Chapter 3
‘Wow!’
It looks more like a palace or some kind of embassy. I half expect to see flags protruding from the roof. The white walls of the property gleam so hard in the sunlight I have to raise a hand to shield my eyes even with sunglasses on.
‘Such a pretty home, don’t you think?’ Frances Mayfield smiles, artfully understating. ‘And Acacia Avenue is one of our most desirable streets. Although some might say that there aren’t any undesirable streets here in Serenity Falls.’
She laughs. A light, tinkling thing that sits somewhat incongruously with the bulk of the woman.
That’s not to say that Frances is overweight.
She’s just large. Tall, almost my height, and formidably purposed.
Her shoulders are broad; her legs are sturdy atop a pair of wedge-heeled sandals.
Even her hair – a perfectly coiffed bob – looks hard enough to deter missiles.
‘It’s, erm, substantial,’ I say.
Sadie stares upwards, uncharacteristically quiet. I suppose it is a lot to take in.
‘So,’ Frances continues, ‘shall I give you the grand tour?’
‘Probably for the best, just to make sure we don’t get lost.’
Frances strides forward. I scurry a little to catch up. At the front door, she pauses and points to a small black box on the wall.
‘Doorbell and security camera, so you can see everyone coming and going.’
‘Okay,’ I say.
‘We pride ourselves on all our homes having the most up-to-date security,’ Frances says. ‘There is also a camera at the rear of the property. All very unobtrusive, of course. And you can connect them to your phone.’
‘I thought Serenity Falls prided itself on being crime-free,’ Sadie says.
Frances shoots her a look, the sunny disposition momentarily dulling. ‘And that’s one of the reasons why,’ she says smartly. ‘That and the fact we are very discerning about who we permit to live here.’
I don’t miss the implication. Sadie and I are here by default. We have, in a way, slipped in via the back door. Not chosen. Foisted upon Serenity Falls by my mother’s shrewd investment. And once again, I wonder how Mum engineered this.
‘So, let’s take a peek inside.’ Frances looks at me. I smile back. And then I realize. She’s waiting for me to unlock the door with my shiny new bracelet.
‘Oh,’ I say. ‘Almost forgot.’
I press the silver disc to the pad beneath the door handle. I hear a click as the lock releases.
‘You have a set of standard keys as well,’ Frances says. ‘Just for spares. Really, you shouldn’t need them.’
She pushes the door open, and we are immediately greeted by a welcome blast of ice-cold air. Both Sadie and I audibly groan with relief. Frances smiles again.
‘Yes, you really feel the benefits of the aircon.’
She motions us inside and swiftly shuts the door.
We stare around the entrance hall. Again, the pictures in the brochure didn’t adequately convey the dimensions.
What seems like acres of smooth marble flooring spread out before us.
A winding staircase on the left leads up to the first floor, and four doors lead off the hall.
Frances gestures ahead: ‘Living room and diner/kitchen. To your right is the study, recreation room and downstairs bathroom.’
Of course. I glance at Sadie – whose face is inscrutable – and we follow Frances dumbly around the ground floor in something of a daze.
A vast study with a built-in bookcase spanning one wall.
Another huge room next door: ‘You could have a gym or maybe make it a games room,’ Frances suggests. I nod, mutely.
The open-plan living and dining area is furnished, minimally but tastefully.
Cream sofas, rugs in taupe and green, modern abstract pictures on the walls – a swirling mix of greens, browns and amber.
The kitchen is sleek and modern in shades of muted grey.
Mum would have hated it, I think. She was more of a pine cabinets and floral china person.
Tea cosies and chintzy tablecloths. And yet, here we are.
‘The kitchen is new. Installed just last year.’ Frances beams.
‘Last year?’ I query.
‘Yes, the maintenance contract ensures all appliances and furnishings are kept up to date. You’ll also find food in the freezer, and juice and milk in the fridge.
In case you don’t get to the shops today.
’ She smiles beatifically and gestures back towards the living room.
‘Sliding doors open out to the back yard and pool.’
The doors are shaded by pale grey blinds, presumably to keep out the sun. Before I can look outside, Frances is whisking us upstairs.
‘Six bedrooms. Four en suites. The master has a dressing room and views out over the pool.’
She ushers us into the room, which is beautiful if very beige.
I can’t see the views out to the pool because, again, blinds shade the windows.
A wooden ceiling fan spins lazily over the huge bed and another of the abstract pictures looms above the headboard.
I frown. The paintings downstairs are okay, if not really to my taste (but then I’m a man who still has posters of Scooby-Doo on his walls).
This picture is … consuming, I think, and then wonder where the hell that word came from.
It’s mostly a very dark blue which gets gradually lighter towards the centre, like some kind of swirling vortex.
It makes me feel a little dizzy if I stare at it for too long, but the weird thing is, I want to stare at it.
Like it’s sucking me in. I blink and shake my head. Frances is talking again.
‘And finally …’ She sweeps back out on to the landing. Sadie and I trail, like debris, in her wake. ‘I know your grandmother wanted this to be your room, Sadie.’
Frances pushes open the door for Sadie to step inside. Sadie glances at me. I nod. ‘Go on.’
I can sense her reluctance, and her continued silence is worrying me. She isn’t usually this quiet for this long. Almost fifteen minutes without any sass, sighing or even a roll of the eyes. Something is wrong.
She steps into the room. It’s big, obviously.
Unlike the rest of the house, which is a shrine to the palate of neutral, the walls here have been painted a very pale lilac.
It didn’t feature in the brochure. Another abstract painting, this time in reds and mauves, hangs on a wall by the door.
In the centre of the room is a large four-poster bed with billowing drapes.
A name has been etched into the footboard of the bed. Sadie.
Sadie stares around. And then, without a word, she turns and runs out of the room and back down the stairs. Frances stands just inside the door, looking bemused. ‘Is she okay?’
‘I don’t think so.’ I turn and head after her.
I get it. The flight, this room, the heat – all of it.
It’s too much. But Sadie doesn’t usually cut and run.
I reach the hall and glance towards the half-open sliding doors in the open-plan living area.
I jog across, push the blinds aside and step out into the yard.
The heat washes over me in a suffocating wave and the sunlight momentarily blinds me.
I fumble for my sunglasses, slip them on and stare around.
I can’t see Sadie anywhere. But my eyes are drawn to the pool.
It’s large, at least twenty metres. A curved-off rectangle with steps leading down into the shallow end.
Aquamarine water sparkles under the sunshine.
A bunch of brightly coloured balloons bobs gently near the steps.
At the other end, bobbing less brightly, a body is submerged face down in the water.