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The name at the top of the letter is mine.
9EDEN
October 30
“I already told you my name.”
The young police officer stares at me and shakes his head in despair. I do the same, as though it might be contagious, then I try to convince him again.
“I bought Spyglass and moved in a few weeks ago with my husband. All I know about the woman who lived there before is that she died. I am the real Eden Fox. I don’t know who this other woman is or why she is in my house pretending to be me—”
“Okay, I think I’ve heard enough,” he interrupts. “It’s getting late and I’m going to have to drive you to Falmouth where they have the facilities to hold you overnight—”
“No, wait,” I tell him. “I’ve thought of someone who I can call to confirm who I am.”
I’m not lying. There are only three telephone numbers that I know by heart. The first is my mother’s landline in my childhood home. Back then, before mobile phones existed, it was the only number I knew. Despite not calling it for decades the digits are still burned into my brain, but that isn’t who I plan to call now. My mother stockpiled pleasantries for other people, but when it came to kindness for her own family the cupboard was always bare. She wouldn’t help me then and she can’t help me now.
Sergeant Carter drops his car keys back on the desk and reaches inside his pocket.
“Be my guest,” he says, holding out his phone.More like your prisoner, I feel like saying, but keep the thought to myself. It’s the latest iPhone—just like everyone his age seems to have—but it looks intimidating to me. Something I am scared of breaking. He is probably only a few years younger than I am and yet I feel like part of a much older generation. Perhaps the last generation to have not spent their whole lives staring at the world and themselves through a screen. I take the phone from his hand and our fingertips touch. It’s such a small thing and yet I feel my cheeks burn.
I type the number into the keypad, my fingers shaking a little, then lift the phone to my ear. The weight of his stare is too heavy so I look down at my running shoes to avoid eye contact. If only I hadn’t gone out for a run tonight maybe none of this would have happened.
The phone rings once.
Twice.
Three times and I’m starting to lose hope.
I feel like I am running out of options. My imagination wanders and I fantasize about seducing the young police officer and persuading him to let me go. The thoughts that unfold inside my mind excite and then humiliate me. I can’t remember the last time I slept with my husband—Harrison hasn’t touched me for weeks—he’s been cold and distant since we moved into the new house. It’s not like me to have X-rated daydreams—perhaps I am lonelier than I thought—but I imagine Carter fucking me on this desk, the sound of his body pounding mine, flesh slapping flesh, and wonder how it might feel to have a stranger inside me after so many years of marriage. The fantasy turns me on so much I almost don’t notice the phone has stopped ringing. The person I called has answered. Theyclearly already have the sergeant’s number in their contacts because they think it is him calling, not me.
“Have you found her?” Harrison asks. I can hear what sounds like a party in the background and I realize he must still be at the art exhibition.Myexhibition. Withher. The other woman.
