There is a large antique freestanding globe in the corner of the room. It sits inside an elaborate wooden stand. I spin it and my mind is filled with the memory of a gray-haired woman doing the same. She walked her fingers from England on the vintage sphere-shaped map, around the slowly spinning globe, then said,Life is too short to stay in one place. But however far we travel, we all findourselves back where we started eventually.Her fingers came to rest on England again, exactly the spot I am touching now. I pull my fingers away, as though the globe might be haunted, or cursed, wondering if the memory is real or just my tired mind playing tricks on me.
There is a wingback armchair covered in a patchwork design by the fireplace, like a hideous comfy throne. I recognize it from the photo. This is the chair my grandmother was sitting in when the picture of me on her lap was taken. It’s clearly very old, and she must have used it a lot over the years because I can see the indentation of where she sat. As though she is still sitting in it. There is one other framed photo in the room, so small I almost miss it. It’s of a little girl holding a flashlight in what looks like a dark tunnel. She is me, but I do not remember this photo being taken either.
A loud knock on the front door startles me.
I drop the frame and the glass smashes on the parquet floor.
Shit.
I ignore whoever knocked and look for something to sweep up the mess with. It’s probably just a nosy neighbor outside and I can do without that right now—I can do without that, period—but they knock again just as I step into the hall. Almost as though they know I am there. I mutter a few profanities beneath my breath then unbolt the door and open it just enough to politely tell them to fuck off. Except I don’t. I’m surprised to see a rudely handsome young man standing on the doorstep. He’s wearing a black shirt and blue jeans and an expression that suggests he is equally surprised to see me.
“Can I help you?” I ask.
He frowns, as though he was expecting someone else. “I was down in the village and noticed that the lights were on up here.”
“How very observant of you,” I say.
“I wanted to check that everything was all right.”
“Fine, thank you,” I tell him, already starting to close the door.
He puts his hand on the door to stop me. “Can I ask what you’re doing here?”
“You could ask but I’m not sure it’s any of your business.”
He hesitates before speaking again, as though he can’t quite make up his mind about me. He isn’t the first and he won’t be the last.
“I’m sorry. I don’t mean to intrude and I don’t want to scare you.”
What a patronizing fucker. As if I’d be scared of a little shit like him.
“Do I need to call the police?” I ask.
He smiles. “I am the police around here,” he says with a baffling dose of pride. “That’s why I came to check on the place. It’s my night off, but I couldn’t understand why the lights were on at Spyglass when I knew nobody was home.”
I look him up and down and I believe him. He looks like a police officer, albeit a young one. Too inexperienced to know what he is doing, too arrogant to know it. I am not remotely intimidated by a boy playing detective; I’ve outsmarted people like him my whole life. I can already tell he falls into the category of oh-so-fucking-predictable. “Can I ask your name and what you are doing here?” he says, and I almost feel sorry for him.
Almost.
“I’m Olivia Bird,” I tell him.
But then his face folds into a frown and he shakes his head. “Olivia Bird is dead.”
11EDEN
October 30
I feel like something inside me has died. This morning I was looking forward to spending quality time with my husband and meeting some of the people who live in Hope Falls at my first exhibition. Now my whole life has turned upside down and, just to add to the chaos, I think I might have broken the law by throwing a policeman’s car keys into the sea. I don’t want him to drive me to the next town and have me locked up; I needed to slow him down. I have never been in trouble with the police, never been accused of any crime. But I am so far out of my comfort zone I can’t see my way back, so I do what I always do and run. Up the hill and toward the house I know is mine.
It’s raining now and I’m soaked to the skin by the time I reach Spyglass. I’m pleased to see that Harrison’s car is still gone, and that my Range Rover is still parked in the driveway. Once I have found what I’m looking for inside the house I plan to get out of here. I presume Harrison and the woman pretending to be me are still at the art gallery; it certainly doesn’t look like there is anyone home, but I have no intention of trying the front door again. I just need to get inside, find something to prove that I am the real Eden Fox—I’m guessing my passport should do it—then get out.
I walk to the back of the property, pick up a rock, and smash the glass door. Then I reach inside, twist the handle, and let myself in. I search the kitchen for my phone but it isn’t on the counter where I left it. I can’t find my purse either, which means I can’t find my driver’s license. I stop and stare at the room, remembering our first night in this house. It was the last time Harrison and I made love.
We christened our new home right here on the kitchen counter. Harri seemed reluctant at first, which was not like him. I didn’t take it personally—I thought he was just tired from the move and the long drive from London—and after I got a little champagne inside him he relaxed. I’ve always known how to turn him on, and once we got going it felt like the good old days when we first met. Back then we couldn’t keep our hands off each other. I remember how he picked me up and lay me down on this wooden worktop the night we moved in. Then he unbuttoned the front of my dress from top to bottom until all of me was exposed. I remember his head between my legs and closing my eyes. I only opened them again to see the look on his face when he thrust himself inside me. The sex wasn’t like normal. It felt almost animal-like, and he looked angry with me, but maybe I just imagined it.
I push the memories of us from my mind and race through every downstairs room—rooms I decorated—hunting inside the drawers of furniture I lovingly restored. There is no doubt about it in my mind. Thisismy home. How else would I know where to look?
But then why can’t I find anything?
