I wake up in snarled sheets, stiff with panic. Did some noise or another bad dream rouse me? My eyes feel heavy, a hangover brewing. I set the house alarm, didn’t I? I wince. A sour taste coats my tongue. I had a fair bit of wine tonight. I could have forgotten.
I lift my head off the pillow to listen. Is that the wind? Or Jo maybe? She’s sleeping in one of the lower-level spare rooms. She might be up and about. Like me, she’s been having trouble sleeping.
I push back the duvet and sit up. My skin prickles with goosebumps.
My windows rattle. Maybe that’s what woke me. Winderlea’s old, despite its modern veneer. Old houses aren’t quiet.
I’m lying back down when I hear a sharp click. Was that a door? I sit up and reach for the bedside light. Its glow hurts my eyes. The clock reads 3:03 a.m. I squint toward Zoe’s room. Ruby’s sleeping with her. Did something wake them? Or could it be one of the twins, up to no good?
I should check. It’ll only take a moment. Cold wraps around me as I get out of bed.
The hall lies dark and smells of wood polish. I tiptoe past a row of Stan’s abstracts. They look like smears of mud and are aptly titled Brown 1, 2, and 3. Might the art dealer want them?
I stand outside Chad’s door first and listen hard. All’s quiet. Owen’s room is equally silent. I tiptoe to Zoe’s door. The energy feels different here, like the air’s been stirred up. I hesitate, then open the door.
To my left stands a playhouse, painted white, and strung with lights. They twinkle faintly, serving as a night-light. Zoe’s canopy bed rises to my right. I creep across the polished floor.
The duvet has slipped, exposing the two sleeping girls. Zoe’s curled on her belly, hugging her pillow. Ruby’s on her back, arms and legs starfished. In the sparkly light, Zoe’s hair is brassy. Ruby’s shines like molasses.
I smile. They’re sound asleep. I tiptoe closer.
I’m near the bed when fear grips me. They’re too still.
In the newspaper, some years back, I saw a photo of three children who’d been gassed to death in Syria. They looked angelic, a plastic sheet folded neatly beneath their chins. They lay side by side, as if asleep. Like this.
I jerk forward and prod Zoe’s shoulder. Her face is bone white. I stare at her chest. It’s not moving.
I grab her wrist. It’s cold. My throat shuts.
No! There’s no way. I’m seeing things. It’s just that note . . .
I reach for her chest and press my palm flat. Nothing moves. Dread piles down on me. An avalanche. I can’t breathe, my eyes and mouth frozen wide.
My daughter’s head rolls sideways. Her blue eyes open, wide with worry. “Mommy, what are you doing?”
Relief blooms hot in my throat. I lean back, open-mouthed. My voice is a croak: “I . . . I was checking on you.”
Her eyes dart behind me. She sits up. “Why?”
“I . . .” I shut my mouth. I’ve alarmed her. “Everything’s f-fine,” I stammer. Holy shit! I could have sworn she’d stopped breathing. “Go back to sleep, hon.”
I bend to hug her. I inhale her warm, beloved scent. Jesus Christ. I’ve lost the plot. Those threatening notes, the police—it’s all too much. Nothing feels safe.
“You’re shivering,” she says. “You’re cold, Mommy.”
I nod and stagger upright. “Yes,” I say. “I’m going back to bed. Sleep tight, Zoe.”
I’m turning to go when I see the note on her bedside table. I lunge forward and grab it.
Fear blasts my chest open. The blackmailer was here. In Zoe’s bedroom!
“What’s the matter?” asks Zoe.
“Nothing.” It comes out a breathy squeak. “Go back to sleep.”
With a yawn, Zoe reclines. Her eyes shut.
I stand by the bed, clutching the paper. Even in the dark, the writing’s clear: block letters. Next Monday’s date and a string of numbers and letters. A bank account and a Swift code. Plus the words “not paying is not an option.”
I spin to look behind me. Nothing. I crouch to peer under the bed. It’s bare but for a used tissue.
On quaking legs, I rush to the closet. I swipe an arm under the hanging clothes. Fabric rustles.
In full-blown panic, I stagger to the closest window. I claw back the drapes, sure I’ll find someone hiding: Gemma, looking smug yet sullen. Ryan, oozing sex and danger. Ralph or his smirking son, Emmett Isles.
I yank each drape in turn. Each tall window stands empty.
Feeling sick, I lean against the cold glass. Down below, my yard steps down to the sea. Here and there, pools of light break the darkness. The giant willow flails in the wind. The dock’s a tear in the sea’s gray fabric. My teeth clack. The islands are ink stains: a Rorschach test I will fail.
I want to stay with the girls but can’t. I must check on the twins. Search the house. I need Jo.
I’m near the door when I realize I missed a hiding place: Zoe’s wooden playhouse. I teeter toward it, note in hand.
Square, symmetrical windows frame an open door about as high as my chest. I peer in. The floor’s covered in soft, flowery mats. In one corner lies a sprawl of stuffed animals: watchful glass eyes, soft limbs, and snouts.
In the other corner lie two dolls, both naked, pink limbs askew. I blink and shrink back. The dolls are headless.
I stand and spin to see the top shelf near the door. Two decapitated heads sit side by side, smiling vacuously. One’s fair, the other dark. I gag.
Those dolls are new and precious, the girls’ latest obsession. There’s no way they’d break them, nor could they reach that shelf. Bile fills my throat.
Was it Owen? I sway, hating that I had that thought. It’s not fair.
As I lock the door to Zoe’s room, I picture Stan’s severed head on the seafloor: mouth agape, eyes empty.