Chapter 49
Katherine blinks when she sees me standing here.
‘Janine,’ she says. ‘This is a lovely surprise!’
My mind shouts, telling me to react like I’m not in shock, but I doubt I pull it off. ‘You… you didn’t tell me you were Alexa’s neighbour,’ I hear myself say.
Something flashes in Katherine’s eyes, too fast for me to put a name to it, but then her forehead rumples in confusion. ‘I’m sure I did.’
I shake my head. ‘No, never.’
Katherine’s smile widens as if this omission is of little consequence, but all I can think about are the times we have spoken about Alexa. Not once did Katherine let on that she lived next door.
‘Are you here about Natalya’s message?’ Katherine asks, her eyebrows dipping. ‘I hope you know that I didn’t approve of it being sent. I still very much want you to be a part of the group. I feel like we’re really forming a friendship, Janine. I’d hate for it to end now.’
As Katherine reaches for my arm, I tell myself to smile.
Relax. I don’t know if her living next door to the Clarkes is suspicious.
Truthfully, I can’t even be certain that she didn’t already tell me she was their neighbour.
My mind has hardly been steady recently.
It’s possible I’ve forgotten. Besides, I’ve already accused one person today, I can’t accuse another. Not without proof.
‘Can we talk about the message?’ I say, pushing myself to remain calm. ‘I feel like I should explain what’s been going on, if you’ve time?’
Again, a flicker of emotion travels over Katherine’s face, but she masks it. ‘Sure,’ she says brightly, stepping back into the house. ‘Let me grab my coat and we can go for a walk.’
‘I’d rather sit, if that’s okay,’ I say. ‘I’ve hurt my ankle.’
I’m not immune to the way Katherine’s shoulders freeze. ‘But it’s a lovely brisk day. Perfect for a walk.’
‘I know, but I don’t think I’ll make it very far without having to ask you to carry me.’
Hearing the jokey tone I inject into my voice, Katherine smiles. ‘Of course. Come in.’
As I take a pained step into the hallway, it strikes me how the moody, atmospheric style outside carries through to the decor inside. The next thing to hit me is the smell. Overpoweringly floral, it’s as if someone has littered a million bowls of potpourri around the place.
‘Sorry about the smell,’ Katherine says as if reading my mind. ‘I make scent bags to keep my clothes fresh. I’ve started selling them online. Anything to earn a bit of money with writing not quite panning out yet.’
‘At least you’re writing in a home as beautiful as this.’
‘I’m glad you like it. To be honest, the house is more Eddie’s taste than mine, but I haven’t gotten around to redecorating since he passed. It’s a big job when there are this many rooms. Plus keeping things as they were reminds me of him. I can almost pretend he’s still here. Silly, really.’
‘It’s not silly at all,’ I reply.
‘Go through to the dining room and get comfortable. I’ll make us a drink,’ Katherine says as she heads to the kitchen.
After hanging my coat on the banister, I hobble down the hallway and peep into the rooms I pass, marvelling at the uniqueness of Katherine’s home.
Decorative vases and brass antiques litter every available surface, casting shadows on luxurious patterned wallpapers.
Peeping into the living room, I hunt for signs that Alexa Clarke could have been here.
Two mugs, two books on the coffee table, anything that hints at the presence of a second person, but there are none.
As much as I would love to explore the rest of the house, my ankle begs me to rest. When I reach the dining room, I slot into a seat at the head of the table.
There, I study an impressive artwork depicting a bleak mid-winter day that’s hung over the fireplace until Katherine returns carrying two full-to-the-brim teacups.
‘Let’s hope they live up to the drinks at Coffee and Cake,’ she quips, setting them down.
‘This is much better. We’ve no Margie listening to what we’re saying.’
Katherine titters at my joke. ‘She is a character, isn’t she? I’ve tried to add someone like her to a book before, but alas, Margie is stranger than fiction.’
‘Imagine if you did create a character in her honour. She’d probably give you free cakes for life!’
Once again, Katherine laughs. The move relaxes her, and in turn, me. This is Katherine, who I have tea with once a week. Katherine, who shares her writing with me. So what if I didn’t know where her house was? That doesn’t mean there’s anything for me to fear.
