“Hello, Adam,” she says hesitantly. “Can I… help?”
“I know how you got into my house.”
“Sorry, I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“You invented a fake profile on the WhatsApp group, didn’t you? Sarah@84GT? Pretend you’re a resident so you can recommend yourself to other people, get inside their houses. That’s right, isn’t it? So you can get keys cut and look around, scope them out, find your next target?”
She shakes her head. “I’m sorry, not sure what you’re—”
“Or in my case, steal evidence from the crimes you took part in twenty years ago.”
“What?” She looks around for Tobias, who was carrying his tools around to the side gate but has now stopped and turned around to stare. He begins to walk back toward us.
“When did you meet Peter Flack?”
She frowns, her face a picture of confusion. “Who?”
“Were you a couple, was that it? You were seeing each other?”
“I don’t know that family; I’ve never worked for them. I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“I want you to stop, OK? Stop all of it, the text messages, the harassment, following my daughter home from school. Cameras, dead animals, threats, the burglary. I know it’s you and Tobias; I’ve got the police involved and I’m not going to let you do it anymore.”
“I don’t know about any of that.”
“And I don’t believe you.”
A heavy red blush is creeping up her neck.
“Honestly,” she says quietly. “We didn’t do anything bad.”
“You’re lying.”
A tear brims in her eye.
“It was just…”
“It was just what?”
“I needed the work. We used to live here but it got too expensive. Then we were on the outside and we had to have a way in, a way to get recommended to people who can still afford a cleaner or a gardener and there aren’t many of those nowadays. It’s so hard to get enough hours, enough clients, to keep our heads above water. Please don’t tell anyone.Please. We won’t come back to yours but we need the work; we need all the clients we can get.”
The tear spills and she cuffs it quickly away, embarrassed.
“Please,” she says again.
Tobias, wearing a black hoodie, lays the spade and the chainsaw on the lawn as he walks up to me. He puts a hand on Helena’s shoulder, whispers something in her ear, then throws a quick look back toward the house, another glance up and down the street.
Then he steps in and hits me with a clubbing punch that comes out of nowhere and catches me just under the eye. It’s a short jab but there’s a lot of power behind it and I stagger back down the curb as pain explodes in my cheek. He drops his hands to his sides as if nothing has happened, checks the street again, and leans in close.
“I don’t like you upsetting her,” he says quietly. “Time for you to go. Unless you want me to really do a number on your face.”
“I know who you are, whosheis,” I say, pointing at Helena. “What she’s done.”
“You’re deluded.” He takes me by the arm, his grip like a steel gauntlet, and walks me to the driver’s side door of my car. “And I’m not going to warn you again.”
The two of them stare at me from the curb as I drive away.
At the school pickup at St. Jude’s, the darkening bruise under my eye attracts curious stares, not least from Mrs. Pett, Daisy’s reception teacher.
