3. Chapter 3
Chapter 3
Jon
T he room at Sunshine Cottage is cosy—small but well-appointed, with floral curtains framing the window and a sturdy oak dresser that feels like it’s been here for decades. Everything is quaint, rustic, and charming, which should feel relaxing. Instead, it’s making me itch to put everything in order.
I open my suitcase, taking out each item one by one and finding the most logical place for it. Socks and underwear go into the top drawer, neatly folded and sorted by colour. Shirts get hung in the wardrobe, perfectly spaced on the hangers I brought along, because there’s no way I’m dealing with mismatched, flimsy wire ones. My toiletries line up along the bathroom sink in strict height order, labels facing outward. Shampoo, toothbrush, razor—it’s all precise, just the way I like it.
The small bedside table drawer is next, for my charger and earplugs. I slot them in carefully, then step back and take in the room. It’s better now, less chaotic. Everything in its place .
I sit on the bed and pull my phone out of my pocket. The Wi-Fi here is surprisingly good, and it doesn’t take long to connect. The signal bars fill up, and I scroll through a couple of notifications—mostly junk—and then pull up Mum’s number. It rings twice before her voice comes through, warm and familiar.
“Jon, darling, how are you? Did you get there alright?”
“Yes, Mum. I’m here. It’s nice,” I reply, keeping my tone even. “Quiet.”
“Well, I should think so! But you could’ve had quiet at the estate, though. Your father and I hardly see anyone these days except for the gardeners and the odd dog walker that wanders too far.”
I sigh, rubbing the bridge of my nose. “We’ve talked about this, Mum. The whole point is to go somewhere completely different. New surroundings, no reminders of—” I stop myself, unwilling to bring up the incident. “Just... away from everything.”
She huffs lightly on the other end of the line. “I know, I know. Your therapist suggested it. I still don’t see why you couldn’t take a few days with us, and then your ‘therapy holiday,’ or whatever you want to call it.”
“It’s not a holiday,” I say, the irritation creeping into my voice despite my best efforts. “It’s three weeks to decompress, think, and... reset. That’s it. No distractions, no... London.”
She softens at the mention of London. “Are you nervous about the investigation, Jon?”
I hesitate. Am I nervous? Of course I am. “A bit,” I admit. “But this isn’t about that. It’s about clearing my head before I go back. That’s all. ”
“Well, your father thinks it’s good for you,” she sighs. “He said just yesterday, ‘Jon’s a sensible man. If this helps, let him do it.’ Of course, he also said you’d probably get bored stiff out there.”
“I’ll be fine,” I say, glancing around the room. “It’s... peaceful.”
“Hmm. Peaceful is good,” she says, then adds, “You’ll still call, won’t you? You know I hate not hearing from you.”
“I’ll switch my phone off most of the time, Mum. That’s part of the plan. If there’s an emergency, you can call the cottage. They have a landline.”
“Switching your phone off,” she says, incredulous. “Honestly, Jon. It’s like you’re going back to the Dark Ages.” You would think I’m thirteen not forty-three years old.
I smile despite myself. “It’s only three weeks.”
“Three weeks,” she echoes. “Alright, then. Just don’t lose your mind out there.”
I hear a voice in the background—Dad, probably—and Mum says something muffled in response before returning to me. “I’ll let you go, darling. You take care of yourself, won’t you?”
“I will,” I promise. “Say hi to Dad for me.”
“I will. Love you, Jon.”
“Love you too, Mum.”
I hang up and set the phone on the nightstand. The idea of switching it off for three weeks makes my stomach tighten, but I know it’s necessary. No texts, no emails, no notifications. Just... nothing .
I pick up the phone again, my thumb hovering over the power button. Maybe I’ll wait until tomorrow. Just one more day of being reachable.
But no. If I don’t start now, I’ll never do it. With a deep breath, I press and hold the button until the screen goes dark.
The room feels quieter now, birds singing outside the window the only sound. I sit there for a moment, staring out the window at the rolling hills in the distance.
It’s peaceful, just as I told Mum. But peaceful has never been my strong suit.
The stairs creak softly beneath my feet as I make my way down, the scent of something sweet wafting through the air. Chocolate, maybe? The house feels alive with the kind of warmth you only find in places like this. Sunshine Cottage. It’s almost laughable how fitting the name is.
The murmur of voices grows louder as I approach the kitchen. One is bright and melodic, filled with laughter, and the other deeper, playful but sharp-edged. I stop just short of the doorway, hesitating for reasons I can’t entirely explain. Maybe it’s the way this all feels—too homey, too different from the quiet sterility I’ve wrapped myself in back in London.
But I can’t stand here forever. I step into the doorway, clearing my throat lightly. Three faces turn towards me, all mid-conversation .
