2. Chapter 1
Chapter 1
Luke
T he cursor blinks.
It has been blinking for fifty-three minutes. I know this because I have checked the time. Repeatedly.
I tap the keyboard. Type three words. Delete them.
A low sigh escapes me as I lean back in my chair, staring at the empty page on my screen. It stares back, unimpressed.
My phone vibrates against the desk, and I glance at the screen.
Philip.
I let it ring. Maybe he will think I’m busy.
It stops and then rings again.
This time I answer, because there is no escaping him, apparently. "Before you start, no, I haven't written anything, and no, I don’t need a lecture."
"You need a miracle," Philip says, impatiently. "And possibly an exorcism."
I sigh, pinching the bridge of my nose. "Good morning to you, too."
"Morning? Luke, it's nearly noon. You were supposed to send me something by now. A paragraph. A sentence. A single coherent thought."
I glance at my notebook, where a page of disjointed scribbles mocks me. Detective doesn’t realise he’s solving his own murder. Crossed out. Serial killer targets people who leave one-star reviews. Crossed out, but with an asterisk. I close it.
"I'm in the thinking stage," I say, spinning my pen between my fingers.
Philip makes an impatient noise. "You’ve been in the thinking stage for six months."
"Thinking is important."
"Writing is also important. Preferably before your deadline."
I sigh, staring at the blank page again. "Fine. You want ideas? How about this: a former criminal defence lawyer becomes a famous bestselling author and moves to the countryside, hoping for a fresh start, but instead, he slowly loses his mind while his editor nags him to death."
"Sounds dull," Philip says. "No one would read it."
"Well, I’m living it, so that makes two of us suffering."
He ignores me. "Come on, Luke, throw something at me. Anything."
I rub my jaw, glancing at the notebook again. "Alright. A detective… who doesn’t realise he’s solving his own murder."
"That is The Sixth Sense with extra admin," Philip says after a brief pause.
I grimace. "Fine. What about an author who turns serial killer—"
"If this is about the Goodreads review, I swear to God—"
"It was an unfair review," I mutter.
Philip groans. "You do realise your deadline is in three months?"
"I have been made aware, yes."
"For a book. That does not exist."
"Excellent summary of the problem."
"You've written twenty-three novels, Luke. You’ve pulled off impossible deadlines before. What’s different now?"
I press my fingers against my temple. "I don't know. I just…" I exhale. "There’s nothing there. No spark, no ideas, nothing I care to write about."
The line is quiet for a moment. Then Philip speaks, his voice a fraction softer. "You’ve been shut away in that house for months. You need to get out of your own head."
I frown. "I go out."
"Walking to your letterbox does not count."
I shift in my chair. "I get coffee every morning."
"Right, and how meaningful are these interactions? Do you pour your heart out to the barista? Are you forging deep human connections over your flat white?"
"She knows my order," I say. "That’s a connection."
Philip groans. "Luke. You need new input. Something real. Something that isn't murder related."
"That limits my options."
"Join something. A club. A group. I don’t know, take up pottery. Just do something that doesn’t involve you sitting alone, glaring at a screen."
I scoff. "Oh yes, I’ll take up basket weaving. That’ll really fire up the crime writing."
"You joke, but if you don’t send me a decent outline soon, I will personally enrol you in a watercolour class."
I glance at the blinking cursor, a slow, taunting pulse. Maybe he has a point. Maybe I do need a break from the usual routine.
Still, the idea of joining anything makes my skin itch. Groups mean people. People mean small talk. Small talk means pretending to care about other people’s opinions on the weather.
Not happening.
"I’ll think about it," I say.
"You’ll do it," Philip corrects.
"Fine. I’ll consider doing it."
"Unbelievable," he mutters. "Three months, Luke. Three months!"
"I heard you the first five times."
"Then start writing."
The line goes dead.
I toss my phone onto the desk and stare at the screen again. The cursor blinks. My mind stays empty.
I press my fingers into my temples, willing something—anything—to click into place. Nothing. Not even a bad idea. At this point, I’d settle for a terrible one just to have somewhere to start.
Pushing back from the desk, I stand and stretch, my spine making a series of ominous cracks. Sitting in the same position for hours on end isn’t doing me any favours. I wander to the window, staring out at the drizzle-soaked landscape beyond the glass. The fields stretch out in every direction, hedgerows marking the boundaries of farmland, a grey sky hanging heavy over the hills. Somewhere in the distance, a tractor trundles along, cutting a slow path through the mist.
It’s quiet out here. Peaceful. Which is precisely what I wanted when I left London.
And yet.
I run a hand through my hair, exhaling slowly. Maybe Philip is right. Maybe I do need to shake things up. Not in some dramatic, life-changing way, but enough to shift something loose in my brain. I’ve been stuck in the same cycle for months now—wake up, stare at a blank document, drink coffee, avoid writing, repeat.
I glance at my watch. Just after eleven. If I leave now, I can still make it into the village before the lunch crowd clogs up the café. Not that it gets particularly crowded, but I prefer to avoid any unnecessary small talk.
