Chapter 3
THEN
Roxanne appeared on a Tuesday, which felt significant later but probably wasn’t. She knocked on the door just after breakfast, when I was still in my robe and Daniel had already left for work. Through the frosted glass, I could see a shape – slim, hunched slightly, feminine.
I opened the door to find a woman about my age, maybe younger, with light hair pulled into a messy ponytail and eyes that were startlingly pale blue.
She wore jeans that had seen better days and a jacket that didn’t quite fit, sleeves too long, shoulders too broad.
There was something about her that made me think of a stray cat – wary but hopeful, ready to run at the first sign of threat.
‘I’m so sorry to bother you,’ she said, and her voice was soft, apologetic. ‘My car broke down about a mile up the road. I’ve been walking for ages trying to find help, and yours is the first house I’ve come to. I don’t suppose I could use your phone? Mine’s dead.’
She held up a cell phone as evidence, the screen dark. Her fingers were red with cold, nails bitten down to the quick.
It was the sort of situation my mother would have warned me about. Strange woman. Sob story. Don’t let her in. Like the start of a horror movie. But she looked so tired, and it was cold, and I’d been raised to be helpful even when it was inconvenient.
‘Of course,’ I said, stepping back. ‘Come in.’
She followed me into the hallway, her sneakers squeaking on the marble floor.
She took in the house with quick, darting glances – the sweeping staircase, the chandelier Daniel had had shipped from Milan, the living room with its baby grand piano neither of us played.
I found myself seeing it through her eyes: the six bedrooms we didn’t need, the home cinema we hadn’t used a single time, the kitchen with a wine fridge stocked with bottles that cost the earth.
It was the kind of home that looked effortless but actually required a cleaner three times a week and a gardener on retainer.
‘This is lovely,’ she said. ‘Really lovely. You’re lucky.’
‘Thank you.’ I gestured towards the kitchen. ‘Phone’s through here. Would you like a cup of coffee while you’re waiting? You look frozen.’
‘That’s so kind. I’d love one, if it’s not too much trouble.’
I made coffee while she made her call, standing by the window and speaking in low tones to someone about a breakdown service and how long it might take.
Her voice had a slightly rough quality to it, like she’d smoked once or shouted too much or maybe just hadn’t used it properly in a while.
When she finished, she set down the phone and accepted the mug I offered with both hands, like it was precious.
‘They said at least two hours,’ she explained. ‘I’m really sorry. I can wait outside if—’
‘Don’t be silly. Sit.’
She sat at the kitchen table, cradling the mug. Up close, I noticed she had the same colouring as me – fair skin, light hair, greyish-blue eyes. I wondered if she’d been teased about her Swedish aesthetic in school, too.
‘I’m Roxanne,’ she said.
‘Kelly.’
‘Kelly.’ She smiled, and it was a nice smile, warm and genuine. ‘Thank you for this. Most people wouldn’t have let me in.’
‘It’s fine. Really.’
We sat in silence for a moment, her drinking coffee, me deciding whether I should stay in the kitchen or leave her alone or offer something to eat. She solved the problem by speaking first.
‘Do you live here with someone?’ She then glanced at the wedding photo on the windowsill, me and Daniel on a beach in Costa Rica, grinning like idiots. That photo was from our honeymoon, five years ago, when we still touched each other without thinking about it first.
‘My husband,’ I said. ‘Daniel. He’s at work.’
‘He’s handsome.’
‘Thank you.’
Another pause. She set down her mug and looked around the kitchen again, taking in the pale cabinets, the gleaming countertops, the little details that made it a home rather than just a house. The herbs growing in pots on the windowsill. The cookbooks arranged by spine colour.
‘I’m between places at the moment,’ she said, unprompted. ‘Staying with friends, looking for work. It’s been hard. Everything’s hard right now, you know?’
I did know. Or I thought I did. Though my problems – Daniel’s long hours, the quiet tension that had started creeping into our marriage, the sense that we were drifting – felt insignificant compared to what she seemed to be describing.
‘I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘That sounds difficult.’
‘It is what it is.’ She picked up her mug again, took a sip. ‘But meeting kind people like you makes it easier. Reminds you there’s good in the world.’
Something about the phrasing felt off. Too neat. Too performed. But she looked sincere, and maybe I was being paranoid, and I had no reason to doubt her.
