CHAPTER 4
Ella
My nail pushes into the corner of the thick, luxurious white card, no bigger than a postcard.
A threat. I run my finger over the carefully handwritten letters, the same chill rippling through me as it did last night.
This was placed under my pillow. Bile rises as I remember taking a breather from the party, entering my room to process the creepy phone call, noticing a lingering familiar smell in the air as my eyes land on the corner of white in my bed.
My name etched in cursive across the middle.
Someone placed a threat in my bedroom.
Someone was in my bedroom.
He was in my bedroom?
My vision blurs as I run through every moment of the party, from chatting to Immi and Jude to the hollow moment when someone called me. I swallow the remainder of the now room-temperature water in a desperate gulp, licking my dry lips when I am done.
The laptop whirs on the sofa next to me, but the podcast episode I’m due to work on for the rest of the weekend remains untouched. A familiar tremor spreads from my fingers and leaves me unable to move as my eyes read the letter. The delicate black words stark against the thick white cardstock.
Dear liar,
Are you ready to catch a killer, Elsabelle?
Because I am.
Signed, me.
I open a tab, typing in anything that might distract my mind.
But nothing helps. The list of people who would want to hurt me is long.
There are plenty of people I’ve helped through the podcast, but then again, there are plenty of people who claim I’ve gained from others’ trauma.
I’m sure there are people on this street who would take pleasure in seeing my downfall.
I work for a local law firm. My contributions to some of the cases have led to people in prison.
And then there’s him. The thoughts of who it could be spiral as I worry circles on my forehead, to no avail.
“Hey.” Rufus pops his head through, a look on his face that I can’t place. I form mine into a smile and put the laptop on the cushion.
“Hi.” I sit up straight, drawing my knees away from my chest. My hair is wild, the curls tickling my ear, but I resist the urge to readjust myself more.
“I’m heading into the office today. What are you wearing to the Julian event?” Rufus says, still leaning through the doorway. Has it always been like this with us, or was there a time when he’d ask how I was?
“Oh, I haven’t quite decided,” I say.
There’s a beat, and then another. If I leave it any longer, it will look rude, but I can’t bring myself to draw out any more words.
“I’ll pick something out for you,” he says in the end, stepping into the room.
He’s in his blue suit, the one we got in Italy that has yellow and gold stitching in the inner sleeves, collar and lapel.
It’s one of my favourites. During the trip, he bought me a dress to match the deep, rich navy of his suit.
I don’t think I’ve ever put it on.
“Oh, thank you,” I say, distracted by the shadow he casts through the doorway. A thought itches at my spine. I shift in my seat. It’s the first time I’ve seen Rufus since the engagement party. He spent all of Sunday off playing golf, returning long after I fell into a fitful sleep.
“Did you see anyone go upstairs on Saturday night?” I say. In a house full of neighbours, someone was in my room. Leaving me threats in my personal space. It could have been any of them. Or, it could have been someone far worse.
“Um, no.” He reaches forward, plumping a cushion. “Why?”
My fingers work over the edge of my sleeve, running the material between my nails and skin. Two things happened on Saturday night that tilted everything off kilter, but if I tell Rufus too much, I could lose the one piece of protection that I have. Rufus walks the length of the living room.
“No reason, the room just seemed messy when I went up,” I say.
Rufus leans over, placing my cup on the coaster. “It was probably you getting ready and leaving the place a mess.”
“Yeah.” I watch as he wipes the residual water off the coffee table with his palm, his eyes looking down on me. Was I expecting Rufus to have the answer to who is watching me?
I already know who is watching me.
“What are your plans for the rest of the day?” he says, placing a finger under my chin and drawing my face up towards him.
I rise to my feet, letting the kiss wash over me.
A heat rises through my chest, pooling in my cheeks as he places a hand around my waist. I need him to pick me up and make me feel better.
Yesterday had both crawled past me in bursts of fear and rumination that taunted me with the looming isolation of Monday.
“The cleaners arrived an hour ago to straighten everything up. They have sent someone different, so I’ll wait for them to be done, and then I’ll go out.
I have a few podcast edits to get finished.
” I nod at my open laptop when Rufus finally steps back.
He scans the room, and I see it from his perspective.
Rufus is always one to keep moving, and my sedentary weekend is seeping into his routine.
I lean over and fluff the pillow I was sitting on.
“Are you sure you’re OK?” he says.
For a moment, I want to tell him, but then I see it all unravelling, everything I worked so hard for.
This house with its three floors and acres of immaculate garden, which I effortlessly keep.
The job that pays just enough that the dreams of growing CriminEl into a national podcast aren’t impossible.
And least of all, Rufus himself, the perfect husband-to-be who loves me.
I open my mouth but nothing comes out except a hot rush of air.
Rufus’s eyes soften, a small but familiar movement that shifts the tension between my shoulder blades.
“Fine, just tired.” I sit back down.
“OK, well, I got you something.” He smiles down at me, his eyes twinkling in that infectious way.
My body perks up.
“Really?”
“Just a little something, since your podcast is doing so well and you were nominated for that award thing.” He sinks into the sofa and reaches into his bag.
The present is heavy and wrapped in peach-and-orange floral tissue paper.
When I open it, I find myself staring at a pocket dial, gold with multiple hands that whirl and tick to a steady beat.
There’s an engraving on the inside of the lid which makes me smile.
To the best podcaster, it reads.
“Do you like it? Poppy said it would be a bit of fun.” Nerves sit on Rufus’s brow, and I run my finger over his forehead.
“It’s gorgeous,” I say. Gorgeous but impractical, as is any gift from Rufus. “Tell Poppy she did well,” I tease, kissing him.
“Excuse me, I picked it out, she gave the seal of approval,” Rufus says, standing.
Poppy is Rufus’s assistant and an all-around brilliant person.
She’s young, with a heart-shaped face and a smile which blossoms her cheeks.
From the moment we met, at the firm’s Christmas party last year, we’ve fallen into a lovely kinship over our fondness for Rufus and true crime.
Rufus has even talked about encouraging her to retrain into Law, and I secretly hope they do.
“She says your latest episode was awesome. Her words, not mine! I have to run, I’ll be home by seven.” He drops me another kiss and for a moment there’s no worry about threats or hidden memories from my past. Just the kiss on my cheek and the gentle ticking from my hand.
Once he leaves, I take my glass and place it in the kitchen, hearing the cleaners move around the other rooms. The thought that they will strip my bed and bleach the surfaces unwinds the twisted anxiety. I need a distraction.
I head into the studio, although the word studio is generous for what is essentially a small room at the front of the house.
Never in a million years would I have thought my little hobby to be worth a full studio.
Yet Rufus was impressed, he saw the happiness the podcast gave me.
So, one spring afternoon, when I was out for drinks with Jude, he repurposed the old guest room downstairs into my recording space.
The walls are padded, and the door has been fitted to run from ceiling to floor, stopping sound from coming in or exiting.
The equipment, some of it still untouched, is top of the line and turns my small venture into something so much more.