Down in the kitchen she told herself no on making a sandwich. Instead, she heated up a can of soup, put a salad together. While she ate, she played with a few more ideas on her tablet.
She answered a text from her mother.
Everything’s good! Pretty much set up, and been working most of the day. Met Anna Doyle—lawyer’s daughter—and I’m pretty sure new client. Big cheer! She’s a potter—a good one. I’m having soup and a salad, so I’m not starving. Planning on getting into the village tomorrow—next day latest—so I won’t be a hermit. Love and more love.
They texted back and forth a few times, and when they signed off, she sent a text to Cleo.
Hey! Met Trey’s sister, Anna. More gorgeous. She’s a potter who needs a design package, so woo to the hoo on that one. Texted with Mom, and she’s hoping to come up for a day soon, maybe spend the night. You have to come visit!
And because she knew just how to tempt her friend, she added:
Not only is the manor amazing, they’re saying it’s haunted. Portrait of a Poole bride from the early 1800s in the foyer, murdered on her wedding day. Spoooooky!
The response came quickly, as Sonya knew it would.
Ghost bride! You know I’m there. Give me a couple weeks to clean up some work. I’ll come for a weekend. We’ll go ghost hunting.
Yeah, sure, Sonya thought, but gave Cleo a thumbs-up emoji.
After she tidied the kitchen, she went back to work for another hour. Too early for bed, she thought, but had to admit her brain had worn down.
She’d go over it all again in the morning, and if it still looked good, she’d send the options to Anna. And drive into the village, get out of the house, and explore a little.
But right now, too tired to work, too wound up to sleep, she decided on a glass of wine and a movie. After all, she had dozens of DVDs to choose from and a big screen right upstairs.
She settled on a romantic comedy, something fun, she mused, frothy and fun, and sprawled on the big couch.
She made it through most of the glass of wine and most of the movie before she drifted off.
The clock chiming three woke her. Her heart pounded as she lay, confused and half dreaming. She heard music, piano music. Something wrong with her tablet, she thought, and rubbed at her eyes.
She thought she heard someone weeping.
She must’ve turned the TV off before she fell asleep, she decided. And turned the lamp on across the room. And pulled down the throw currently tucked around her.
Just more tired than she’d thought, and still adjusting to a strange house and all its strange spaces. Still groggy, she groped for her phone to take with her and charge overnight.
Or what was left of the night.
It wasn’t on the table. Yawning, she pushed her hands into the pockets of her sweats. Instant panic struck when they came up empty.
Jumping up, she shook out the throw, began searching the cushions of the couch.
She told herself she wasn’t one of those people whose life depended on her phone, but … Her life was on that phone.
She got down on the floor, hunted under the couch, under the table.
And noticed the wineglass, the remote weren’t on the table.
Had she gotten up before she’d fallen asleep?
She yanked open the drawer of the coffee table, and there sat the remote, exactly where she’d found it.
“Okay, I put it away. That’s something anybody might do and forget when they’re half-asleep.”
She pushed up, walked to the railing and looked over.
The fire simmered—shouldn’t it have gone out by now?—and she clearly saw her phone on the desk, on the charger. The tablet with it, also on charge.
Relieved, she turned to the steps.
The music stopped, and for whatever reason, the sudden silence had her nerves jumping.
She left the tablet where it was, grabbed her fully charged phone to take with her to her bedroom.
Where the bedside light glowed, and the duvet and sheet were smoothly turned down.
“Sleepwalking? Anxiety might bring that on, and I’m feeling pretty anxious.”
After putting the phone on the bedside table, she climbed into bed, still in her sweats. But left the light on.
A precaution, she thought. Just a precaution.
As she closed her eyes, she heard—thought she heard—a door softly close.
For the first time in her life, Sonya pulled the covers over her head.
* * *
When she woke in the light, she convinced herself she’d imagined things. Just anxiety, she thought again. She hadn’t allowed herself to admit how much stress this move entailed.