Grabbing my coat, I step outside. The air is cool and damp, the kind of Yorkshire chill that settles into your bones if you stand still for too long. I pull my hood up as I walk down the lane towards St Claire, hands stuffed into my pockets.
It’s a short walk into the village, the road lined with dry-stone walls and the occasional sheep, watching me with vague interest before going back to chewing grass. The café sits on the corner of the high street, next to the post office and the kind of shop that sells everything from milk to fishing bait.
Pushing open the door, I step inside, the warmth and smell of fresh coffee hitting me instantly. A few locals are scattered around, nursing mugs and flipping through newspapers. The barista, a woman in her fifties with a no-nonsense expression, glances up.
“Flat white?” she asks, already reaching for a cup.
“Please.” I lean against the counter, scanning the headlines of the newspapers stacked by the till. Same old doom and gloom.
Just as a I carry my cup of coffee to an empty table, the bell over the door jingles, and the peace is instantly replaced with movement and energy.
"Morning, Angela! Sorry, bit late today. My printer was playing up."
The voice is light, familiar to this place, the kind of sound that belongs in cosy little villages like this one. I glance sideways and immediately wish I hadn’t.
She’s tall, blonde, and windswept, cheeks flushed from the cold. There’s something effortless about her, like she just exists at a slightly brighter frequency than everyone else. Her coat is half-off as she rummages in her bag, her movements quick but easy, like she’s been running around all morning but still somehow has energy to spare.
She pulls out a folded piece of paper and smooths it onto the counter. “Oh, and can I put this up on the noticeboard? It’s for a new walking group I’m starting.”
I take a slow sip of coffee. Of course she is. She definitely has the energy for group outings.
Angela nods. "Aye, Nancy, go on then. Just shift the advert for Pete’s chimney sweeping.”
The blonde pins the flyer up on the pinboard next to my table with a satisfied little nod. She steps back, admiring her work, then glances around. Her gaze lands on me.
To my horror, she does not move on.
Her head tilts slightly, a flicker of recognition in her eyes. She’s trying to place me.
Then, before I can pretend to be invisible, she steps closer.
“You’re the one who moved into that big house on the edge of the village, aren’t you?”
I consider lying, but suspect she already knows the answer. “Depends, who’s asking.”
She gives me a look, amused but patient, like she’s dealt with this sort of attitude before. “Nancy Walker. Nice to finally meet you.”
I nod. “Luke.”
Her lips twitch like she’s holding back a response. Instead, she studies me, head cocked slightly, like she’s trying to see past the surface. “The village has been wondering about you.”
A muscle in my jaw tightens. “Have they?”
She grins, clearly enjoying this. “’Course they have. Mysterious man from London, keeps to himself, never says much to anyone— of course people talk.”
Fantastic. I’ve spent months successfully avoiding social interaction, and now it turns out I’ve been accidentally interesting this entire time.
I sip my coffee. “And what conclusions have been drawn?”
She shrugs. “Jury’s still out. You might be a tortured artist type, or possibly someone in witness protection.”
“Could be both,” I mutter.
That makes her laugh, a proper one, head tilting back slightly. I should not notice how gorgeous she looks when she does that, but I do.
She gestures towards the flyer. “So, how about it?”
I frown. “How about what?”
“Join my walking group.”
I stare at her. “You don’t even know if I like walking.”
“Well,” she says, thoughtful, “you do have legs, which suggests some level of participation in the activity.”
I exhale slowly. “Oh, you are a comedian now?” I bite back a grin.
She shrugs. “Depends on who you ask. Some people call it optimism. My sister calls it exhausting.”
I glance at the noticeboard, where the flyer now sits in bold, cheerful lettering. The Ramblers of St Claire. Even the name sounds like a club for people who enjoy light chit-chat and fresh air, neither of which rank highly on my list of interests.
Nancy watches me, waiting. I shake my head. “Not really my thing.”
“How do you know?”
“Because I know myself.”
“That’s a bit closed-minded,” she says, but there’s no malice in it. Just curiosity.
I sigh, rubbing my fingers over my jaw. “Look, I appreciate the invite, but I’m not exactly the ‘rambling’ type.”
She studies me, arms folded, a slight smirk playing at the corner of her lips. “What is your type, then?”
I blink. “What?”
“You said you’re not the rambling type. So what type are you?”
I shift my weight. “I prefer solitude.”
“Ah,” she says, as if that confirms something for her. “The brooding variety. Got it.”
I give her a flat look. “I am not brooding.”
“You are absolutely brooding.”
Angela coughs pointedly behind the counter. “He does a bit of brooding, aye.”
I take a long sip of coffee. “This conversation has been very illuminating.”
Nancy grins. “So you’ll think about it?”
“I will not.”
“You’re definitely thinking about it.”
I shake my head, slipping on my jacket before picking up my coffee. “Nice meeting you, Nancy.”
“You too, Luke,” she says easily, stepping aside as I move to leave. Just as I reach the door, she calls out, “See you at the walk on Saturday!”
I glance over my shoulder. “I never said I was coming.”
She winks. “Didn’t say you weren’t.”
I step outside, the cold air biting against my face.
I am not going to that walking group.
No chance.