If he knows anything about this girl, it’s that if she’d truly run away from home, she’d never have left her beloved sketchbook behind.
He’s the same with his notebook and pen. He never goes anywhere without them. Most journalists, especially nowadays, prefer to use phones to take notes, either in written or audio form, but not Stephen. There’s something about putting pen to paper that he likes. Yes, he types his notes on his laptop eventually and writes his articles online, but if he’s on the ground, talking to people, then he likes to use a pad and paper. It gives him a greater connection to what he’s writing. He hasn’t used it recently though. Sometimes it’s easier to memorise details.
A sharp pain pierces him like a hot poker between the eyes. He stops for a moment and squeezes the bridge of his nose, taking a deep breath. It seems the tree hasn’t healed him after all. Perhaps it’s time to head to the cottage and sit down to recover until he has to meet Frank this evening.
No. There’s never time to sit down and recover.
At the sound of voices, he looks up, seeing a couple of walkers passing by along the path below. They see him and give a wave. It’s odd. A lot of the people who live in the village are friendly, happy to give him a smile as a kind gesture, while others are the opposite, preferring to glare at him, as if daring him to do anything they wouldn’t be happy with.
He doesn’t return the wave, finding it very awkward. Social interactions have never been his strong point, especially with strangers. Putting him in a room full of strangers and expecting him to converse with them is like putting a lion into an enclosure full of lambs and expecting it to not eat them. Stephen would happily spend time by himself, be totally alone and never say a word for the rest of his life than be forced into a conversation with strangers.
The only time he likes talking with others is when it’s a part of an investigation or part of his job as a journalist. Then, his mind switches into a different gear entirely and often goes the other way, where he’ll come across as brash or rude to the person he’s speaking to. Again, it’s never his intention to cause issues or offence, but if difficult questions need to be asked, then he is the man who can ask them, something Detective Williams previously found out.
That’s why he must do his best tonight when speaking with Frank.
Sophia is depending on him. This tree has revealed a clue and it relates directly to her.
He grabs the planks of wood, the sketchbook and the items of rubbish and heads down the hill.
Reaching the yard, he deposits the rubbish in the bin by the garage, then checks his phone. There are several missed calls from Rachel. He calls her back, hoping there’s enough signal for a call to go through.
‘Oh, so you are alive then,’ she snaps as soon as the call connects.
Her rough voice catches him off guard and he flinches. ‘What are you talking about?’
‘No text. No call. No message. Nothing.’
‘I sent you a text last night saying I’d arrived.’
‘No, Stephen, you didn’t. I’ve been worried sick.’
‘But we have conversed via text message.’
‘No, we haven’t.’
Stephen frowns. ‘I have to go. Sorry.’
‘Stephen, wait! Don’t—’
He hangs up and checks his text messages. Rachel is correct. He has a string of messages from her, asking him to call or to ask if he’s arrived safe, but he has never replied to any of them.
What the hell is going on? He remembers, very specifically, that he’d replied. He wouldn’t do that to her; make her worry about his safety, especially after their disagreement before he left.
Something isn’t right.
Why is he seeing things that aren’t really there or imagining things that aren’t really happening?
He’s running out of time. In more ways than one.
Chapter 34
SOPHIA
Bethgelert, Wales, 2015
I rarely ventured into my dad’s bedroom. He said it was off limits. Always. He said I had no need to go in there, which was true before I found out he could be hiding something; something that could explain the origins of John Hammel and The Hanging Tree curse. Now, his room potentially held the answers. Somehow, he knew more than he was letting on.
I had always taken my dad’s word as gospel. What he said was the truth in my eyes, but things had changed. I no longer trusted him. I needed to know more. Since finding John’s things hidden in our old house, I was more convinced than ever that my dad and, quite possibly, some of the village committee members were covering something up.
