Chapter 3 #2
She crept out onto the landing and over to the banister rail.
The first thing she noticed was the downstairs lights had been turned on.
Whoever it was seemed to have little concern about anyone spotting an illuminated window so late at night.
For the first time since she’d arrived in Halfmoon Quay, Frankie regretted choosing the pretty little cottage.
Being so close to the beach and slightly separated from the main part of the village had seemed perfect.
Getting up and going for a run had been the best way to start the day, giving her space to think undisturbed as she turned over in her head whatever scene was on the filming call sheet.
It didn’t matter how cold or wet or windy it was, Frankie was out on the beach at first light.
She’d always considered herself a gym person before coming to the village, and she paid handsomely for a high-end one a fellow actor had recommended for its good security and guaranteed discretion.
But the nearest gym was a half-hour drive away in Port Petroc and simply too difficult to fit into her busy daily schedule.
Running outside had been a revelation to Frankie, an experience so freeing she’d already begun to regret they were nearing the end of filming.
She loved the cottage so much it had half been on her mind to enquire whether it would be available to purchase.
It would be entirely impractical, of course, and, given the gorgeous location, more than likely miles outside her budget.
Her tiny flat in London already cost more in rent than she cared to think about, but she needed to be in town for work, auditions, meetings and the endless parade of social events she was required to attend to keep her face in the public sphere.
All part of the devil’s bargain that came with her choice of career.
But none of that mattered any more, if she didn’t get out of this night in one piece.
The need to move and move now was all-encompassing and Frankie crept halfway down the stairs where she’d have a better view.
Thankfully the front room was empty. A suitcase she didn’t recognise was standing by the front door.
She shook her head at the audacity of it.
The burglar clearly expected to take a decent haul with them and had found an inconspicuous mode of transport for it.
Frankie pressed her back against the wall and took a couple of breaths to calm herself.
A noise came from the open door to the kitchen and her head whipped in that direction.
The intruder was rooting through her cupboards by the sounds of it.
She glanced back at the empty front room.
Nothing there had been disturbed. Her phone was on the coffee table where she’d left it, the small backpack she used to carry her belongings to and from set was wide open on the armchair, her iPad and purse on full display.
What kind of a burglar ignored easy pickings like that?
Frankie shook the thought away. What did it matter? The front door was right there. All she needed to do was get to it before the intruder finished their search of the kitchen and she’d be out on the street. Free. Safe.
Even in her slippers those miles up and down the beach would stand her in good stead for a getaway.
Unlike in London where she never knew the comings and goings of her neighbours, she knew all the houses along her little street were occupied because people had stopped her in passing to introduce themselves or dropped by to say hello, like Alice, the sweet old lady who lived directly next door.
She’d shown up on Frankie’s doorstep within hours of her moving in with a plate of home-made shortbread and a hug.
Alice had made Frankie feel more welcome than several of the foster homes she’d been placed in as a kid, and, always a sucker for a little kindness and attention, Frankie had been round several times for a cup of tea and a chat.
Alice didn’t want anything from her – other than a few minutes of her time here and there – and had been utterly unfazed that ‘the girl from the telly’ was her neighbour.
She crept lower. One step. Then another.
She was so close now… The thought of escape made her too hasty and she put more weight than she’d intended on the next wooden tread.
The boards creaked beneath her and she froze, that initial panic roaring back into life so fast it made her head dizzy and she had to press her back into the wall in an effort to keep her balance.
She should make a run for the door while she still could but her feet were not getting the message.
Frankie stared at the open door of the kitchen, waiting for the intruder to emerge, waiting for him to cut off her escape route.
A low, rumbling noise began. Somewhere in her brain, Frankie recognised it but it was only as it grew in volume before cutting off with a telltale click that the answer came to her.
The intruder was boiling the kettle. She glanced over at her undisturbed possessions and then back at the open kitchen door.
Here she was scared half to death and the person responsible for that fear was making a drink?
She shoved her hands in her pockets and yanked out the two cylinders.
This was her home. Her place of safety. What if whoever it was made their escape while she was raising the alarm?
They might slip away in the dark and not be caught.
If they’d done this once, who was to say they wouldn’t do it again?
What if the next place they broke into was occupied by someone who couldn’t look after themselves, like lovely Alice next door? The thought of some creep sneaking around her elderly neighbour’s house in the middle of the night was enough to make Frankie’s blood boil.
Without giving herself time to question her decision, Frankie twisted the top of the can of defensive spray to activate it.
She gripped it in her left hand, her thumb poised above the trigger, then double-checked the personal alarm in her other hand and formulated a quick plan.
Get to the kitchen door. Set off the alarm and throw it out of reach then lean around the door and spray the intruder with the dye.
One quick blast would be enough, as the manufacturer promised it wouldn’t wash off for days.
Alarm. Spray. Then run.
She eyed her phone on the coffee table; having it would be a bonus but the intruder could come out any time. She needed the element of surprise if this was going to work.
Go.
Now.
Frankie launched herself down the last few steps, banging the alarm against her thigh as she moved.
A hideous shrieking filled the air and even though she was braced for it, it was enough to disorientate her for a second.
She threw the alarm through the kitchen door, the chink of it hitting the tiles inaudible over the deafening blare, then turned her focus towards the intruder.
His back was towards her, his attention fixed on the alarm, and all she managed to register was a handful of scattered descriptors.
Man. Tall. Dark hair. Frankie raised the spray and pressed the lid down hard.
A long stream of bright red liquid shot out, hitting the man square in the back of the head.
She flashed her hand up and down, trying to cover as much of him with the dye as possible.
‘What the fuck?’ The man ducked and clutched both hands to the back of his head where the dye had hit him. He pulled them back and stared down at his palms.
Caught you red-handed. The glimmer of grim satisfaction vanished as the man spun around to face her.
In all her nervous excitement, Frankie had forgotten the third and most important part of her plan – run.
She dropped the canister and backed up a few steps.
She was about to turn tail for the front door when her brain finally caught up with her eyes and she realised with complete astonishment that she knew this man.
The personal alarm ran out of steam at the same moment and her voice echoed loudly around the kitchen as she yelled in disbelief. ‘Harry?’