Chapter 11
CHAPTER ELEVEN
EMMA
Emma, it’s Alex Kingston. I wondered if we could talk? I hope to hear from you soon.
I t wasn’t the most telling message I’d ever received. It wasn’t the worst, either. I had no idea what he wanted to talk about, and I was nervous to find out.
Had he seen the second article?
And how did he get my private number?
I guess men like him, rich men, had their means, but it still surprised me.
Feeling intrigued, I started to tap out my response.
I didn’t expect to hear from you again. What can I help you with?
I pressed send before I could second-guess myself. Maybe it’d come across as rude, but I was telling the truth. I hadn’t expected to hear from him, not after this morning’s debacle.
Why wouldn’t you hear from me?
He responded instantly.
Did you see the article in today’s paper?
I replied. I watched as the three dots danced to show Alex was writing a response.
I did. And I thought you might need a friend. That maybe I could help. Are you free to visit Sunford tomorrow, at two?
I stared at my phone, not sure how to react.
Could I trust him?
As I toyed with my conscience and curiosity , curiosity won out and I decided to throw caution to the wind.
I’ll be there at two
I replied, and when Dan said a little too enthusiastically, “What’s startled you now? Is he stalking you again? Do you have more material for another story?” I realised I was sitting there with a shocked look on my face, staring at my phone.
“I’m glad you think my misery is excellent fodder for the newspaper,” I replied, shoving my phone back into my bag.
Dan screwed his face up. “If you’re not chasing a story twenty-four-seven, what’s your point for being here?” He stuck his nose in the air and turned back to his computer screen.
“Not everything is about that,” I said quietly, knowing he couldn’t really hear, but wanting to say it anyway. “Some things are more important than getting ahead. I have pride, you know.”
He didn’t reply, and I didn’t have time to pander to him. I had a shitty boss, a killer poet trolling me, and a rich guy messaging me. I had more than enough on my plate. Catty colleagues would have to wait in line for me to give a shit.
As everyone filed out of the office at the end of the day, I checked my emails one last time. Thankfully, I hadn’t received anything else from him . So I closed my computer down and got ready to leave.
I glanced at my phone as I headed out. No messages either. I felt a little disappointed. Alex Kingston intrigued me, I couldn’t lie. And getting the messages from him today had eased the sting from the fallout of the latest article.
The train home was crowded as usual, and I stood in the aisle, holding onto the rail to stop myself from falling. When it reached my stop, I got off, like I did every day, and walked the short distance to my road. Then, I looked up as I strolled down the short, uneven path to my door. All so mundane, so normal, and yet, it didn’t feel normal today. Something felt off. And after the day I’d had, I was on my guard.
My house was an end of terrace. The lights from my neighbour Ethel’s living room next door lit up the dark path, and I could hear her television, which was always too loud, playing the quiz shows she liked to watch while she ate her dinner. The house next to hers belonged to a young, recently married couple called Meg and Charlie Howard. And on the opposite end, lived some random guy that I’d never spoken to. A loner that no one really knew. I think his name was Bill or Bob. He kept himself to himself. Had done for years, which suited me just fine. But I was relieved I lived next to Ethel. As neighbours go, she was a good one. She was home all day and watched over the road like a hawk. She was probably watching me right now as I stepped up to my front door and put the key in the lock.
I pushed the door that led straight into my living room open and turned the lights on, and I gasped when I saw a small cardboard box sitting in the middle of my coffee table.
That hadn’t been there when I left this morning.
How the fuck did it get there?
Fuck.
This wasn’t good.
My feet were rooted to the spot, and my heart pounded in my chest as I stared at it. Then, like a fool, I called out ‘hello’. I don’t know why. It wasn’t like a murderer or a killer poet slash artist was going to answer me and say hi back or pop out from the shadows to introduce himself.
