She reaches for the letter and rereads it. It’s mean. Edie has gone too far. And it wouldn’t be the first time.
It’s definitely a hoax.
With brisk movements she refolds the letter, stuffs it back into its envelope and puts it aside. Out of sight, out of mind.
She takes a tour of the downstairs of the barn, though there’s not much to see.
The front room is as compact and claustrophobic as the kitchen, with the same heavy beams overhead. One small window is sunk into the deep wall and faces the front. A wood burner sits within the exposed stone fireplace. Two sofas gather around it, and a bookcase holds a smattering of holiday novels, a pack of cards, and some board games. Nothing special. Comfortable enough.
She’s drawn to the window, the pale gray light filtering throughit a lure. She feels as if she herself is little more than a shadow as she passes through the dark room.
Lost in what she can see, the volatile storm, the land cowed yet proud beneath it, her mind wanders as wide as the horizon stretches and finishes where it always does: with Mark.
She never thought he would look at her when they met. Her conversation with Ruth has reminded her of this. Memories of her early days with Mark are a mix of elation and surprise because the attention he paid her was so unexpected. She’d never thought of herself as the type of girl to find “the one” because she’s never been conventionally pretty or girly, never really known or wanted to know how to flirt. She was a tomboy.
It seems a miracle to her, still, that he wanted her and that their lives knitted together so perfectly. It’s amazing how life can surprise you, she thinks, with a smile. How her idea of her future changed in a heartbeat, marriage to Mark becoming her life’s work.
And it is work, but Jayne accepts the imperfect, relishes the challenge. She’s up to it. When she’s set her mind on something, she doesn’t give up and she gives it her all.
She turns back to the room and pauses for a moment to examine a framed black-and-white photograph hanging over the fireplace. She leans in to read the inked inscription on the mount identifying it. It’s hard to decipher as it’s written in spidery brown ink, but she knows what the image is of. She knew it immediately because she’s studied every picture she could find online. It’s the Neolithic burial chamber, taken from an angle that emphasizes its menacing solidity and its ancient significance.
In this image the stone-lined entrance is still partially intact, which makes Jayne think that it must have been taken decades ago because she knows the chamber is in more disrepair now. It sends a shiver up her spine.
From upstairs, she can hear the whir of the hairdryer. How long does it take Emily to do her hair? Ruth hasn’t come down yet either.
She tears herself away from the photograph and decides to light a fire. As she lays firelighters and kindling in the wood burner, her thoughts circle back to the letter and to its sender, and they darken.
If she’s brutally honest with herself, she has to question whether it’s right to assume that Edie isn’t capable of murder. How can we really know who has the potential to use violence? She and Mark move among the general population freely and they both have blood on their hands.
Granted, it got there in service of their country, and it got there indirectly, because neither of them wielded a weapon outside of training. But it’s there, nevertheless. An invisible stain.
How many others are like them? Others whose motives are not as acceptable?
Is Edie?
“I found my hairdryer for her,” Ruth says. Jayne startles. She didn’t hear Ruth coming. The narrow stairs are thickly carpeted.
“I hear it,” Jayne says and smiles. Ruth isn’t the only one who can put a game face on.
“Do you think the rain’s easing?” Ruth asks.
It’s not. And whatever her personal doubts are, Jayne is clear in her mind that it’s not a good idea to leave this house while the weather’s like this. It’s a safety issue. It can’t be argued with. And in her view, if the weather stays bad until it gets dark, they’re going to have to wait out the night here until, hopefully, the men arrive in the mid- or late morning tomorrow.
So, for now, she won’t share her own fears about Edie. It will only escalate Ruth’s and Emily’s anxiety. And that’s bad situation management.
“Not yet,” she says. Ruth goes to the window to look out, blocking the light.
Jayne strikes a match and a firelighter catches. She shuts the stove door and sits back on her heels, staring at the flames.
She has to admit that there’s a small, selfish part of her that’s desperate for this weekend to go ahead as she planned it, no matter what else is going on.
She looks up at the photograph of the burial chamber. It’s almost as if I’m a supplicant, kneeling here before it, she thinks. But that’s letting her imagination run too far.
She glances at Ruth and notes the defeated slope of her shoulders, the way her arms hang limply by her sides. Jayne suspects that Ruth’s in no state to make sensible decisions.
And whatever her own intentions, objectively, the best way forward is to stay here, stay safe, and ignore the letter as best they can.
“What do you think?” she asks, looking at her watch. “It’s almost six o’clock. Time for a proper drink?”
