Chapter 17
NOW
The hospital smells of bleach and death. I’ve been sitting in this plastic chair for hours now, watching Richard’s chest rise and fall in a rhythm that’s too shallow. The machines beep their endless commentary on whether he’s still alive. So far, the answer is yes.
But barely.
They let me ride in the ambulance with him.
I don’t remember calling for one – just remember kneeling in his blood, pressing my hands against his skull, screaming words that might have been his name or might have been nothing at all.
Then there were paramedics and sirens and Richard being lifted onto a stretcher, his body limp and pale and so terribly still.
The doctors say he has a subdural haematoma. A bleed in his brain. They’ve done surgery and now we wait to see if the swelling goes down. Wait to see if Richard Bancroft, town doctor and the only good thing in my ruined life, is going to wake up.
I’m still wearing his blood on my clothes. They offered me scrubs but I couldn’t move. Couldn’t make my legs carry me anywhere except this chair beside his bed, where I can watch the monitors and count his breaths and remind myself that he’s alive.
For now.
I reach for his hand. It’s warm but limp, his fingers unresponsive when I squeeze them.
There’s a tube in his nose and wires attached to his chest and a bandage wrapped around his head that makes him look like a wounded soldier.
The man who was so solid, so steady, so certain he could protect me – reduced to this.
Because of me.
The door opens behind me. I don’t turn around. Don’t take my eyes off Richard’s face because looking away feels like abandoning him.
‘Mrs Reynolds.’
‘Ms,’ I remind Officer Harvey. ‘It’s Ms Reynolds.’
‘My apologies.’ He moves into my peripheral vision, pulling one of the other plastic chairs closer. He sits slowly, calmly. ‘How is he?’
‘Stable. That’s what they keep saying. Stable but critical.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘I think it means the trajectory towards death is consistent.’
‘He’s not expected to recover?’
‘They don’t know yet. The next twenty-four hours are key.’
Harvey nods like this is useful information. I can feel his gaze on the side of my face, studying me the same way he studied my house the night I called about the shape in the yard.
‘I need to ask you some questions,’ he says. ‘About what happened tonight.’
‘I already told the other officers.’
‘I know. But I’d like to hear it from you directly.’
I finally turn to look at him. He’s wearing civilian clothes – jeans and a jacket that’s seen better days – which means he was called in from home. Called in specifically for this. For me. And there’s something in his expression that makes my stomach drop.
‘Walk me through it. From the beginning.’
I tell him what I told the others. The crash of glass. The figure in the kitchen doorway. Richard coming downstairs. The fight. The blow that sent him crumpling to the floor. The intruder fleeing while I knelt in Richard’s blood, unable to do anything except scream.
Harvey listens without interrupting. When I finish, he pauses, his gaze drifting to Richard’s still form on the bed.
‘Did you get a look at the intruder’s face?’
‘No. They were wearing a balaclava or scarf. I couldn’t see.’
‘Height? Build? Anything distinctive?’
‘Tall. Broad shoulders. That’s all I remember.’
‘Male or female?’
The question catches me off guard. Thinking back to those dark moments in my hallway, I can’t be certain. The figure was bulky with clothing. The movements were strong but not distinctively masculine.
‘I don’t know,’ I admit. ‘I assumed male, but I can’t be sure.’
Harvey writes this down. The same notebook from before, I notice. Worn leather cover. Pages slightly dog-eared. He’s been taking notes on me for a while.
‘And you didn’t recognise anything about them? The way they moved? Their voice?’
‘They didn’t speak. And I was too scared to notice how they moved. I just saw someone in my house who shouldn’t be there.’
‘Right.’ He flips back a few pages. ‘This is the second time in a week you’ve reported an intruder at your property.’
‘Yes.’
‘The first time, we found no evidence anyone had been there.’
‘I know.’
‘And now someone’s broken in and attacked your… friend? Partner?’
I don’t know how to answer that. What are Richard and I? More than friends. Not quite partners. Something undefined and fragile and possibly now destroyed by what happened tonight.
‘He’s someone I care about,’ I say. ‘That’s all that matters.’
Something shifts in his eyes. A sharpening of focus that makes me want to look away. ‘Ms Reynolds, I’m going to be direct with you. There are things about your situation that don’t quite add up.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘You move to East Hampton alone after your husband’s death in a house fire.
You keep to yourself. You report seeing intruders that leave no evidence behind.
And now someone breaks into your home and assaults a man who happened to be staying with you.
’ He pauses. ‘That’s a lot of incidents for someone who claims to be seeking a quiet life. ’
‘I’m not claiming anything. These things keep happening to me.’
‘Did you ever stop to ask why?’
The question hangs between us. Harvey isn’t stupid – I knew that from our first meeting. He’s the sort of officer who notices things. Who files observations away and waits for patterns to emerge. And right now, he’s looking at me like he can see the pattern I’ve been trying to hide.
‘What are you suggesting?’ I ask.
