Chapter 81
Savannah
Last week
The ringing in Savannah’s ears continued long after the door shut.
Long after the man looked back in the window.
Long after the couple had driven away. What the hell was that all about?
She slid down the wall to sit on the hall floor, head in hands.
Where was her phone? She had to call the guards.
Whatever that woman had said, Savannah couldn’t let this go.
What if they came back? But that was precisely the problem…
what if they came back? The woman had put it so succinctly.
She knew where Savannah lived. And Savannah had no idea who she was at all.
On shaky legs, she stood and double-locked the front door, then pulled down the blinds with a chain that was dusty from lack of use.
This was a nice neighborhood. Smart, clean, landscaped space.
Newly built luxury homes. Privacy and driveways and hedges.
No need for blinds. No need until now. And this woman, this crazed woman, knew where she lived.
But—she realized—she didn’t actually know who Savannah was.
She had called her “Susan.”
Why had she called her Susan? Savannah’s eyes went to the package by the door.
A parcel for Susan O’Donnell. Had the woman seen the label and assumed that was Savannah’s name?
But why? A thought struck then. They were living at the same address, she and Susan.
Was it possible the woman thought Savannah was Susan?
Was she at the right address but the wrong house?
Savannah needed a drink. Her rum had spilled on the hall floor when the woman barged in, but the glass—a heavy Norlan Rauk tumbler—was intact.
She picked it up now, poured a double, sat back on the bottom step of the stairs and typed “Susan O’Donnell” into Google.
She’d never thought to do it before. To her, Susan was just someone who ordered (quite boring) baby clothes and (even more boring) women’s clothes.
Brands Savannah wouldn’t be caught dead in.
Not that she’d been opening the packages, apart from a few hasty mistakes over the years and—she glanced at the taped-up package by the door—this morning’s retinol.
But the branding on the outside of the parcels told of a woman stuck in a Zara and H he didn’t want kids either—but if she ever did change her mind, she’d dress them a lot better than Susan O’Donnell did.
Google returned the usual results—multiple Facebook and Instagram profiles of various Susan O’Donnells with no way to know which was the right one.
She scrolled down past LinkedIn, a set of images of many more women all called Susan O’Donnell, a few MessageBoards.ie links, and on to a variety of workplaces and universities.
Since she had no idea what Susan looked like or where she worked, none of this was of any use.
Next up, a corporate awards ceremony and a charity auction.
Then she spotted something familiar onscreen.
Or rather, someone. And it stopped her cold.