on, and once we got going it felt like the good old days when we first met.

Back then we couldn’t keep our hands off each other.

I remember how he picked me up and lay me down on this wooden worktop the night we moved in.

Then he unbuttoned the front of my dress from top to bottom until all of me was exposed.

I remember his head between my legs and closing my eyes.

I only opened them again to see the look on his face when he thrust himself inside me.

The sex wasn’t like normal. It felt almost animal-like, and he looked angry with me, but maybe I just imagined it.

I push the memories of us from my mind and race through every downstairs room—rooms I decorated—hunting inside the drawers of furniture I lovingly restored. There is no doubt about it in my mind. This is my home. How else would I know where to look?

But then why can’t I find anything?

Downstairs looks as though it has been completely ransacked by the time I am finished searching for something I can’t find.

Anything to prove who I am. It’s as though all traces of me have been removed.

Hidden. Taken. There are pictures in the lounge of our daughter, Gabriella.

Various shots of her since she was a baby.

But there are none of us as a family; any photos of me are gone.

There is one of Harri and Gabby when she was a little girl—an old favorite of mine—but the ones of the three of us together are all missing.

As is the wedding photo of me and Harrison that is normally here.

I hurry upstairs to the bedroom I share with my husband.

Everything looks exactly as it did before I went for my run.

I open the wardrobe, pull out some jeans and a clean white T-shirt, and quickly get changed out of my dripping wet running gear.

The jeans feel a bit loose around the waist, but I suppose I have lost weight recently.

Then I grab a pretty cashmere sweater covered in stars I don’t remember buying and put it in a bag with some other things I might need later.

I catch a glimpse of my reflection in the mirror on the bedroom wall and I barely recognize the woman who stares back.

No wonder the police officer was looking at me as though I might be crazy.

I guess the house move, combined with countless sleepless nights worrying about why Harrison was being so distant, anxiety about the exhibition, guilt about my daughter, and weeks spent renovating this place have taken their toll.

I still look good—long blond hair suits me—but I look tired, a shadow of my former self.

The version of me my husband fell in love with is long gone.

I search inside the drawer in the bedroom where I keep my passport but it isn’t there.

My laptop is missing too. All traces of me seem to have been removed.

I discover an old birthday card from Harrison to me with the words I love you to death scrawled inside.

I don’t remember the card, but reading it now makes me shiver.

I find some money hidden in the back of my underwear drawer—if ever I needed a secret rainy-day stash of cash this is it—and shove the banknotes into my pockets.

Our bedroom is at the front of the house, and when I hear what sounds like footsteps coming up the gravel drive I freeze.

Could Sergeant Carter really have got here that quickly?

I creep onto the landing and peer out of one of the eye-shaped windows that must have gifted this house its name.

Spyglass is at the top of the hill overlooking the entire village, and from here you really can spy on everything and everyone below.

I look out now but there is nobody there.

Maybe I imagined it. Either way, I’m sure someone will be here soon, and I need to hurry.

So far I have failed to find my phone, my ID, my purse, my laptop, my passport, or my handbag—which also contained my car keys.

I know I had a spare set of keys for the Range Rover somewhere, but it’s hard to think straight with everything that has happened tonight.

I rush back into the main bedroom to search for them.

If I can’t find anything to prove who I am then I need to get as far away from here as possible until I can come up with a plan.

I think I hear a noise downstairs, and I panic that I’m going to be arrested for breaking and entering on top of everything else.

Then I remind myself that I own this house.

I stop and stand still, hear nothing, and carry on opening drawers.

That’s when I notice the silver frame on the dresser in the bedroom.

This frame is normally downstairs. I remember carefully choosing it years ago for my favorite picture of us on our wedding day.

But when I take a closer look at the photo now, it is not of Harri and me.

It’s of him and her. It’s the same photo, but it must have been photoshopped or something, I don’t understand.

I am not a violent person but something inside me snaps and I throw the frame across the room.

It hits the wall, falls to the floor, and the glass shatters.

I keep opening drawers, pulling everything out of them, tossing it all on the carpet, and I’m so happy when I find the spare set of car keys I almost cry again.

I know what to do now. I know where to go.

I’m going to visit my daughter. Gabriella won’t talk to me, but going there will help me prove who I am.

I hurry out of the bedroom and along the landing.

I hear the creak of a floorboard just as I’m about to head downstairs.

It all happens too fast—so fast I don’t know whether I tripped or if someone pushed me—but I lose my balance, my arms reaching out for something that isn’t there, and then I am falling down the staircase.

Tumbling. Twisting. Breaking.

I hear a loud crack as I land on the stone floor.

There is an explosion of pain in the back of my head, and a shadowy figure slowly walks toward me. My world fades to black before I can see who it is, and I think I might be dying.