My blood ran cold.
A lot we need to discuss.
As if he’d come here for a reason.
As if it’s all about me.
Again, I shook my head. A physical denial. An expression of dismay and disgust.
I told myself he was just messing with me, manipulating me, keeping me frightened and off balance.
Which was working, obviously, because I was beyond frightened now.
I was scared out of my mind.
He was watching me closely. Breathing steadily. Apparently unfazed by what was happening and what he’d done.
He’d surprised and overpowered Bethany. She was right there inside the cupboard next to me. But not only that, he’d done it quickly and efficiently. He’d been brutal and ruthless and eerily calm afterwards.
All I had heard was her fractured yelp and the two quick thumps that had followed and then nothing else. A woman had been attacked in my home, in the middle of my street in the middle of London, and the man in front of me had subdued her, bundled her inside a cupboard and made it back to my bedroom in less time than it had taken me to come upstairs to find him.
He didn’t appear shaken or unnerved. He wasn’t ashamed or troubled or squeamish. He hadn’t hesitated.
And something more. He’d obviously paid much closer attention when I’d given him the tour of my home than I’d suspected. I hadn’t pointed out the cupboard under the eaves to him but he’d clearly noticed it, logged it, returned to it at short notice.
What else had he seen?
That’s when a new horror crashed over me.
The basement.
Was that why he’d spent so long down there, why he hadn’t answered me when I’d called down to him? Had he been making some kind of . . . preparations?
No.
A deeper, more primal dread engulfed me.
I’d told him about my claustrophobia. I’d shared my most terrible fear.
I could feel the prospect of it crushing me now. Invisible walls closing in. As if I was trapped in a collapsing Perspex box with no way out, no air.
‘Lucy, I’m going to need you to be honest with me. That’s the most important thing now. Understand?’
Breath whistled in my lungs, as if I was inhaling through a straw.
Like you’ve been honest with me? I wanted to ask him. Or Bethany?
And then a new thought. A vague but tremulous flicker of hope.
How long would it be until Bethany would be missed, I wondered?
She’d said in her voicemail that her day was ‘crazy’, so perhaps this wasn’t even the last viewing she’d had set up. I knew for a fact that she’d shown our house to potential buyers in the evenings before now. So maybe she was expected elsewhere, or even back at her office. And if she didn’t show, then her clients or her colleagues might start to ask questions. They might try to contact her. They’d be concerned for her welfare, surely? The agency she worked for probably had protocols in place, especially when female agents were showing properties to single men.
They’d know she’d been scheduled to meet Donovan. They’d know she was meeting him here.
All of this rushed through my mind in a second.
I looked at the cupboard door again, thinking of her mobile phone inside her handbag, digging my nails into my thigh, trying to block out the fear and the confusion and think.
How long had Donovan been here? Forty-five minutes? Longer?
He’d told me he wanted to talk. And talking could take time. I could make it take time.
Maybe.
Depending on what he wanted to talk about.
Plus there was Sam to consider. His support groups usually lasted an hour, give or take. That wasn’t definite, things could change, and sometimes he stayed late afterwards – speaking with students, catching up with colleagues in his department, carrying out admin tasks – but if he stayed late, he usually texted me, and if he didn’t, he could be home within an hour.
An hour.
My eyes flitted to Donovan’s coat, searching for any bulges or bumps where my own phone might be hidden. If Sam texted me, I’d hear it. I hadn’t set my phone to silent, unless Donovan had.
Or maybe I can get to my phone or his phone or Bethany’s phone.
Maybe I can call for help.
I had to hang on.
As much as I wanted this over, more time was what I needed.
Keep him talking.
‘What did you inject me with?’ I asked.