“Not at all.” Joan takes out the hairdryer and her brushes. “I know it’s old-fashioned but why not start a journal? Write down the things you need to remember and things that happened.Make a note of anything unusual and then you have a record and if anyone is gaslighting you, you’ll know.”
That makes sense and, if anything should happen to me, I’ll have a record for hopefully someone to find. Right now, I don’t trust anyone in this house. I look into the mirror Joan set up on the table and smile at her reflection. “What a brilliant idea. I’ll use my laptop.”
At last, some good advice—if I can trust Joan. I’m no fool. I know Jack is at the end of his rope with me. One more slip and I’ll be in trouble. He’d never divorce me, it would cause a scandal, but if I died suddenly Jack would be the grieving widower. I need to watch my back.
SIXTEEN
PRESENT TIME
Willow
As I climb the stairs to the third floor, it’s as if I’m stepping into another dimension or time. The long empty hallways seem to stretch out, like endless dark tunnels. Each room I open is dark inside. The drapes are tightly drawn and a musty smell accosts my nose. Although, when I turn on the lights, dust doesn’t coat the rooms as I’d expected. In fact, the floors are highly polished and clean. It seems that Sue keeps this part of the house clean and tidy but that doesn’t stop the sudden panic that creeps up on me every time I open another door. I assume the scare from the mannequin in the closet is still with me and I try to shake it off. I find a room, with one small window; it’s square and wide and would take wall-length closets large enough to house all of Laura’s clothes. Job done, I make a mental note of the location and move on.
According to the plans, the loft is at the top of a single staircase in the middle of the house on the top floor. I hunt for light switches along the way but I’m unable to find the main panel for the entire length of the hallway. The only one I locate turns on one single light, the same as on the hallway outside ourbedroom. Fighting my fear of the darkness, I move through the shadows until I come to the ornately carved banister and move slowly up the steps. As I climb toward a shadowed doorway, a patch of coldness surrounds me with such intensity, my breath comes out in a cloud of condensation and goosebumps rise on my skin. I feel around for an air-conditioning grate and, finding nothing unusual, hurry up the stairs.
In front of me is a solid oak door and I turn the ornate copper doorknob. I expect it to be locked but the door swings open and a loud squeak and grind of metal breaks the silence. I feel inside the door for the light switch and to my horror my hand sinks into a mess of cobwebs. I cry out and jump back, teetering on the top step. Windmilling my arms, my feet slip and I go down two steps before grasping the handrail. I lean against the banister, panting. If I’d fallen and knocked myself out, I’d be lying here for ages as no one comes to this part of the house. I must be more careful. I hear something and look behind me, staring into the darkness. Was that music? I listen and hear a tinkling sound. It’s like a music box but it’s coming from inside the loft. Fear grips me, but then I recall a music box I had as a child and how the slightest vibration would set it playing. My stomping up the stairs could have caused the same phenomenon.
Gathering my wits, I pull my phone from my pocket and walk inside the loft. Using the flashlight, I search along the wall. It’s not cobwebs; it’s a fringe on a wall hanging beside the door. I find the light and listen intently but the music is no longer playing. The loft is spacious and takes up the entire footprint of one wing of the house. The light doesn’t penetrate the farthest recesses and shadows cloak the corners. The strange forms hidden in the darkness could be anything or anyone. I want to look around but this place freaks me out. I take a deep breath. I must do this. It’s the only way to discover the truth about Laura.
Stale musty air crawls up my nose and dust itches my eyes as I hover at the half-open door and a shimmer of fear washes over me. What if I get locked inside and can’t get out? I open the door wide and step into the unknown. Heart thundering, I search around and find a wooden chair. I drag it to the doorway and push the back under the doorknob, pinning it against the wall. Dust motes twinkle like fairy dust in the beam of my flashlight as I turn slowly, determined not to lose my nerve. I suck in a deep breath. It’s just a dark room. I can do this.
The house creaks and groans and tree branches brush against the windows in an eerie screeching sound. I try to dismiss the feeling that someone is watching me. Taking a firm grip on my nerves, I use my flashlight to search the immediate area. I notice boxes with “Laura” written on the side, piled up in one area of the loft. I head in that direction and read the labels. They say things like “books” and “photographs” but then I come across one that says “laptop.” I take it down and brush the dust from the top before tearing it open. Inside I find a laptop with “Laura” written in sparkly lettering across the top. I lift it out, collect the cords and tuck it under my arm. A laptop tells many things about a person. I’ve hit gold.
