Becky doesn’t follow me towards the house. She stays with the man – Peter Millar. They’re talking and I want to stop her. Drag her inside where it’s safe. There’s no denying I’m getting more and more paranoid. But then anyone would be. Wouldn’t they?
As I reach the door, my phone blasts, making me jump, demonstrating what an anxious state I’m in.
It’s Aaron.
‘I’m home,’ he says, before I can say a word. Becky is calling me from the end of the path, but I can’t hear what she’s saying. ‘Are you still in Cornwall?’ Aaron goes on.
‘I am. Yes. But I’m thinking of heading home. I’ve had enough of this place.’ I meant it.
‘Has Willow turned up?’
‘No, no she hasn’t – not yet, but it’s awful here, Aaron. I can’t stay, my head’s all over the place. I don’t know what to think anymore.’
‘Hey, love, slow down,’ he says. ‘Just tell me what’s going on.’
I push the key in the door, and once inside I climb the stairs, feeling hot and clammy. The weather is turning, and I desperately need a shower. But as I tell Aaron about the night on the beach, the lad in the yellow cap who’s been hanging about, the beautiful house where I saw someone at the window, my mind slips and slides, and I burst into tears. ‘And now Peter Millar’s turned up, Willow’s uncle,’ I say, passing the room Willow slept in. There’s a box of tissues on the bedside cabinet, so I drift in, sit down on the bed, and snatch one from the box. ‘And I’ve no idea if I can trust him,’ I say, sniffing into it.
Dexter, Rory, Peter, Justin. Dexter, Rory, Peter, Justin.
‘I’m on my way,’ he says. ‘I’ll be with you in under five hours.’
‘No, I think we should come home, Aaron.’
‘But what if Willow’s in danger? I’m on my way.’
‘OK,’ I say, gathering my strength. It’s not like Aaron. His usual go-to is keeping Becky and me safe. ‘I’ll leave the key under the rabbit by the front door, if we’re out.’
‘Great, I will be with you soon. I love you,’ he says.
‘Love you too,’ I say, but he’s ended the call.
I stand up and grab another tissue.
‘Where are you, Willow?’ I whisper. It’s then that I notice her jacket isn’t on the back of the chair where I left it, and my heartbeat quickens. I fling open the wardrobe, but there’s nothing but mismatched hangers. The drawers are empty too. Someone’s been here. Someone’s taken it.
But my panic shifts as I pass the window, and glance out. Becky and Peter have gone.
‘Oh God, oh God, oh God,’ I cry, racing down the stairs, almost falling, and throwing open the door. I run down the path. ‘Becky!’ I yell. ‘Oh my God. Where the hell are you?’