‘Speaking of books, I should explain my side of Natalya’s message,’ I say, resting my forearms on the table. ‘I need you to know that I was only talking to Otis to help find Alexa. I wasn’t copying anyone’s work.’
Katherine waves her hand to dismiss my comment. ‘It’s fine. Natalya doesn’t own this story.’
‘But I’m not writing about Alexa. I’m not writing about a missing woman at all. If you could see my manuscript, you would know how true that statement is.’
‘I believe you. Although I must say, your time with Otis will have provided valuable insights should you ever decide to write about that topic again.’
When I sip my tea, the liquid is so hot it scalds my tongue. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Well, you must have seen something that could be useful for your writing. Maybe an interaction with the police or a mannerism you could use to bring to life a guilty character. Something Otis said, perhaps?’
Katherine’s question catches me off guard. I sip my tea again, if only to give me a moment to wonder how to answer it.
‘I’m not fishing for gossip,’ Katherine assures me. ‘I just enjoy realism in writing, as you know. I’ve never seen that level of devastation up close. I wondered if you had any pearls of wisdom to describe what it was like?’
‘Terrible,’ I reply bluntly. ‘I watched a man realise his wife might be dead.’
‘Yes,’ Katherine says softly, lowering her head. ‘Yes, that must have been awful.’
The atmosphere swells, an unexpected level of sadness filling the air. The way my body shifts tells me I’m not comfortable describing the worst time of Otis’s life like this.
‘Do you mind if I use the bathroom?’ I ask.
Katherine startles at my sudden derailing of the conversation. ‘I don’t have one on the ground floor, and I’m not sure using the stairs with that ankle is wise,’ she replies.
‘My only other option is to go here, and I don’t think either of us want that,’ I joke.
‘Still,’ Katherine says, reaching for my arm. ‘I’m not sure using stairs when you’re injured is a good idea. You don’t want to hurt yourself more.’
Even though the words were said with care, something about them makes me shiver. Pulling myself from Katherine so she can’t feel the thrum of panic in my pulse, I use the table to haul myself upright.
‘You seem to be in a lot of pain,’ Katherine says, but when I manage to stand, she falls silent.
‘I’ll be in more pain if I don’t go to the toilet,’ I reply, trying to keep the hitch of fear out of my voice. ‘Do you not want me to go upstairs or something?’
Weakly, Katherine smiles. ‘Of course not. The bathroom is the second door on the landing.’
‘Thanks,’ I reply, tensing at the throbbing in my ankle as I walk.
‘Come straight back down,’ Katherine calls after me. ‘You don’t want to stand for too long. And remember, it’s the second door!’
Using the wall to support myself, I limp to the foot of the stairs.
Beads of sweat prickle my brow as I climb the stairs – but halfway up, I notice the strangest thing.
The smell has changed. The pungent florals are there, but something else is mingled with them.
A sour undertone that makes my eyes water. With each step, it gets stronger.
Slowing my ascent, I look around for the source of the odour, but all I see are floral carpets and ornately framed paintings.
‘Did you find the bathroom okay?’ Katherine calls after me.
Her voice nudges me back to life. I set off again, shouting over my shoulder, ‘Almost there.’
The summit is near when I spot the second door, ajar to unveil a porcelain sink and intricate tiling.
Heaving myself over the final step, I pause to catch my breath, but the odd smell distracts me.
My nerves sizzle, but I order myself to be calm.
I’m at Katherine’s house. There is nothing to fear here.
Suddenly, I hear her moving on the floor below me. The sound is so unexpected, I take a step backwards and almost tumble down the stairs. Gripping the banister to stop myself, I fight to steady my breath.
‘This bathroom is gorgeous,’ I shout.
I hear Katherine laugh, but the closeness of the sound is a shock. It sounds as though she is directly underneath me, not in the dining room where I left her.
‘Glad you made it,’ she calls. ‘I was worried you were stuck on the stairs.’
Katherine’s footsteps ring out as she heads back to the dining room. A prickly panic ignites my skin. It warns me to go back down the stairs, but as putrid air fills my lungs, I can’t fight my curiosity.
