“I can’t think what that could have been. ‘Rusty’ doesn’t really narrow it down.”
“You think it’s something to do with what we might or might not have seen?”
“I wish I knew.”
They reached the part of the forest that skirted around the back of the two-story brick cottage. The building was centuries old, of course. Outside was a vegetable garden covered with straw and netting, cleaved in two by a pebble path leading to a pale blue back door. She’d seen the cottage from the other side that morning when she and Tom had crossed the lawns fromthe abbey and he’d pummeled on the front door, shouting for Duncan. Where had their pursuers been then? From this angle it looked like an illustration fromPeter Rabbit, complete with rustic greenhouse built from old wooden window frames. Puffs of leafy greens were visible through the glass. You knew you were hungry when the prospect of raw vegetables made you salivate. And she was ridiculously thirsty.
“Duncan’s pickup is still here,” Tom said grimly, nodding toward a carport beside the yard.
“Is that unusual?”
“Means he hasn’t gone far. I didn’t think to look for it this morning. If he was out in the fields, he would have taken it.” He released her hand and checked his phone. “No wi-fi here, either. Let’s go inside and try the landline. Wait here until I’ve got the door open. If something happens to me…” He looked around, as if weighing up the options. “Nothing’s going to happen to me.”
He crept down the path and tried the door. It opened. He took a half step inside, looked around, checked the yard again, and beckoned her. She ran, bent over like she was under fire in a war, for some reason. He quietly closed the door behind her, and she let out a long breath. He held a finger to his lips. They were in a simple kitchen that hadn’t been updated since the fifties. She followed him into a cozy living room, where a brightly crocheted cushion sat on a gray velvet 1980s sofa, and aRadio Timesmagazine lay on a coffee table. He picked up a phone handset on a side table and brought it to his ear. He grimaced.
“Dead?” she whispered.
“Completely. Usually, there’s at least an out-of-order bleep. The fridge is humming, so it’s not the electricity.” He looked up at the wall behind her. She followed his gaze to a modem, where several red lights blinked. “No connection.”
“Is that unusual?”
“No. It’s a single line that supplies phone and internet—runs in from the road. A drainage company accidentally cut through it last year and we had to get it fixed. They suggested we replace it with something that was better protected, but, you know, money…”
“So, it wouldn’t be hard to find it and cut it?”
“No, it wouldn’t.”
Amelia pressed a cold hand to her cheek. Somehow,thatconfirmed it. The memory of the body, the figure on the lane—they could be reasoned away. Even the gunshot hadn’t made it feel real, perhaps because of the adrenaline. But here, in the near silence of an ordinary house, a dead phone and red lights on a modem made it real. Someone was trying to stop them from leaving, and from calling for help. She forced herself to breathe. No need to help whoever it was by self-suffocating.
“Let’s take Duncan’s pickup to the village police station.” He gestured to the back of the house. “The service driveway goes straight to the road from here—much quicker and less exposed than the scenic route of the main drive.”
Amelia liked this plan. Sitting in a police station having a cup of tea while the professionals sorted everything out. You had to feel safe in a police station.
“Duncan’s keys aren’t here,” Tom said, looking at an empty hook on the wall.
“Could we hotwire it?”
“You know how to do that?”
“No, do you?”
“I was never the type to tinker with cars.”
“Oh yes, you said.” That made sense now. After his brother’s crash, who would be?
“I’ll check if the keys are upstairs. Wait here.”
“I’m coming with you!”
They climbed a wooden staircase, their footsteps muffled by a carpet runner. A stair squeaked under Tom’s foot. Amelia took care to skip it. Upstairs was a landing, with four doors off it. It smelled of leather and old wood. One of the doors led to a bathroom, another a bedroom that seemed to be used for storage. A large wooden bookcase just visible in another room suggested a study. Amelia followed Tom into a larger bedroom so simple and tidy it could be a monk’s lodgings.
“Duncan’s room,” Tom said quietly.
She raised her eyebrows. Aside from a pair of reading glasses perched on a library book on the nightstand, it looked like a long-unoccupied guest room.
“After his wife died, when I was a kid, he reverted to military habits.”
“He was in the military too?”