“Oh!” Abigail straightens up from where she’s been leaning over the counter, her eyes lighting up in recognition. “Mr Peterson! I didn’t expect to see you so soon. Settling in alright?”
“Yes, thank you,” I reply, nodding. “And please call me Jon.”
Her smile is as warm as it was earlier, it radiates like sunshine. “Let me introduce you. This is my sister, Nancy,” she says, motioning to a woman seated at the kitchen table. Nancy swivels in her chair to face me, her eyes alight with mischief as she flashes a wide grin.
“And this cheeky one here,” Abigail continues, brushing a gentle hand over the head of a little girl perched on a chair, “is my daughter, Layla.”
Layla beams up at me, her legs swinging beneath the table. “Hi!” she chirps and gives me a little wave.
“Hello,” I say, offering a small nod, unsure of what else to do with her wide-eyed enthusiasm. She looks so much like her mother—the same warm brown eyes, same dimples when she smiles.
Nancy leans back in her chair, looking me over with a curious gaze that borders on playful. “So, you’re Jon Peterson,” she says, drawing out my name as if testing how it sounds on her tongue. “The mysterious long-term guest.”
“I’m not sure about mysterious,” I reply, shifting slightly under her scrutiny.
“Well, you’re not what I pictured,” she adds, her grin widening as her eyes sweep over me. “Bit of a surprise, isn’t he, Abby?”
Abigail huffs, her cheeks tinged pink. “Nancy,” she warns lightly, but there’s no real bite to her tone. “Ignore her, Jon. She likes to tease—it’s her favourite hobby. ”
“Is it?” I ask, the corner of my mouth twitching upwards despite myself.
“Oh, absolutely,” Nancy says, clearly unfazed. “But you’ve got this... what’s the word... ‘buttoned-up’ vibe about you. Not exactly the rugged rambler type we usually see around here.”
“I’m not here to ramble,” I reply dryly, and Nancy bursts into a laugh.
“Well, at least you’ve got a sense of humour,” she says, winking at Abigail. “That’s always a plus.”
“Mummy makes the best muffins!” Layla declares suddenly, her tiny voice cutting through the chatter with authority.
Abigail smiles down at her daughter, brushing a stray curl from her forehead. “Well, aren’t you my biggest fan,” she says with mock seriousness.
Layla giggles. “I ate two already, but Aunt Nancy said I could have another one if I promised not to tell.”
“Layla!” Abigail gasps, her tone full of scolding as she turns to Nancy. “Encouraging secrets? Honestly!”
Nancy shrugs, unapologetic. “What are aunts for?”
Abigail shakes her head, clearly used to this kind of mischief. “Jon, would you like a chocolate chip muffin?” she asks, turning back to me. “They’re fresh out of the oven.”
I glance at the muffins, their golden tops dotted with melting chocolate chips. “That sounds great, thank you.”
“You’ll need your strength,” Nancy chimes in, her grin growing wider. “Surviving three weeks in Sunshine Cottage is no small feat, you know. Abby keeps you well-fed but makes sure you’re roped into her endless cheerfulness. ”
Layla giggles again, clearly enjoying the teasing, and I find myself softening slightly despite the strange ache in my chest. There’s something about the dynamic here… messy and warm and loud in a way that feels... foreign.
“I’ll try to manage,” I say finally, leaning slightly against the doorway.
Abigail glances at me, her head tilting slightly, her hair catching the warm kitchen light. “Was there something you needed, Jon?”
“Yes, actually,” I say, clearing my throat. “I forgot to pack a book. Normally, I’d read on my phone, but since I’m... not using it for the next three weeks, I wondered if you had one or two I could borrow.”
Her face lights up. “Oh, of course! I’ve got a little bookshelf in the living room. Guests can make use of it. Come on, I’ll show you.”
I follow her through the hallway, past a few framed photos and a charming little window seat piled high with mismatched cushions. Layla’s giggles trail off behind us, still busy in the kitchen with Nancy.
The bookshelf isn’t large, just a simple wooden one tucked into a corner, but it’s crammed with books—some stacked neatly, others lying sideways as if she couldn’t quite decide where to put them. Abigail crouches slightly, running her fingers along the spines with obvious affection.
“Right, let’s see. I’ve got a few thrillers here—Lee Child, Robert Galbraith, maybe a bit of Patricia Cornwell. Oh, and there’s some Agatha Christie if you’re into the classics of the genre. ”
I step closer, scanning the titles she’s pointing out. “A thriller could work,” I say. “Something to keep my brain ticking.”
“Good choice,” she says with a smile, pulling out a slightly battered copy of Gone Girl . “This one’s a twisty one—keeps you guessing.”
As she’s handing it to me, small footsteps patter into the room. Layla appears, her dark eyes sparkling with curiosity. “What are you doing?” she asks, glancing between me and her mum.
“Helping Jon find a book to read,” Abigail explains.
