Chapter 27
The call came just after nine.
Erica almost didn’t answer. The email still sat unopened on her laptop. The number was unfamiliar but local. For a moment she stared at it vibrating against the table, the name Andrew Peters hovering in her mind like a watermark.
It stopped.
Then began again.
She picked up.
“Erica Hayes speaking.”
“Ms Hayes.” The voice was smooth, measured. Pleasant in the way polished wood was pleasant. “Andrew Peters.”
Of course.
“I did email,” he continued lightly. “I wasn’t sure if you’d had the chance to respond.”
“I’ve been busy.”
A small pause. “Yes. So I gather.”
The cottage felt colder suddenly.
“I won’t keep you long,” he said. “I’ve had a few conversations this week. Concerns have been raised.”
“Concerns?”
“Your recent enquiries. The historical angle you’re pursuing. It’s created … unrest.”
“It’s history.”
“History,” he agreed gently, “is rarely as simple as we’d like it to be. Especially when presented without full context.”
Erica pressed her free hand against the table. “I’m not presenting anything. I’m researching.”
“In a small town, Ms Hayes, the distinction can blur.”
She swallowed.
“We’re very proud of Rock Cove and the surrounding villages,” he went on. “We work hard to preserve its character. Its stability. When narratives arise suggesting corruption or … impropriety among respected families, people take notice.”
“I haven’t named anyone.”
“Not yet.”
The words were soft. Not accusatory. But silence stretched between them.
“I’m simply advising caution,” he said. “You have a platform. A following. Speculation travels quickly in the wrong hands.”
“I haven’t posted anything.”
“But you could.”
There it was.
He shifted his tone slightly – still calm, but firmer. “It would be unfortunate if misunderstandings were amplified. Particularly by someone who is … relatively new to the community.”
The simple statement hit with unexpected force.
“I live here,” she said quietly.
“Yes. Though some might say temporarily.”
The words rang in her ears like a closing door.
“We value continuity,” he continued. “People who understand the town’s rhythms. Its loyalties.”
“And I don’t?”
“I don’t know that you’ve been here long enough to.”
The cottage ticked and creaked around her.
He let the silence sit. He was good at that.
“I did look into you,” he added mildly. “Given the attention surrounding your arrival. And always, public figures,” he said, “invite scrutiny. I’m sure you understand that.”
She said nothing.
“Your blog. The burnout. The hospitalisation. It must have been difficult.”
Heat flooded her face.
“I mention it only because,” he continued smoothly, “Rock Cove values stability. We’re cautious about external narratives that may be driven by … personal resonance.”
“You think this is about me.”
“I think,” he replied, “that sometimes unresolved matters colour how we interpret the past.”
She felt suddenly exposed, as if the walls had thinned.
“There’s also,” he added almost idly, “the matter of family history.”
Her grip tightened on the phone.
“Small communities remember things. Patterns. Departures.”
He let that hang.
“I understand your mother left rather abruptly,” he said gently. “That must have been unsettling.”
“That is none of your—”
“I’d hate,” he cut in, “for people to draw parallels where none are intended.”
“I’m not my mother,” she said, but her voice lacked force.
“Of course not,” he replied. “And I’m not your enemy, Ms Hayes. I’m simply protecting our town’s interests.” A pause. “I trust you’ll make the right decision.”
The line went dead.
She stood there, phone still pressed to her ear.
The cottage felt temporary. Unstable.
Patterns.
Parallels.
His words pulled her inwards. She wasn’t shaking. Not yet. But something inside her had shifted, a hairline crack widening quietly.
He’d been polite.
That was the worst part.
No shouting. No threat. Just the suggestion that she did not belong.
That she was a disturbance and carried instability with her like scent.
She dropped into the chair and stared at the dark window.
I’m not my mother.
The words sounded childish now.
Her phone felt heavy in her hand, and yet she scrolled.
Leah.
For a moment she hesitated.
Then she pressed call.
Leah answered on the fourth ring.
“What?”
Not hello.
Erica swallowed. “Hi.”
A pause. “Are you okay?”
It wasn’t warm.
“I just—” Erica’s voice wavered and she hated that it did. “I needed to talk to you.”
There was the faint sound of dishes being moved. A cupboard shutting.
“It’s a bit late,” Leah said.
“I know.”
Silence again.
“How’s Maisie?” Erica asked, instantly regretting how small it sounded.
“She’s fine.” Another cupboard. A sigh. “She’s not fine,” Leah corrected. “She cried herself to sleep on Halloween. She thought you were coming.”
“I’m sorry.”
Leah’s voice thinned. “You’re always sorry.”
Erica closed her eyes.
“I had things happening,” she began. “The research, and—”
“The research,” Leah repeated, a brittle laugh in it. “Do you know what she said to me?” Leah continued. “She said, ‘Maybe Auntie Erica didn’t want to spend Halloween with me.’”
“That’s not true,” Erica whispered.
“Really? So you forgot?”
“I was overwhelmed,” Erica said. “I’m not coping brilliantly.”
“And I am?” Leah snapped, and then immediately exhaled. “Sorry. That wasn’t fair.” But the edge remained. “I just—” Leah’s voice wobbled, just slightly. “I can’t keep explaining you to her. I can’t keep making excuses.”
“I’m not asking you to.”
“You kind of are.”
“That’s not fair.”
“Isn’t it?”
Silence.
“You let us orbit you,” Leah said. “And when you burn out or break up or run away from something, you come back and expect everything to be exactly where you left it.”
Run away.
“I don’t—” Erica stopped. “I don’t run.”
“Mum did,” Leah snapped.
The word hung there between them.
Both of them breathing.
“I’m not her,” Erica said, again. Softer now.
“No,” Leah said tiredly. “You’re not.”
But she didn’t say what she was instead.
“I just thought,” Erica began, voice thinning, “that you’d understand.”
“I do understand,” Leah said. “That’s the problem. I always do.”
That hurt more than anger would have.
“You’re my sister,” Erica whispered.
“I know.” Another pause. “But you don’t get to drift in and out of my daughter’s life like this,” Leah said. “She adores you. And every time you disappear, it takes her a little while to trust that you won’t again.”
Erica pressed her hand to her mouth.
“I can’t do this tonight,” Leah added, “I’m tired. Dylan’s tired. The house is freezing because the boiler’s playing up again. I don’t have space to hold you right now.”
The words undid her.
“I didn’t mean—”
“I know you didn’t mean to,” Leah said. “You never mean to.” Then the line went quiet. “Why did I think this time would be different?” Leah murmured, almost to herself.
Erica couldn’t speak.
“I’ll talk to you tomorrow,” Leah said finally. “I just can’t, Erica. Good night.”
The call ended.
She stood in the centre of the room and felt suddenly untethered, as if the ground beneath her wasn’t fixed, only borrowed.
Maybe she didn’t belong here like Andrew Peters had said.
“I’m not her,” she whispered into the dark.
But the words didn’t sound convincing anymore.
She moved mechanically, pulling a bag from the cupboard, and stuffing clothes into it without folding them. Her notebook. Her laptop. The charger.
Her hands were steady.
That frightened her most of all.
She paused in the doorway and looked back at the cottage.
The chair. The hanging dress. The mug still half full on the table.
Temporary.
The wind rattled the windows again.
Erica picked up Lucky; he quickly clawed up to her shoulder, trusting that she knew where they were going.
She switched off the lights, locked the door and walked out into the dark.
This time, she didn’t look back.