I turn toward the door, remove the chair and turn to take one more look at the boxes. I use the flashlight, flicking it over the walls, and discover portraits of people staring down their noses at me and then something moves. I freeze and my attention fixes on a lit area. It wasn’t there before and now I can see a face looking at me—it’s moving. I can’t breathe and stare transfixed, frozen to the spot. The phone in my hand slips in my damp palm and the figure staring at me lifts what looks like a candle. I gasp and move the phone. Realization hits me—I’m staring into a dusty cracked mirror. I walk backward. I hate this place and need to get away—now. Suddenly terrified, I start to run and hurtle down the stairs and bolt along the hallway to mybedroom. I lean against the door, panting. My instinct tells me there’s something bad in that loft and, whatever it is, I sure as heck don’t want to meet it.
SEVENTEEN
I place the laptop on the small table in front of the window in my bedroom, plug it in and then stare at it. I pace up and down chewing my fingernails. I’m not sure if I’ve done the right thing. Opening Laura’s laptop is like invading her privacy. Going to the loft has unnerved me. My overactive imagination has gotten the better of me. My fear of the dark goes back to when I was a child playing with my cousins and one of them locked me in a closet. They left me there and went to play downstairs in the garden. I recall the smell of dirty shoes, and the clothes hanging around my ears, feeling like somebody was constantly touching my hair. By the time my aunt came to rescue me, all I wanted to do was go home. It seems that particular fear has never left me.
I shouldn’t need an excuse to open Laura’s laptop but the little voice inside my head is whispering,Would you like a stranger to expose your innermost thoughts?I need a good reason to open the laptop and discover what I can about Laura. From what Jack told me, he’s been living with guilt since her death. If I can uncover the truth, maybe it will give him some peace and will shut down his so-called friends’ gossip. I didn’t like Missy’s implications. Did she believe that Jack killed Laura? I can’t imagine him doing such a thing but the seed has beenplanted and now it’s something I need to consider—if I’m to weigh up all the facts.
I recall the way Missy leaned into me to drop her bombshell. She’d taken no time at all to rat on her friends. There’s one thing I hate about people, and that’s those who speak about their friends behind their backs and make up stories. I’m not sure if it’s their weird attempt to be liked, or maybe they just don’t have anything in their miserable lives to talk about and so must make something up. I stare at my reflection in the mirror as cold grips my heart. I love Jack and must assume he’s telling me the absolute truth about the night Laura died, but the ghost story denial is like finding a worm in a juicy apple.
Taking a deep breath, I sit down at the table and open the laptop. It’s working and looks in good shape. I tap enter and at once it asks me for a password. I enter the kids’ names and then Jack Hunter. Nothing happens and I have one more chance. I stare at the graffiti all over the laptop. It’s childlike. Laura has scratched her name or written it in marker pen over every spare space. It’s almost obsessive. This is so unlike how I imagine Laura. She dressed in the height of fashion and from the photographs in Jack’s office of her, she appeared to be stylish but was she childlike and uncertain? I take a chance and enter: LAURA. The computer opens and an outdated Windows background greets me but all the icons are familiar. Documents, pictures and the like. My finger is poised over the files.
Where do I start?
The list of files opens and it is a long list. Different file names intrigue me. One is titled “Bones” and when I open it, it contains a journal of sorts. Lists of things Laura didn’t like about the staff. The staff have their own sub file with an assortment of complaints. I laugh at the absurdity of the things that upset her. The salt wasn’t filled to the top each day or the orange juice wasn’t sweet enough. I open another file, titled “Laura” and scanthe pages. It’s a diary. I lean back in my chair, unsure if I should invade a woman’s privacy by reading thoughts written just for her. My cheeks heat and I close the file and move to her emails.
I’m surprised to discover her friend is the one I met at the yacht club.
Laura Hunter
To: Carol Sutton
Tuesday 30thApril 2.00p.m.
I don’t know why I married Jack. He suffocates me.
L
Carol Sutton
To: Laura Hunter
Tuesday 30thApril 2.05p.m.
I wish he’d suffocate me lol. What’s wrong?
