Chapter 23
NOW
I dream of smoke.
Not the fire itself, but the aftermath. That thick, choking grey that fills your lungs and blinds your eyes and makes you forget which way is up.
I’m crawling through it, reaching for something I can’t quite see, and Daniel is calling my name from somewhere far away.
Except it’s not Daniel’s voice any more.
It’s deeper. Rougher. And it’s not calling – it’s whispering.
Kelly.
Kelly.
You and I need a little conversation.
I surface from sleep like a drowning woman breaking through water. My eyes snap open to darkness. I must have drifted off waiting for Officer Harvey to leave.
Then I feel it.
Something hard against my throat.
My body goes rigid. Every muscle locked in place by instinct, by the primal understanding that movement means death. The gun barrel pressed just below my jaw where the pulse beats hardest. I can feel my own heartbeat pushing against it with each terrified thump.
‘There we are.’ Officer Harvey’s voice comes from directly above me. Close. So close I can feel his breath on my ear. ‘Thought you’d never wake up.’
I try to speak but only a strangled sound comes out. The barrel presses harder – not firing, not yet, but promising it.
‘Shh. Don’t scream. No one’s coming anyway.
’ His voice is different now. The warmth from earlier has evaporated completely, replaced by something flat.
Dead. Like hearing a recording of a person rather than the person themselves.
‘That patrol car won’t be back for another forty-five minutes.
And besides – I locked us in. You heard it, didn’t you?
That little click before you fell asleep? ’
The click. I remember it now – that soft, definitive sound I’d taken as evidence of his care. Evidence that someone was looking out for me. I’d let it lull me into sleep, into safety, into the most dangerous vulnerability imaginable.
‘Bet you thought I was being protective,’ he continues, and I can hear the smile in his voice even though I can’t see his face. ‘Securing the house against the big bad intruder. Making sure poor Kelly was safe.’
My throat works against the gun. ‘Why?’
‘Why what? Why am I here?’ He shifts, adjusting his grip.
‘Or why did I spend three hours listening to you talk about your dead husband and your ruined marriage? Why did I drink your coffee and tell you about my daughter and pretend to be the one person in this whole town who actually gives a damn about you?’
The question lingers in the darkness. I think about the evening – the unexpected kindness, the shared confidences, the way he’d made me feel less alone. All of it building towards this moment.
‘You wanted me to trust you,’ I whisper.
‘I wanted you to sleep.’ The correction borders on gentle.
‘Properly sleep. Not that half-awake vigilance you’ve been holding since you got here.
Do you know how hard it is to get close to someone who never fully closes their eyes?
Who constantly checks locks and flinches at every shadow?
’ He makes a soft sound – not quite a laugh, but close.
‘I needed you relaxed. Unguarded. And the only way to achieve that was to make you believe you were finally safe.’
The logic of it is horrifying in its simplicity. All those hours of conversation, of connection, of feeling like I’d found an ally – nothing more than a sedative. A way to lower my defences until I was vulnerable.
‘The patrol cars,’ I manage. ‘The forensics team. Was any of it real?’
‘Oh, that was all real. I’m a professional, Kelly.
I don’t cut corners.’ His breath is warm against my ear.
‘But professionals also know how to use their resources. A few extra patrol passes, a forensics team that finds nothing useful, an officer who volunteers to stay and keep the traumatised victim company… it all fits the narrative. It all makes perfect sense.’
I think about Caroline watching from across the park.
About Emma and Natasha with their hollow messages of concern.
How the whole town that’s been treating me like a curiosity rather than a neighbour.
None of them would question this. None of them would wonder why the nice police officer spent the evening with the troubled widow.
They’d probably assume he was doing his job.
‘Get up.’ The pistol pulls back just enough for me to move, but I can still feel its presence. Hovering. Waiting. ‘Slowly.’
I rise from the bed on legs that don’t feel connected to my body any more.
Everything has gone distant, dreamlike, as if this is happening to someone else and I’m just watching from very far away.
Downstairs, the living room looks different in the darkness – the furniture transformed into odd shapes, the shadows pooling in corners like something alive.
‘Where are we going?’
‘Somewhere we can talk properly. Somewhere you can show me…’ He moves around to face me, and in the dim light from the window I can finally see his expression.
It’s not anger. Not exactly. It’s something older.
Deeper. The kind of patient intensity that comes from nursing something for a very long time.
‘You’ve been planning this,’ I say. ‘Since before you came to my house about the figure in the yard. Since before any of this.’
He doesn’t deny it. Just watches me with those brown eyes that I’d thought were kind.
‘There are things I need to understand, Kelly. Things I need to see.’ He gestures towards the kitchen with the gun – a small, almost casual movement that makes my stomach churn. ‘Your coat. Put it on.’
I walk ahead of him, acutely aware of his presence behind me.
Each step feels like wading through tar, my limbs heavy and uncooperative.
The house I’ve been hiding in for weeks now feels like a trap – every familiar shadow transformed into something sinister, every locked door and window suddenly evidence of my own imprisonment.
In the kitchen, he nods towards my coat hanging by the back door. The pool catches my eye through the small pane – peaceful and serene. For a moment, I’m struck with sudden jealousy that winds me.
I fumble with the sleeves, my hands shaking so badly I can barely find the armholes. He watches with that same flat expression, the gun held loosely at his side now but still very much present.
Still very much a threat.
‘The ring,’ I hear myself say. ‘The notes. The message on the boards. That was all you.’
‘No shit.’
‘But why? What do you want from me?’
He steps closer. I can smell his aftershave – the same ordinary, inoffensive scent I’d registered earlier when he was being kind. When he was pretending to be human.
‘I want the truth,’ he says softly. ‘The truth about that night. About what you really did. And you’re going to tell me, Kelly. Before this is over, you’re going to tell me everything.’
He pulls a key from his pocket. My key, I realise – he must have taken it from the hook while I was sleeping. While I was trusting him. The lock clicks open, and cold night air rushes in, carrying the smell of wet earth and rotting leaves.
Beyond the door, East Hampton sleeps peacefully. Utterly unaware.
‘Move,’ he says. ‘We’ve got a drive ahead of us.’