‘I was happier once I was out of it,’ said Blue and Sabina held up her hands in peace, said it was OK.
‘I shouldn’t have pushed you,’ she said.
The corridor stretched long and quiet, the empty bedroom doors shut tight. No sounds rose from downstairs; Blue hoped Mr Park was still somewhere within. She had to get that password, get away.
‘What’s wrong? You keep looking over my—’ Sabina looked behind her, searched for what distracted Blue.
‘It’s nothing, I was just hoping to talk to Mr Park.’
‘What about?’
‘I wanted to get the Wi-Fi code; figured I’d stand more of a chance getting it from him than his wife.’
‘Missing Instagram?’ Sabina said, and Blue shrugged but didn’t correct her.
‘Mrs Park wants us to paint this morning,’ said Sabina, ‘whilst we wait for the AA to call back. Says it will help lower our stress levels.’ Sabina looked at her deadpan, and Blue laughed, couldn’t help it. ‘I’m no artist,’ Sabina said. ‘I haven’t painted a picture since I was a child. So, if you get the code, for the love of all that is good, give it to me too.’
They took the stairs together; Sabina stifled a grin at the prospect of Wi-Fi, Blue’s heart thrummed like the wings of a nervous bird. The hall was unoccupied, the fire was out. A loud spray of rain drummed the window and Sabina jumped.
‘Jesus,’ she said. ‘This house really wasn’t made to be empty.’
The passageway to the kitchen was clear. They took hushed, careful steps, heard movement from a therapy room; presumably Mrs Park with the easels. Blue felt suddenly foolish, putting herself and Sabina through an ordeal that was probably unnecessary. She could just ask Mrs Park for the code, could stand up straight and demand it with the same authority Sabina showed when she asked for her mobile phone.
But Blue didn’t stop and ask her, and she held her breath as she walked past the door.
In the kitchen, their only witnesses were the dogs, their black eyes staring out from the frames on the sill.
Blue knocked on the green varnished door. There was no answer.
‘Just go in and take it,’ Sabina whispered. ‘I saw the hub last time the door opened; it’s right there, just inside. Take a photo of the password card and come out again.’
‘What if someone sees?’ Blue wondered why, if it was so simple, Sabina hadn’t offered to go in.
‘It’ll take two seconds; no one will know. But, look, I’ll go distract Molly, and if you see Joshua, just explain that you want the code. He’ll be fine with that, just like he was fine with the wine last night.’
Blue nodded. She told herself it was OK, that the foreboding she felt from that door handle was her own, that her bird-heart hummed because of her own fear and nothing she’d picked up from the Parks.
Or Sabina.
‘And then AirDrop the photo,’ Sabina said. ‘Here, give me your phone and I’ll add you to my contacts.’ Sabina exchanged their numbers, then handed Blue’s mobile back. The mischievous grin still played on Sabina’s lips, and Blue thought that their breach of rules gave Sabina as much of a thrill as the prospect of Wi-Fi.
‘I’ll go and make sure the hall is clear, then I’ll talk to Molly. Meet me in the art room after, OK?’ Sabina left and Blue gave the green door a final knock. No one answered. She turned the handle, ignored the bilious churn in her belly.
Blue stepped through. A radio was on in a closed-off room, the announcer’s voice muffled.
‘– extreme weather after days of heavy rain and high winds—’
The Parks’ living room was more homely than the rest of Hope Marsh House and less well kept. A thick navy rug in need of a vacuum spread itself over the wooden floor, and the large leather sofas were worn. A crocheted blanket of bile green and yellow was folded over the armrest of the nearest.
On the mantle were half a dozen photos: Mr and Mrs Park arm in arm on the steps of a grey stone building; Mr Park in full ski get-up on top of a snow-covered mountain; a flush-cheeked, brandy-nosed Mrs Park in a Christmas hat. None of relatives or friends. No other people in the photos of the Parks. More pictures of the dogs that had died. A film of grime coated every frame, blocked shine or reflection.
‘– the Environment Agency has issued severe flood warnings for most of the south-west—’
Blue spotted the slim black hub on the table behind the nearest sofa, tucked behind a frame that was faced away. She stepped closer, ears pricked for Mr Park’s footsteps.
She pulled the card from the hub; her fingers slipped on the dust.
The air smelt damp. A lower corner of the wallpaper was tinged mildew grey.
With her spare hand, she reached for her phone.
A door handle turned.
Hinges creaked.
Blue spun round and knocked the frame from the table.
And she saw the face in the photograph.