I glanced quickly at the ground to see if the postman had put a card through the letterbox, perhaps to tell me he’d tried to deliver a parcel while I was out. Maybe Ethel took it from him, then left it here. She did have a key in case of emergencies. But she’d never used it. She always kept my parcels at her house until I got home.
In all honesty, I knew something bad was about to happen. I had that sixth sense tapping away at my brain, so I decided to back out of the house and go straight to Ethel’s.
I rang her doorbell and heard her shuffling about inside. Then she opened the door and gave me a kind smile. The warm scent of her home-cooked dinner wafted over me, but even that couldn’t calm my nerves.
“Emma. It’s lovely to see you, dear. Do you want to come in?” She held her door open for me, probably hoping I’d come in for a cuppa, and I felt bad, but I had to get to the bottom of this.
“I can’t at moment, Ethel. I just wanted to ask you about the parcel that came for me today.”
Ethel frowned.
“Parcel? I didn’t take in any parcels for you today, love. Did Ken leave a note?”
Ethel spent so much time at home she was on first-name terms with the postman.
“No,” I replied, my nerves spiking. “There was no note. I just thought you might know something about the parcel that was left in my living room.”
“I’ve been here all day, pet, and I haven’t seen anyone come to your door,” Ethel said, and then noticing the panic I was trying to mask, she added, “Do you want me to come over and help you with anything?”
“No, it’s fine.” I lied. “I think one of my friends must’ve dropped it off earlier.” I could tell by the way her brows knitted together that she didn’t believe me.
“Is everything okay, Emma?” she asked.
“Yes. Honestly. I’m so sorry to disturb you. I’ll pop in for that cuppa soon, though,” I assured her.
She smiled, and after saying our goodbyes, she closed her door.
My door was still open; the light from inside spilling out onto the dark path ahead. My gut told me not to go in there, but my head screamed, ‘You have to look at the parcel. See what it is. This is your home, and no one is going to scare you out of it. Least of all some S.K.A.M. artist’.
I walked back to my house, stepped inside, and closed the door. Then I crept over to the parcel and peered down at it. There was no parcel tape on it; it was the kind that opened by a flap at the front. Cautiously, I pulled the flap free and lifted the lid, and when I saw what was inside, I let go of the lid and scrambled backwards, slapping my hands over my mouth to muffle my screams.
I took deep breaths to try and regulate my breathing. My ears rang as adrenaline coursed through my body. I couldn’t stop my hands from shaking as I took them off my mouth and whispered, “What the fuck is that?”
The box sat still on the table, waiting for me to take another look. Beckoning me with its macabre contents.
I took slow steps towards it, this time using my finger to prize the lid open again. I wanted to throw up when I saw the bloody organ lying there, nestled in bubble wrap, to stop any leakage to the cardboard around it. Underneath the lid were the words ‘Here’s a heart, seeing as you clearly don’t have one.’
I didn’t need him to sign it to know who it was from.
He’d sent me a heart.
A fucking heart.
Still red with blood, and I had no idea if it was an animals or... oh, God, the alternative didn’t bear thinking about.
What sort of fucked-up madman was he?
I grabbed a brass candlestick from my fireplace for protection and headed into my kitchen to check my back door. It was locked. So I went around checking all the windows to find out where he’d broken in, but they were all secure. Even the locks didn’t appear to have been tampered with.
How the fuck had he managed to enter my home without breaking a door or window, and without Ethel seeing him come down the path?
Was he a fucking a ghost?
I didn’t know what the fuck was going on. How things had become so messed up in such a short space of time, but I knew one thing, I couldn’t stay here. Not after he’d been here. The fucker knew where I lived. He’d been in my home. I felt dirty and wretched, this made my skin crawl. I had to get out.
I grabbed a plastic bag from my kitchen to place the box into and held it at arm’s length as I marched out of my front door to take it to the bins outside.
Then I locked up my house and sent a message to Gracie to ask if I could stay at hers. But I had somewhere else I needed to visit first.