We’re the last coffee shop to close and the street is empty. My heart hammers. He starts walking towards me and for a second, I’m frozen, rooted to the pavement as though I were built into it. His stride is determined, purposeful, and the reality that I’m alone with a man who weighs twice as much as me propels me into action. I start walking in the opposite direction, glad I changed into my trainers before leaving.
I live a fifteen-minute walk from town. Usually I cut through Memorial Gardens, but I veer off, taking the long way back across residential streets. He’s still behind me. I can feel it.
Up ahead, a group of people wander slowly down the street on the opposite side. I cross the road, hoping if I stay close to other pedestrians, he’ll back off. Once I’m through the group, I do a quick check over my shoulder and it’s worked – he’s dropped back a little. I dig around in my bag and pull out my phone and house keys. Pinching my key between two fingers, I’m poised to use it as a weapon if needed. My phone is gripped tightly in my other hand. Maybe I should call someone. Like Jack. Or the police. But what would I say? This man hasn’t hurt me. Can I get in trouble for wasting police time? I won’t call. Once I get home, once I reach my front door, I’ll be fine.
I’ll be fine.
I falter; maybe leading him right to my front door is a mistake. But then, he probably already knows where I live; several times, I’ve seen him in the park across from my house. I could turn around, go to a public place, a bar, ask Jack to meet me there. As soon as he sets eyes on me, he’ll know something is wrong and then I’ll either have to explain or lie. Besides, I’m closer to home now than I am to town.
I look back, just a flash – the man’s still behind me. He’s speeding up now. Not quite jogging but too fast to call it a walk. I rush out to cross the road, not wanting to stop in case he catches up. A car blares its horn as it swerves to avoid me. My pulse kicks and blood rushes through my ears. I stumble onto the pavement and round the corner into my street. I’ll be safer inside than I will out here, pounding the pavement. So, I jog up the stone steps, unlock the door with shaking hands and slam it shut behind me, pressing my back against the sun-warmed wood.
Safe.
Chapter Two
28 Days Before
Elodie Fray
My sister lives in a two-storey Georgian house with feature fireplaces, detailed cornicing and eggshell-painted shutters. It’s beautiful, there’s no denying that. It reeks of grandeur and money. Ada’s home is in a part of town that beguiled us as children. We used to walk slowly down Peach Avenue after school, watching girls our age step out of expensive cars in their private school uniforms, their slick ponytails swishing as they glided down the winding drive and into their big houses, followed by parents dressed in diamonds and pearls and thick, gold watches. Ada would point to the men with their crisp shirts and polished shoes and broad, white smiles and say, ‘That’s the kind of guy I’m going to marry when I grow up.’ And she did. For my sister, her accountant husband, Ethan, has a bank balance big enough that it’s a better lubricant than anything Durex could ever make.
Weaving between the many cars parked on the driveway, I hear laughter and music and taste the smokiness of the BBQ drifting over the fence. I didn’t bring anything to Ada’s last gathering and she made a snide comment about party etiquette, so I stayed up last night to make a summer fruit crumble. Balancing the glass dish on my hip, I use the big brass knocker. Nervously, I wait. It’s silly, there’s not going to be anyone here I don’t already know, but seeing my family is painful. My parents don’t agree with my decision to give up a marketing career. They think chasing my dream of being a writer is irresponsible folly. They don’t understand that securing an agent, especially one as talented as Lara, is like taming a mystical beast.
The front door opens, and Ethan greets me, a glass of red in one hand. ‘Elodie,’ he says brightly. ‘Come in, come in. Join the party.’
My sister’s husband is loved by the entire family and though we get along, I feel that where he is a dog person, I am like a cat being shoved in his lap.
He leads me through to the garden. For a moment I stand motionless, taking it all in. My sister doesn’t do anything by halves. There are two large silk-white tepees, adorned with bunting and fairy lights, and above them, pastel paper decorations hang from tree branches, dancing slightly in the summer breeze; to my left is a bank of wooden tables where cheese boards and colourful bowls of salads and desserts jostle for room; to my right is the sizzling BBQ. As I carry my dessert over to the artfully displayed pavlovas and Victoria sponges, I notice the fences have been repainted in navy, and the summer house in a dusky pink. This party is Pinterest-perfect. Beautiful, expensive people wearing beautiful, expensive things.