We talked while she waited. She asked about the house, the area, how long we’d lived here.
I gave vague answers, nothing specific, but she seemed genuinely interested.
She told me about herself – bits and pieces, nothing that quite connected into a full story.
She’d grown up down south. She’d worked retail, hospitality, whatever she could find.
She’d had a relationship that ended badly. She was trying to start fresh.
It all sounded plausible. It all sounded true. But there was something in the way she told it – a smoothness, like she’d rehearsed the story so many times it had worn down into something that no longer quite fit the shape of real life.
‘What about you?’ she asked. ‘What do you do?’
‘Freelance copywriting. Nothing exciting.’
‘But you work from home?’
‘Mostly.’
‘That must be lonely sometimes.’
I hadn’t expected that. Most people said things like ‘how nice’ or ‘I wish I could work from home’. But she’d gone straight to the truth of it – the isolation, the long hours trapped in my own thoughts.
‘Sometimes,’ I admitted. ‘But it’s fine. I’m used to it.’
She nodded like she understood.
Like she’d been lonely too and knew exactly what shape it took.
When the breakdown service finally called to say they were on their way, she stood and washed her mug in the sink without being asked. The gesture felt too familiar, too comfortable, like she’d been in this kitchen a hundred times before.
‘You’ve been so kind,’ she said. ‘I can’t thank you enough.’
‘It was nothing. I hope your car’s not too expensive to fix.’
‘Me too.’ She paused at the kitchen door, then turned back. ‘Kelly, I know this is strange, and you don’t know me, but if you ever need anything – a friend, or help with something, or just someone to talk to – I’d like to repay the favour.’
She pulled out her phone – now mysteriously charged, I noticed – and we exchanged numbers. Then she left, disappearing down the lane towards where her car was supposedly waiting.
I went back to the kitchen. Her mug sat in the draining rack, perfectly clean.
The chair she’d sat in was pushed neatly under the table.
There was no trace of her visit except for the faint impression she’d left – a presence that lingered even after she’d gone.
It was like she’d never been there at all.
Except I couldn’t stop thinking about her.
Daniel came home late that evening, his Tesla pulling into the four-car garage just after nine.
He looked tired, distracted – he’d been working on some acquisition that required long hours and weekend calls to investors in Singapore, and I’d stopped asking details about that weeks ago.
The hedge fund ran itself, mostly, but these deals needed his attention.
Still, there were other things to fill his mind with.
I told him about Roxanne over dinner – the broken-down car, the coffee, the phone call. He listened while cutting his chicken into neat, identical pieces.
‘You let a stranger into the house?’ He set down his fork, frowning.
‘She needed help.’
‘Kelly, that’s how people case houses. She could have been looking for what to steal.’
‘She wasn’t. She was just—she needed help, Daniel.’
He sighed, running a hand through his hair. ‘I know you want to see the best in people. I love that about you. But you have to be smarter. More aware.’
‘I am aware.’
‘You think so?’ He looked at me then, really looked, and I saw something in his expression I didn’t like. Concern, yes, but also something else. Disappointment, maybe. Or pity.
‘She was harmless,’ I said, hearing the defensiveness in my voice. ‘Just someone whose car broke down. That’s all.’
‘Probably. But you can’t know that. You can’t just let people in because they seem nice.’
I wanted to argue. Wanted to point out that trusting people wasn’t a character flaw. But I was too tired, and he was too distracted, and the conversation felt like all our conversations lately – going nowhere, solving nothing, just creating more distance between us.
We didn’t talk about it again that night. But I thought about Roxanne while I was falling asleep – her pale eyes, her awkward-fitting jacket, the way she’d looked around our kitchen like she was studying it.
She texted three days later.
Hi Kelly, it’s Roxanne. Just wanted to say thank you again for your kindness. Hope you’re well.
I considered the message for a spell before replying. It felt overfamiliar, like we were already friends rather than strangers who’d shared a conversation.
No problem. Glad you got sorted.
Her response came immediately.
Would love to buy you coffee sometime to say thanks properly. When are you free?
I should have made up some excuse. But Daniel was working longer hours than ever, and I was spending too much time alone in the house, and the idea of coffee with someone who wasn’t part of my usual routine felt like a small rebellion.
Tuesday afternoon?
Perfect. Can’t wait.