‘I’m not suggesting anything. Just asking questions.’ He leans back, his posture relaxed but his eyes never leaving my face. ‘Tell me about the fire. The one that killed your husband.’
My throat tightens. ‘Excuse me?’
‘I’ve been doing some reading. Daniel Reynolds, thirty-seven, killed in a house fire several months ago. Investigation concluded it was accidental.’ He pauses. ‘But there were questions, weren’t there? About how the fire started. About why your husband didn’t get out when you did.’
‘There are always questions after something like that.’
‘Of course. Perfectly normal.’ His tone is mild, almost friendly. ‘But some of the questions were specifically about you. About why you survived and he didn’t. About whether the fire was really as accidental as it seemed.’
I can’t breathe. The room suddenly feels smaller. The beeping of Richard’s monitors too loud. Harvey’s gaze too sharp.
‘The investigation cleared me,’ I manage.
‘It did. Insufficient evidence to pursue charges.’ He lets that phrase sit for a moment. Insufficient evidence. Not innocent. Not proven. Just not enough proof to proceed. ‘But investigations can be reopened. Especially when new information comes to light.’
‘What new information?’
‘I’m not sure yet. But something about your situation feels wrong to me, Ms Reynolds. And I’ve learned to trust that feeling.’
‘I haven’t done anything wrong,’ I say. My voice sounds hollow. Empty.
‘Then you have nothing to worry about.’
But we both know that’s not true. I have everything to worry about.
‘Where were you,’ he asks, ‘between the hours of 10 p.m. and 3 a.m.?’
‘At home. With Richard.’
‘Can anyone verify that? Before Richard came over?’
‘Richard could, if—’
‘And you were both in the house all evening? Neither of you left?’
‘That’s right.’
‘Hmm.’ He makes a note. ‘And you said you were awake when the break-in occurred. Why was that?’
‘I couldn’t sleep. I’ve been having trouble sleeping lately.’
‘Insomnia?’
‘Something like that.’
‘Related to stress, would you say? Anxiety?’
‘Probably both.’
‘About anything in particular?’
I think about the notes. The ring. I should hand over everything and let the police deal with whoever is doing this. But telling him means explaining why the notes matter. Why finding my wedding ring among burned remains sent me spiralling. It means revealing what I did.
‘Just general anxiety,’ I say. ‘About settling into a new place. Meeting new people. And I’m still coming to terms with the trauma of everything I lost.’
Harvey’s expression suggests he doesn’t believe me. But he doesn’t push. Just closes his notebook with a soft snap that sounds like a verdict.
‘I’ll be in touch about your situation.’ He stands, tucking the notebook into his jacket. ‘And Ms Reynolds? Don’t leave town without letting us know. We may have more questions as the investigation progresses.’
‘Wait. Am I a suspect?’
The question comes out too sharp. Harvey pauses, looking down at me with either concern or satisfaction. It’s hard to say which.
‘Everyone’s a suspect until they’re not,’ he says. ‘That’s how investigations work.’
Then he’s gone, the door swinging shut behind him, and I’m alone again with Richard and the beeping machines and the growing certainty that everything is falling apart.
I turn back to the bed. Richard hasn’t moved. The bandage around his head is stark white against his pale skin. He looks smaller somehow. Diminished. Like the violence that put him here has taken something essential away.
‘I’m sorry,’ I whisper. ‘I’m so sorry.’
Harvey suspects something. That much is clear. He’s connected the fire to whatever is happening now, seen a pattern in the chaos that I’ve been trying desperately to obscure. And he’s not going to stop digging until he finds what he’s looking for.
What I’m hiding.
I should run. Should pack everything and disappear before he has a chance to close in. It’s what I’ve done before. What I’m good at.
But I can’t leave Richard. Can’t walk away while he’s lying here, broken because of me, fighting for his life because of me.
So I stay. I hold his hand and watch the monitors and wait.
Somewhere around five in the morning, Richard’s fingers twitch.
It’s so small I almost miss it. Just the slightest movement against my palm. But I feel it – that tiny sign of life, of consciousness trying to surface.
‘Richard?’ I lean forward, my face close to his. ‘Richard, can you hear me?’
His eyelids flutter. Not opening, not quite, but moving. Trying.
‘I’m here,’ I tell him. ‘I’m right here. You’re going to be okay. Just keep fighting. Please.’
Another twitch. Another flutter.
Then stillness again.
But it’s something. It’s hope, fragile and uncertain but real.
I press my forehead to his hand and let myself cry. Silent tears that run down my face and drip onto the hospital sheets. Tears for Richard and Daniel and myself. For everything I’ve destroyed trying to survive.
Somewhere in this hospital, Harvey is probably still asking questions. Still building his case against me. And somewhere outside, whoever sent those notes is still watching. Still planning.
I don’t know which threat is worse.
But right now, all I can do is hold Richard’s hand and pray he lives.
Because if he dies, whatever’s left of me will die too.
And maybe that’s exactly what someone wants.