“Not Viv, though,” I whispered. “She’s annoying but surely not disturbing.”
He couldn’t reply because Viv appeared in the doorway, startling us both.
“Dinner won’t be long,” she said. She was wearing Mum’s apron. I tried to look at her with fresh eyes, but all I saw was a woman who’d been invaluable to us. I glanced back at Sid. He was watching her very carefully, which unsettled me, but I thought, What harm could she possibly do?
The next morning it was good news at the hospital. Mum was visibly improved, sitting up in bed. We had a long hug. “We got you back,” I said.
“I feel human again.”
I hadn’t been there more than half an hour when I got a message from Magnus.
Good news that your mother is better. Flights are booked for you and Sid to return to Edinburgh later today. Work starts at the castle tomorrow. Rose will be in good hands.
I showed it to Sid, who swore. “How does he know?”
“I don’t want to go back.”
“I don’t, either, but I don’t see that we have a choice.”
The airport was crowded when we arrived in the early evening. We got food and found seats overlooking the runways. Fatigue hit like a sledgehammer. I laid my head on Sid’s shoulder and let the rising planes mesmerize me.
“I’ve been thinking about the cottage,” Sid said. “When they renovated it, it would have been the easiest thing in the world to install surveillance, hidden cameras, or microphones at the very least.”
He was convinced they were monitoring our phone activity, too. I saved our seats while he went to buy cheap burner phones for us both. I didn’t know if it was an overreaction or not. It was growing darker outside; the window glass reflected the airport interior brightly enough that I could watch Sid walking away. A woman caught my eye. She was sitting a few rows behind me, to the side, a laptop open on her knee. She was watching Sid, too. It was more than a glance. She swiveled her neck to see where he was going. I wondered if she thought he was hot. He was a low-key guy; he didn’t get a lot of open attention from women, so I wasn’t used to it. I felt a little jealousy rise, but when she turned her head back, I looked away so she didn’t catch me staring, and when I checked back, she’d gone.
I told Sid when he returned.
“What did she look like?” he asked.
I tried to remember. “Long hair in a pony, tucked beneath a baseball cap. A lot of makeup. Scarf up around her neck. Sweatshirt. She looked like a fitness influencer.”
He said she could be one of the women who he’d seen in St. Andrews. I tried to spot her again, but she’d disappeared. At the gate and in Edinburgh, he scanned the people around us, asking me, “Is that her?” but we didn’t see her again.
It felt as if we’d let go of reality, as if paranoia was our new normal.
When we got to the cottage, I was about to put my key in the lock when Sid put his hand on my arm. “Remember: act naturally.”
I nodded, but once we were inside, it was so hard. If there’s one thing creepier than feeling watched, it’s when you don’t know where you’re being watched from. My skin crawled. I wanted to leave. Somehow, though, we got through the time until bed, and it was a relief to be in the dark holding hands beneath the covers.
Sleep came slowly, and once again, it was tangled with nightmares.
Sarabeth
Sarabeth Schilders threw a treat for her puppy, a Scottish terrier named Hypatia, and watched approvingly as the little dog ate it. Hypatia’s tail wagged madly, and this made Sarabeth feel happy. It was late in the evening, and they were the only occupants of her dusty, book-filled house on Hope Street in St. Andrews.
“Good girl,” she said. “Who’s a good girl? Are you ready for walkies?”
Every night they took a turn around the block so Hypatia could do her business. Sarabeth took down Hypatia’s leash and harness from a peg in the hall, and began the difficult job of attaching both to the dog’s wriggly body. The job was only half finished when her phone rang. She ignored it. But it rang again, and again, until she picked up. Her heart skipped a beat when she saw who the caller was.
“Sarabeth Schilders,” she said.
“It’s Charlotte Craven.”
Diana’s boss. The puppy started yapping. With the side of her foot Sarabeth slid the dog across the tiled floor into the utility room and shut the door on her. The yapping became inaudible as she went to her study and sat down at her desk. Charlotte only called Diana, usually. There was a hierarchy in the Fellowship, and this was a break of protocol. It was a bad sign.
She cried when Charlotte told her that Diana had died, andhow. Sarabeth wasn’t close to many people, but Diana had been an exception. She’d also been an extraordinarily effective member of the Fellowship.
“This is a terrible blow,” she said, once she’d found her voice. Then, “And so brazen. Those fucking women.”