We met at a café in the next town over. She was already there when I arrived, sitting at a corner table with two lattes already ordered, as if she knew what I liked to drink. She stood when she saw me, smiling wide.
‘Kelly, good to see you.’
She hugged me, quick and tight, and I was so surprised I hugged her back.
She smelled like cheap shampoo and something sickeningly floral.
We talked for two hours. She asked about my life – how my work was going, whether Daniel and I wanted children (a question I deflected), what I did to fill my days.
I asked about her situation, and she was vague again, all surface details and no substance.
But she was funny and warm and easy to talk to, and by the time we left I felt lighter than I had in weeks.
‘Same time next week?’ she suggested.
‘Sure. Yes. That would be nice.’
It became a pattern. Tuesday afternoons at the café, sometimes longer, sometimes with shopping afterwards or a walk through the lanes that surrounded the town.
She was good company – attentive, interested, always ready with a story or a joke.
She had this way of listening that made you feel heard, like what you were saying actually mattered.
I didn’t tell Daniel about the coffee dates.
He’d only worry, only remind me about strangers and boundaries and being smart.
But Roxanne didn’t feel like a stranger any more.
By the fourth week, she’d started asking more personal questions.
About my marriage and whether I was happy. About what I wanted from my future.
‘You seem sad sometimes,’ she said one afternoon, stirring sugar into her coffee. ‘Like there’s something you’re not saying.’
‘I’m fine.’
I wasn’t. But I couldn’t articulate why. The distance with Daniel. The sense that we were going through motions. The nights I lay awake wondering if this was all there was.
‘Marriage is hard,’ I said eventually. ‘That’s all.’
‘Is he good to you? Daniel?’
‘Yes. Of course.’
‘Good.’ She reached across the table and squeezed my hand. Her fingers were warm, her grip surprisingly strong. ‘You deserve someone who’s good to you.’
The words sat strangely. Not quite a compliment, not quite a warning. Just an observation that felt like it had weight behind it.
She turned up at the house a week later. I found her standing at my front door, holding a grocery bag and looking sheepish.
‘I know I should have called first,’ she said. ‘But I was passing, and I picked up some of those cookies you mentioned you liked, and I thought – well. Is this weird? This is weird. I’ll go.’
‘No, don’t. Come in.’
Daniel was upstairs in his study, on a conference call.
I led Roxanne to the kitchen, where we drank coffee and ate the cookies she’d brought – the expensive ones from the bakery in town that I’d mentioned once, ages ago.
She’d remembered. She admired the house again, asking about the garden, the renovations we’d done, our plans for the spare room.
‘You’ve made it beautiful,’ she said. ‘A proper home.’
There was something wistful in her voice. Something that made me wonder where she was actually staying, whether the ‘friends’ she’d mentioned were real or just another smooth piece of her story.
When Daniel finally came downstairs, Roxanne was still there. I watched his expression shift when he saw her – surprise, then wariness, then cautious hesitance as I made introductions.
‘Roxanne. This is my husband, Daniel. Daniel, Roxanne – the woman I told you about. With the car.’
‘Right.’ He shook her hand, polite but distant. ‘Nice to meet you.’
‘You too. Kelly’s told me so much about you.’
A lie.
His gaze flicked to me, questioning. I smiled, trying to convey that everything was fine, normal, not strange at all. But I could feel the tension in the room – Daniel’s unease, Roxanne’s overt friendliness, my own discomfort at having my two worlds collide.
‘I should go,’ Roxanne said after a moment. ‘Let you both get on with your evening.’
‘You don’t have to.’
‘No, it’s fine. Thank you for the tea, Kelly.’ She touched my arm, brief and familiar. ‘Same time next week?’
‘Sure.’
Daniel walked her to the door while I stayed in the kitchen, listening to their muffled voices in the hall. When he came back, his expression was unreadable.
‘That’s the woman from the car?’
‘Yes.’
‘You’ve been seeing her. Regularly.’
‘Just for coffee. She’s nice, Daniel. I needed a friend.’
He didn’t say anything. Just stood there looking at me like I was a puzzle he couldn’t quite solve. All the while, I kept remembering them standing in our kitchen, both staring as if expecting me to explain something. I’d felt it then – that first real prickle of chilling unease.
Because Roxanne had looked at him the way she’d looked at our kitchen that first day.
Like she wanted something.