“Well, there is a picture of them together at the village pub a couple of weeks ago. And he isn’t the only one who says she is Eden Fox. The gallery owner confirmed it. So did the girls at the bakery where Eden pops in to get fresh bread once a week.”
“What?”
“She’s the only Eden Fox anyone in the village has seen since the new owners bought Spyglass a few weeks ago. I met Eden myself, only last week. She came in here to the police station to introduce herself and gave me a poster for the exhibition to put in the window,” he says. “So I think we can be fairly certain thatsheis the real Eden Fox. What we need to figure out is whoyouare.”
“I… don’t understand—”
“If you don’t want to tell me your real name is there someone we can call? A friend or a relative?”
“My husband,” I whisper.
“Great. What’s his name?”
“Harrison Woolf.”
The sergeant shakes his head. “Anyone else?” I don’t answer because there isn’t. “You mentioned that you went for a run. Do you think there is a possibility that you slipped and hit your head?” He rolls up his sleeves and I can see the muscles on his toned arms. I can’t tell whether he knows how good-looking he is. Men like him used to look at women like me when I was younger. Really look. Not anymore.
“No, I didn’t hit my head,” I tell him. “I know this sounds crazy, but I’m telling you the truth.”
“I believe that you believe that. But you need to understand that you can’t go around pretending to be someone that you’re not, threatening people, trying to break into houses.” I frown and feel my cheeks burn. “Hope Falls has almost zero crime and I plan to keep it that way. Which means I can’t let you leave until we get this sorted. So is there anyone else you can think of to call? Someone who can help verify who you are?”
“No.”
“Then I have no option but to drive you to Falmouth, where they have a bigger station with better facilities and more staff. They’ll keep you overnight.”
“What? No. Wait. You can’t lock me up, I haven’t done anything wrong.”
“Sorry, this is way above my pay grade.”
“Please. I don’t know why any of this is happening. I’m not a bad person.”
“Then tell me someone I can call. Someone who can back up your story.”
Any contact details for people I know are in my phone. The only numbers I know off by heart are my husband’s and—
“Gabriella. My daughter.”
“Okay, good. Now we might be getting somewhere. How old is she?”
“Eighteen.”
“Great. Want to call her now?”
“I don’t have my phone.”
“Use mine,” he says, offering me his mobile.
“I can’t.”
He looks as though he is completely out of patience. “Why not?”
“She won’t talk to me.”
8BIRDY
Six months earlier
I try to avoid talking to strangers, and never let outsiders into my home, so I ask the man on my doorstep to wait there while I put on some clothes, then suggest we talk in the pub on the corner of my street. Some private conversations are best had in public; it’s safer that way. He claims to be a solicitor, but the man looks like a saggy boob dressed in a suit, and I don’t trust him. That said, I don’t trust anyone. I quietly explain what I do for a living, and promise that if this is some sort of trick, I will fucking end him. He looks scared when I say that—people often are when they find out what I do—and he is quick to show me his ID and some paperwork. A big part of my job is knowing when someone is lying, but despite everything I thought I knew, this strange little man is telling the truth. Turns out I had a grandmother I didn’t know about, and she has left me a house in her will.