Layla’s gaze shoots to the top of the shelf, her face lighting up mischievously. She points a tiny finger skyward. “You should read those ones! Mummy says they’re adult books.”
“Layla!” Abigail’s cheeks flush immediately, and she shoots her daughter a wide-eyed look.
I glance at the top shelf and, despite myself, reach up and pull one of the books down. The title catches my eye immediately: Fierce Family . Below it, the tagline reads: Single mum falls for the local fire chief—it all sounds so simple until it isn’t.
I arch an eyebrow as I take in the cover—two people, he pushes her up against the wall, her legs locked around his hips, set against the backdrop of a blazing amber. The woman has flowing hair, and the man is shirtless, revealing a suspiciously chiselled back.
“Fierce Family,” I mutter, turning the book over to glance at the back cover. The blurb promises heartbreak, smouldering passion, and a small-town love that can’t be tamed. A soft scoff escapes me. “Interesting choice. ”
Abigail makes a strangled sound behind me, and when I glance over, her cheeks are pink. “That’s not one of mine. Honestly, Nancy must’ve left that here. She’s obsessed with that sort of... stuff.”
“No explanation needed,” I reply, sliding the book back onto the shelf. “I'll stick to the thrillers.” I pull down the copy of Gone Girl she’d suggested earlier.
“You’re not going to read the one with the firefighter?” Layla pipes up with a giggle.
“Not really my thing,” I say simply, tucking the thriller under my arm. “Though I’m sure it has... depth,” I add with a pointed look at Abigail.
Her mouth opens as if she’s about to retort, but Layla saves her by darting forward and tugging on her hand. “Mum, can we play a game now? You said we could after the baking is done.”
“Of course, sweetheart,” Abigail says, her voice softening as she looks down at her daughter. “Why don’t you go and pick one from the shelf? I’ll be right there.”
Layla beams and dashes off, her little feet pattering across the wooden floor.
Abigail turns back to me, her cheeks still faintly pink. “Well, I hope the book works for you.”
I nod. “Thanks.” I hesitate for a second, then add, “For the record, I wasn’t judging.”
She gives me a look that’s hard to read—somewhere between exasperation and curiosity. “Sure you weren’t,” she says lightly, but the slight smile tugging at her lips suggests she’s not entirely offended.
Just as Abigail turns to leave, I stop her. “Sorry. One more thing,” She turns back to me, her eyebrows raised, expectant .
I hesitate for a moment, then clear my throat. “The pub here—does it serve dinner? I didn’t see anything about it when I checked online.”
She shakes her head. “Oh no, it doesn’t. Hasn’t for a while, actually. It closed down after Covid.”
“Closed?” I repeat, frowning. “Completely?”
“Completely,” she confirms. “The owner retired and decided not to reopen. There wasn’t enough foot traffic to make it worthwhile anymore. Shame, really—it was a proper hub for the hamlet.”
Great. Of course, the one bit of convenience I was banking on is gone. “So, what’s the nearest option?”
She adjusts the tea towel she’s holding, leaning her weight onto one leg. “There’s a pub in St Claire—The Black Horse. It’s about a twenty-minute drive, give or take. They do good food, and it’s usually not too crowded.”
I sigh internally. A drive wasn’t part of the plan for tonight.
Abigail seems to sense my reluctance because she tilts her head slightly and offers, “Or, if you’d rather stay in, you’re welcome to join Layla and me for dinner. I always give guests the option.”
My head tilts, “You cook for your guests?”
“Not like a full-service hotel or anything,” she clarifies. “It’s just whatever I’m making for us, so there is no menu to choose from. But I only charge a tenner, and it’s all you can eat. Tonight’s cottage pie.”
Cottage pie. The simple mention of it makes my stomach rumble with hunger. But the thought of sitting down with Abigail and her daughter, making polite conversation while pretending I’m comfortable, feels daunting .
“That’s… generous,” I say, trying not to sound too curt. “But it’s not necessary.”
“It’s no trouble, honestly,” she replies, her smile unwavering. “Dinner’s at six. You can decide then.”
At that moment, Layla comes bounding back into the room, holding a mug adorned with a cartoon penguin. “Mum! Look! I got my penguin mug!”
Abigail crouches down to her daughter’s level, her face lighting up in a way that softens her entire presence. “Good choice, love,” she says warmly, brushing a hand through Layla’s hair before straightening up.
She glances at me again, her tone lighter now. “Offer’s there. Up to you.”
I nod curtly, unsure of what else to say, and watch as she and Layla disappear into the hallway. Cottage pie for a tenner. No pressure. It’s simple enough, but my gut churns at the thought of having to make small talk all evening. Then again, the idea of driving into St. Claire isn’t exactly appealing either.
I sit down on the edge of my bed, staring at the borrowed book on the nightstand. “Dinner at six,” I mutter to myself. Maybe.