Rain hits the car window, so loud I fear it might shatter. Windscreen wipers whip across the glass. Thud. Thud. Thud.
Panic rises. Maxen stalked the cottage, and what do I know about Peter? Are these men even who they say they are?
It’s so dark outside, and my heart is pumping hard, and I feel a dire need to escape. Are we going too fast for me to jump out? Yes! We’re going too fast – far too fast for these twisting turning lanes.
‘Peter,’ I say, but he doesn’t answer. ‘Peter,’ I repeat, louder.
Maxen turns. ‘These roads are awful, Rose,’ he says. ‘Let him concentrate.’
‘OK,’ I say, drawing my legs up onto the seat. Looking out of the window, I realise I’ve no idea where we are. I suddenly spot the house in the distance and sigh with relief.
*
‘We’re here,’ Peter says.
Most of the windows are lit up at Floral Cottage – someone definitely lives here. But as Peter pulls to a stop, fear won’t leave me alone, niggling. What if they’ve brought me here to kill me? What if they’ve taken Willow?
Peter pulls on the handbrake. ‘Let’s go,’ he says, throwing open the door, rain showering him.
I screw up my eyes against the weather as we run towards the cottage, mud splattering my legs, rain seeping into my canvas shoes. We gather under the pitch-roofed porch, our wet bodies huddled together, attempting to shield ourselves from the downpour.
Peter rings the bell, and I can see a light through the opaque door window, but no sound comes from inside.
Eventually a figure appears behind the glass, and bolts are pulled across. The door opens.
‘Isaac?’ I say, pushing my wet hair from my face as the boy stares at us, his face void of expression, the yellow cap he always wears pulled over his dark hair.
‘My cap,’ Maxen whispers. ‘I thought I left it at Rory’s house in Newquay.’
‘We need to come in,’ Peter says, pushing the boy aside so he stumbles against the magnolia walls, as he heads into the house. I follow, and Maxen, behind me, kicks the door shut.
The large hallway has four oak doors leading from it, and a wide staircase to a second floor.
We stand, rain forming puddles at our feet, shivering in our wet clothes.
A woman appears through one of the doors. ‘Can I help you?’ she says, and Isaac runs towards her.
She’s about forty, with curly blonde hair to her shoulders. She’s wearing a green dress, flared at the waist, with white polka dots, and her feet are bare, toenails painted pale pink.
‘Oh my God,’ Peter says, his eyes filling up. ‘Is it really you?’ I can tell he wants to rush over and hug the woman, but she stares at him for a long moment, her expression haunted – he doesn’t move.
‘Peter?’ she says finally, as though she’s worked out who he is, her voice flat, almost robotic. ‘Is Gail with you?’
‘No, Gail is …’ He pauses. ‘Christ, what are you doing here, Ava?’
My stomach tips as I take in his words, and I feel woozy. ‘But … we thought—’
‘We need to get you out of here,’ Peter cuts in, his voice high with emotion. ‘We need to take you home.’