The Woman Who Lied(25)

‘And what is he going to do about it?’

‘I don’t know … he didn’t say. What can he do? This is the thing …’ She takes a deep breath. She can feel her voice rising and she doesn’t want to get hysterical. She notices Jasmine turn to look at her from where she’s sitting on the sofa. Emilia lowers her voice and turns away. ‘He said we’ve done the right thing by putting cameras up. But there isn’t much they can do yet.’

Elliot makes a sound of frustration at the other end of the line. ‘I could kill whoever is doing this.’

‘It’s just silly stuff,’ she says, trying to reassure him. And herself.

‘Can’t you ask Louise to help? Surely there must be some perks to having a copper friend.’

‘She’s in the Major Crime unit and covers homicide. Not this kind of thing.’

‘But she might know someone who can help.’

She glances towards her children. Wilfie is watching the telly, Jasmine sitting against the armrest, her knees pulled up to her chest, engrossed in her phone, but Emilia knows her daughter has ears like a bat. She suddenly feels a surge of protectiveness towards them. ‘I’ll call her and ask. You’re right, there have to be some perks.’

And she’d do anything to keep her family safe.

Emilia has just put Wilfie to bed and is talking to Jasmine in the kitchen about Jake, a boy Nancy fancies, when there is a knock at the front door. Her heart quickens and she instructs her daughter to stay where she is.

‘Why are you being weird?’ Jasmine says, cupping her mug of hot chocolate. She’s in pyjamas that are slightly too big for her and fat, fluffy socks, reminding Emilia of the little girl she used to be.

‘I’m not,’ she replies, flashing her daughter what she hopes is a reassuring smile.

‘You look mad.’

Emilia’s heart is in her mouth as she opens the glass double doors and peers through the spyhole. She exhales in relief when she sees Ottilie’s blonde hair and fur-collared coat.

She opens the door and is hit by the cold, dank air. ‘What are you doing here?’

Ottilie shoves a bottle of wine at her and brushes past Elliot’s bike to hang her coat on the stand at the bottom of the stairs. ‘I always forget how huge this hallway is,’ she says. ‘To answer your question, yes, Elliot rang. He was worried. So I’m staying the night. No.’ She holds up a hand. ‘Don’t even try to stop me.’

Emilia wouldn’t dare. And she’s relieved that Ottilie is here. If she had her way the house would be filled with people, life and laughter every night of the week. Elliot is more reserved: he’d prefer it to be just the four of them.

‘Hi, Aunty Ottilie,’ trills Jasmine, coming into the hallway, still nursing her mug of hot chocolate. ‘What are you doing here?’

‘Ssh.’ Emilia ushers them into the kitchen and closes the doors so as not to wake Wilfie. She opens the bottle of wine and fetches two glasses.

‘I fancied a sleepover,’ says Ottilie to Jasmine, taking the glass from Emilia.

Jasmine rolls her eyes. ‘I know something’s going on,’ she says, directing this at her mum.

‘It’s nothing.’ Emilia takes a sip of wine to hide her lie. ‘Just some pranks have been played on me, that’s all.’

‘Like what?’

‘Oh, silly things. Receiving lilies with no note, a seagull –’

‘A seagull?’ Jasmine shrieks.

‘A ceramic one,’ clarifies Emilia, noticing her daughter’s horrified expression. She doesn’t mention the skylights, the troll doll, or the wreath.

‘But that’s not why I’m here, sweetheart,’ says Ottilie, with a wave of her hand. ‘Your dad’s away so we thought we’d have a girly night.’

Disbelief is etched on her daughter’s perfect face. Near her eyebrow there is a tiny mark left from the chicken pox she caught at the age of four but otherwise her face is blemish-free, skin Emilia can only dream of. She’s suffered with hormonal spots since she was in her teens. ‘I’m going to bed, then,’ Jasmine says. ‘I don’t want to hear you both reminisce about boarding school for the millionth time.’

‘Rude,’ quips Emilia. She pulls Jasmine in for a kiss. She smells of chocolate, and apple shampoo. ‘Goodnight. Love you.’

‘Goodnight, darling,’ calls Ottilie, as Jasmine wanders out of the kitchen, closing the kitchen door pointedly behind her. Emilia is thankful that the Crittall doors are glass so she can see into the hallway and watch as Jasmine goes up the stairs. She’s checked the attic skylight ten times since she got home and it’s firmly closed. She has even considered fastening some kind of rope or tie around the latch to stop anyone getting in, but that would involve the ladder, which is in the garage.

‘So,’ says Ottilie, walking over to the squashy sofas at the family-room end of the kitchen, ‘what else has been happening since I saw you at lunchtime? Elliot sounded quite rattled on the phone.’

‘I haven’t told him all of it.’ Emilia sighs, flopping onto the opposite end of the sofa and facing her friend. Then she has a thought. ‘You didn’t mention the wreath, did you?’

Ottilie frowns. ‘I did. I thought you had.’