32

 

Sitting in her car outside Roric’s house, Isobel felt the lava inside turn icy, cooling as the sun set in the distance. Bel wasn’t sure what she’d been expecting, but it wasn’t this: a pristine white double story with a stone path running from gate to front door in a perfect straight line. The window sills were stark white.

Unease sat uncomfortably between her shoulder blades. All the windows she could see were shut up tight.

Isobel couldn’t shake the feeling that she was looking at a graveyard. Sick of all the dead in her head and in front of her eyes, Bel breathed deep, trying to rekindle the fury from earlier.

Procrastination.

She checked her phone. Six missed calls. All Liam. He’d left a voicemail, too. She hid her phone in the cubby hole. She had no intention of listening to it, not now. It wouldn’t take much to persuade her that this was a bad idea.

The surprise baby shower had driven her here. What were they thinking? Mia was not hers, might never be hers. Only Roric knew where Mia had come from, if the little girl might have family somewhere looking for her. Isobel shivered. And only he knew what had happened to the other missing children. And yet here he was, living in his nice house, as if her world wasn’t tearing apart.

Roric must have kept some kind of records—some evidence that could be used to find the missing children and Mia’s family, if she had any. As much as it would hurt Bel to give her up, maybe there was a grandmother out there, frantic with worry.

Forty-eight minutes later she decided to get moving. She checked her phone and pocketed it. There’d been no sign of life from inside, and she could feel her fear growing with each passing minute. Waiting here in the shade was doing nothing but eroding her resolve.

Bel crept into the yard through a wrought iron pedestrian gate. Lush green lawn ended in curves around beds of rose bushes, branches hanging low, thick with flowers. She sank down next to a hedge of climbing jasmine. The heady scent tickled her nose. She squeezed the bridge between thumb and forefinger, chasing the threatening sneeze. Crossing the yard, she couldn’t help feeling conspicuous, as if the whole neighbourhood were watching, whispering foolishness behind their hands. Before her courage failed, she found an open window and peered inside.

For a moment her brain split in two: one half detached, completely calm, and the other a quivering mess spouting gibberish on its knees. She steeled herself and peeped out from the safety of the curtain. A study of sorts. Nothing moved; nothing breathed. Her gaze swept the room for clues. A chrome and glass desk stood off to one side, a laptop cord trailed across it. No laptop. She scanned the books on the shelves: Freud, Karl Marx…

Jesus, please show me.

She longed to run her fingers across the knobbly wood of the bookshelf, pressing anything that seemed out of the ordinary. A secret passage? Grief, Isobel, this is not a spy movie. Get a grip!

She crouched down and moved past a sliding door to the next window. She tented her eyes and found herself looking into a bedroom. There was a weirdness laced through this house that Bel couldn’t fathom. It was like walking into the pages of a magazine. Perfect. Beautiful. No heart or personality.

Lamplight cast warm shadows across a loosely woven throw, the colour of desert sand, draped over the end of a king-size bed. The duvet cover was a single shade of ochre, pillows breaking the sparse monotony with splashes of jewel colours. She had to admire his taste. Textured paint decked the walls in a fine sheen. The room was elegant, classy. Nothing out of place. Weird.

The cupboard door was ajar, and she could make out the clothes inside. She spotted the shirt she remembered being impressed with on their first date. She’d been such a fool.

Her gaze travelled higher—a row of Bibles lined up along the top shelf. He seemed to be collecting one of each translation. She couldn’t imagine him reading a Bible, even less spending money to build a collection. Weird, but not criminal.

She heard a key in the door. Roric was home.

The door swung open down the hall. Footsteps down the passage.

Coming her way.