Turning away from the bathroom, I shuffle down the landing and hunt for the source of the smell.
Gently, I push open the first door to unveil an impressive master bedroom next to the bathroom, complete with a four-poster bed.
The door after that opens to another bedroom, this time one that clearly belonged to a teenage boy.
After that is an office, with dark oak furniture and shelves crammed with books.
My lips part in wonder at its old-fashioned beauty.
Everything about it is opulent and antique, as if each piece of furniture has its own story to tell.
The engraved wood desk is commanding and authoritative, and there is a burgundy leather chair perched behind it.
Part of me wants to comment on how beautiful the room is, but Katherine cannot know I’m snooping.
Although it feels akin to reading her diary, I step inside, flinching as the floorboard creaks beneath my foot. I freeze, waiting for Katherine to call out to me, but the house is silent.
When I’m sure she’s not coming, I step deeper into the room and study the books filling the shelves. I catch sight of a spine that reads, Kick Writer’s Block… For Good!
You’ll have to borrow that, I think before coming to a stop beside Katherine’s desk. A framed handwritten note is perched beside her laptop. Picking it up, I read the treasured words.
The world needs to hear your voice, my love. One day I will see your name in print. Never give up x
My chin dimples at Eddie’s message. The rejections Katherine’s received seem all the crueller when cast in this light.
I set the note down with an unsteady hand, wondering how Katherine would react if she saw me prying like this.
The thought has my heart pounding. Moving my focus away from the note, I scan the rest of the desk.
A stack of papers sits in the centre, with an expectant fountain pen perched beside them.
Glancing at the door, I look for a sign of Katherine, but all I hear is silence. Relieved, I focus back on the papers. Before I can stress about how terrible it is to read someone’s work before they’re ready to share it, I pluck the first page from the pile and begin to read.
Alexa Clarke didn’t feel her skull splinter at first.
Even the shudder-inducing crack of the initial impact took a few seconds to register with her.
Alexa’s momentary ignorance could suggest how unexpected an act of violence was in her life. Maybe the hostile beauty of the late November morning had captured her attention. Maybe she suddenly remembered something – an appointment she had to attend or that she hadn’t turned the iron off.
I inhale sharply. For as long as I’ve known her, Katherine has been a romance writer. I’ve read samples of her work many times, but it’s never been like this. This is dark and unnerving.
My skin tingles as I wonder what made Katherine write such a twisted tale. Biting my lip, I glance at the door again, half expecting to see her standing there, alarmed at my intrusion, but I’m still alone.
I know I should put the manuscript down and leave, but a rush of adrenaline goads me to read on. Only a little. I skim to the end of the chapter, my hand rising to my mouth as it concludes with Alexa Clarke being struck over the head in a field behind her home.
A sinking feeling floods my limbs. Katherine’s fictional retelling echoes reality uncomfortably closely. The writing is so vivid, so realistic, it’s like I was there with Alexa when she was attacked.
Shuddering, I thumb the rest of the manuscript and skim read sections describing the horrific torture of Alexa Clarke, chained to a bed in a white room, and the heroic actions of a plucky young detective trying to find her. The time stamp at the top of each chapter makes my hands shake.
Forcing myself to breathe slowly, I drop the manuscript.
I’ve been up here too long. Limping out of the room, my throat constricts at the rancid odour – it’s so much stronger out here.
Whatever is causing the stench must be behind one of the remaining three doors.
As my gag reflex kicks into life, so does my brain.
You’ve smelt something like this before, it says.
That’s when it hits me.
While researching for my last book, I sat in on an autopsy. While I was interviewing the pathologist afterwards, a body arrived that had been found three weeks after the person died.
‘Do you want to know what death smells like?’ he asked.
‘What kind of thriller author would I be if I said no to that?’ I replied.
The answer was a far less nauseated one. The repulsive smell stayed in my nostrils for days, despite me only popping my head in the room where the body lay for a moment. Acrid and pungent, like rotting meat only ten times worse. I would never forget the smell of a decomposing corpse.
And somehow, Katherine’s house smells exactly like that.
It only registers with me why that could be a split second before something crashes into the side of my skull.