I need to figure out what’s going on. Today.
Waking up this morning, I list the things that are bothering me. The weird energy in this house. Deborah’s stilted conversations. Richard sleeping in the study and working at three in the morning (on what?). The sidelong glances from Greg and Charlotte at the academy. My work visa, which no one seems to have a clue about.
Not to mention the camera in my room. Richard’s behaviour last night has convinced me that the power socket does indeed house a tiny little bulb. A gateway into my room, with someone watching on the other side. But why? And for what?
This morning, Alice—I—have a call with Fred on InCheck, and his bad mood oozes into my psyche.
“I just don’t see the point,” he says. “Why bother trying to address our feelings when we’re just going to die anyway?”
It’s a statement more than a question. It makes me wish Alice was real—a legit counsellor who has her shit together. One who can advise people like Fred when they’re feeling morbid. Despite me feeling like an imposter, I try my best to talk him out of his pit, telling him that tomorrow will be a better day. I ask him to go and do something he loves, to take his mind off his temporarily hopeless thoughts.
I wonder if actual therapists feel this way too. Burdened by the words of their patients.
My coffee’s gone cold by the time Deborah makes her way down the stairs. After that slip she had, she’s careful with her knee, keeping it as straight as she can.
“Need help?” I say, getting up from the chair at the kitchen island.
She waves a hand, her eyes on the stairs. “I’ll manage.”
The kettle boils and she prepares two cups of tea. Barely a minute passes before Richard’s footsteps sound on the stairs, and I watch him across the brim of my mug. When his eyes meet mine, his face is expressionless, like he has no memory of last night. I wonder what time he snuck back up from the study to take a shower. It must have been while I was on my call with Fred. I look at Deborah, study her face for a sign. Anything that gives away that my-husband-and-I-don’t-sleep-in-the-same-room vibe. But there’s nothing.
“Sleep well, Cat?”
Richard has a tiny smile as he asks me the question. No, I didn’t sleep at all. You scared the shit out of me last night.
“Fine,” I say. “Not too bad.”
He nods as Deborah takes a sip of tea. But I don’t allow the silence to build.
“I was wondering if you could help me with something,” I say, looking him right in the eyes. “The power socket in my room doesn’t work. The one by the dresser in the corner? I tried checking for a power source, but I can’t find one.”
If he’s surprised, he’s hiding it well.
“I think I know which one you’re talking about,” Deborah says. “It’s been faulty for ages.”
“I could have a look,” Richard says, eyes not straying from mine. “See what the problem is.”
And there it is. That same look he gave me last night. One that’s accusatory and threatening all at once.
“How about I just call an electrician?” Deborah offers, seemingly unaware of the sudden tension building around her kitchen island. “It’ll be safer. I don’t like the idea of you shocking yourself.”
She places a hand on Richard’s shoulder, and as soon as she does, his body tenses. Not so much that it’s obvious, but just enough for me to see.
“Well, I’m off,” she announces, gathering her handbag. “Jam-packed with meetings today. I’ll see you both later.”
When she’s gone, I shift my full attention to Richard. “How did you sleep?”
He adds two spoons of sugar to his tea and gives me a smirk. “Like a baby.”
My nostrils flare as he heads for the study, which I now know is also his bedroom. Slumping down on the couch, I try to think of a plan. A way to find out what’s going on. My eyes scan the dining room table, the stacked books below the TV. Now that I think about it, there’s not much space to store anything. Even in my room, the dresser is filled with linen. I’ve seen no paperwork or boxes (like ones for hidden cameras) anywhere in this house. My mind circles back to last night, the Mac in the study with its screen bright against the darkness.
If there’s something Deborah and Richard are hiding, it’s in the study. On that Mac, or maybe in the desk drawers.
I turn and look towards the hallway, eye the closed door of the study. Richard will have to leave the room at some point. But when he does, he’ll lock the door, like he always does.
Except—just maybe—he won’t, if he thinks I’ve left the house.
I open my phone, type a WhatsApp message to Richard. Going for a walk. Need anything?
The blue tick appears almost immediately, and a frisson of excitement builds.
His response comes. No thanks.
I grab my purse and head for the front door, making a point of shutting it with a bang. I walk towards the street, careful not to turn around, in case he’s watching me from between the window shutters. When I turn the corner up on the hill, I dart to the back road. It’s a longer path from here, but it’s the way to the walking trail.
I reach the back gate of the house and peek through the gaps in the wood. No sign of Richard in the garden. My best bet is to wait until he takes a smoke break. Which, considering how much he smokes, won’t be long.
I go over the plan in my head. I’ll wait until I know he’s taking a smoke break, then sneak through the back garden to the front of the house, entering through the front door. Hopefully, he’ll have left the study door unlocked, and I can steal a few minutes inside.
I unlock the back gate, slide it open a crack, and close it behind me. I crouch, keeping to the corners of the yard, staying out of view from the kitchen window. Keeping my head low, I move slowly, the grass tickling at my ankles. If I’m caught now, I don’t know how I’d explain it.
I reach the corner of the house and sit down. From here, no one can see me, and if the backdoor opens, I’ll hear it. For now, I’ll just wait. As soon as Richard is outside, I’ll turn the corner and sprint to the front door.
It takes a while, but soon I hear the back door creak open, the footsteps on the grass.
I scuttle around the house and to the front door. Richard’s a chain smoker. He’ll probably have two cigarettes. Still, that doesn’t leave me with a bucket load of time.
I slide the key into the lock. A slight pull and thud and I’m in. Dropping to my knees, I slide on the floorboards, particles of dust accumulating on my clothes. From this vantage point, I’d hear him if he comes back inside. I have a few minutes.
But barely enough.
I get to the study door and my fingers tremble in fear of it being locked, but as soon as I turn the handle, it clicks and opens. Yes!
I lift myself to a hunched position and shuffle into the room. My eyes flit from one thing to the next, the room a blur as adrenaline pulses through me. I only have a minute or two to find something. Anything. I’m about to head towards the Mac on the desk, but then my eyes catch something on the left side of the room, something that was hidden from view in the dark last night. Something that Richard’s frame was blocking.
I stop, look closer at it. And my blood runs cold.