Chapter 21
STEPHEN
It’s creeping closer to midnight, a brand-new day, by the time Stephen bids the detective goodnight, then climbs the stairs.
He follows the detective’s instructions and locates the spare room just before the dead-end hallway.
The area intrigues him. A hallway that goes nowhere seems like a slightly pointless design of the cottage, but his intrigue soon turns to confusion.
Something doesn’t add up. What’s the purpose of it?
Surely, there should be some sort of window where the blank wall is, or even an extra room?
It’s only a two-bedroom cottage as it stands, but the downstairs is considerably larger than the upstairs.
He scratches his head, too exhausted to give it any more thought tonight.
His brain needs to rest and recharge, ready for a big day tomorrow, and he’s not feeling his best. A lingering headache is slowly weighing him down, to the point where all he wants to do is crawl into bed and pull the covers over his head, like he used to do when he was a child so he didn’t have to listen to his parents arguing.
He got good at ignoring that type of thing.
He’s not sure if the detective noticed his bloody nose earlier, but if he did, he didn’t remark on it.
Stephen listens as the detective moves around downstairs, closing down for the night.
Stephen then uses the bathroom and enters the spare room.
It’s pleasant enough. The single bed is like a warm, welcoming hug at the end of a long day.
A simple lamp on a small table sits beside the bed.
Stephen dumps his case on the floor and searches his shoulder bag for his painkillers, popping two out of the blister pack. He checks his phone as he climbs into bed.
Damn it.
Rachel.
He hadn’t messaged her when he’d arrived like he said he would.
He’d completely forgotten about it. When his mind is busy like this, he often forgets simple things like keeping in contact with people and even eating and drinking.
He has several missed calls from her and at least a dozen texts.
Stephen is one of those people who will glance at a new text, make a mental note to respond soon, then forget about it and not reply until three working days later.
He reads through her texts, struggling to focus on the words, which blur together. The texts slowly get more and more concerned, then angry and annoyed. It’s too late to call her now. She’ll be asleep, so he sends her a text instead.
Stephen: Sorry. Not much signal here. I’m fine. Arrived safe. Love you x
She messages back within seconds.
Rachel: I’ve been so worried. Please take care. What time are you back tomorrow? Don’t forget about your hospital appointment. Love you too x
He goes to type but finds he doesn’t know what to say.
There’s no way he’s returning to Cherry Hollow tomorrow.
He’s going to have to reschedule his hospital appointment, but Rachel won’t like that, will she?
She’ll start nagging and telling him his health is more important than an investigation. But she’s wrong.
He can’t afford any distractions. Hospital appointments are included in that heading.
Nothing is more important than this case. Nothing.
He can’t explain it to her. She won’t understand. She’s not like him. No one is.
Stephen turns his phone to silent and places it on the side table by the bed, face down. He’ll deal with her wrath another time.
Like the detective said, tomorrow is a new day.
The Hanging Tree is calling to him.
He dreams about it. He’s there, sitting beneath it, drawing a sunset, waiting for someone, but happy to be alone.
The view is beautiful from up here. He looks down at his hands as they effortlessly sketch the view.
Stephen’s never been good at drawing, never had an artistic bone in his body, except when it came to words, but the drawing on the paper is beautiful. He recognises it.
Then, a tickle.
Around his neck.
A rustle of leaves from above.
A noose slithers down from the tree by itself, wraps around his neck and strings him up like an animal carcass. He jolts upright in bed, gasping and grabbing at his neck. It’s sore – as if it really happened.
The tree is trying to tell him something.
For a moment, he was somewhere else, someone else.
John Hammel.
What happened to you, John? And why is your great, great, great grand-daughter now potentially missing a hundred years after your untimely death?