Downstairs looks as though it has been completely ransacked by the time I am finished searching for something I can’t find. Anything to prove who I am. It’s as though all traces of me have been removed. Hidden. Taken. There are pictures in the lounge of our daughter, Gabriella. Various shots of her since she was a baby. But there are none of us as a family; any photos of me are gone. There is one of Harri and Gabby when she was a little girl—an old favorite of mine—butthe ones of the three of us together are all missing. As is the wedding photo of me and Harrison that is normally here.
I hurry upstairs to the bedroom I share with my husband. Everything looks exactly as it did before I went for my run. I open the wardrobe, pull out some jeans and a clean white T-shirt, and quickly get changed out of my dripping wet running gear. The jeans feel a bit loose around the waist, but I suppose I have lost weight recently. Then I grab a pretty cashmere sweater covered in stars I don’t remember buying and put it in a bag with some other things I might need later. I catch a glimpse of my reflection in the mirror on the bedroom wall and I barely recognize the woman who stares back. No wonder the police officer was looking at me as though I might be crazy. I guess the house move, combined with countless sleepless nights worrying about why Harrison was being so distant, anxiety about the exhibition, guilt about my daughter, and weeks spent renovating this place have taken their toll. I still look good—long blond hair suits me—but I look tired, a shadow of my former self. The version of me my husband fell in love with is long gone.
I search inside the drawer in the bedroom where I keep my passport but it isn’t there. My laptop is missing too. All traces of me seem to have been removed. I discover an old birthday card from Harrison to me with the wordsI love you to deathscrawled inside. I don’t remember the card, but reading it now makes me shiver. I find some money hidden in the back of my underwear drawer—if ever I needed a secret rainy-day stash of cash this is it—and shove the banknotes into my pockets.
Our bedroom is at the front of the house, and when I hear what sounds like footsteps coming up the gravel drive I freeze. Could Sergeant Carter really have got here that quickly? I creep onto the landing and peer out of one of the eye-shaped windows that must have gifted this house its name. Spyglass is at the top of the hill overlooking the entire village, and from here you really can spy oneverything and everyone below. I look out now but there is nobody there. Maybe I imagined it. Either way, I’m sure someone will be here soon, and I need to hurry.
So far I have failed to find my phone, my ID, my purse, my laptop, my passport, or my handbag—which also contained my car keys. I know I had a spare set of keys for the Range Rover somewhere, but it’s hard to think straight with everything that has happened tonight. I rush back into the main bedroom to search for them. If I can’t find anything to prove who I am then I need to get as far away from here as possible until I can come up with a plan.
I think I hear a noise downstairs, and I panic that I’m going to be arrested for breaking and entering on top of everything else. Then I remind myself that I own this house. I stop and stand still, hear nothing, and carry on opening drawers. That’s when I notice the silver frame on the dresser in the bedroom. This frame is normally downstairs. I remember carefully choosing it years ago for my favorite picture of us on our wedding day. But when I take a closer look at the photo now, it is not of Harri and me. It’s of him and her. It’s thesamephoto, but it must have been photoshopped or something, I don’t understand. I am not a violent person but something inside me snaps and I throw the frame across the room. It hits the wall, falls to the floor, and the glass shatters.
I keep opening drawers, pulling everything out of them, tossing it all on the carpet, and I’m so happy when I find the spare set of car keys I almost cry again. I know what to do now. I know where to go. I’m going to visit my daughter. Gabriella won’t talk to me, but going there will help me prove who I am.
I hurry out of the bedroom and along the landing. I hear the creak of a floorboard just as I’m about to head downstairs. It all happens too fast—so fast I don’t know whether I tripped or if someone pushed me—but I lose my balance, my arms reaching out for something that isn’t there, and then I am falling down the staircase.
Tumbling. Twisting. Breaking.
I hear a loud crack as I land on the stone floor.
There is an explosion of pain in the back of my head, and a shadowy figure slowly walks toward me. My world fades to black before I can see who it is, and I think I might be dying.
12BIRDY
Six months earlier
“Olivia Bird is dead,” says the handsome young police officer standing on the doorstep. Overconfident, underprepared, but good-looking enough to get away with both. He’s the kind of guy I would have gone after when I was younger. These days I much prefer the company of dogs. “Can I see some ID, please?” he asks, and I think I’m going to enjoy this.
“The Olivia Bird that died was my grandmother. I was named after her, so we share the same name. She died, I inherited this house, case solved, good night.”
The solicitor informed me that my grandmother liked to be known as Mrs. Bird even though she never married. My mother—who also never married—preferred to be known as Ms. Bird, as though she thought the slight difference was sufficient to tell them apart. They both had a daughter outside of marriage, and neither of them ever said who the father of their child was. That section on my birth certificate was blank. I imagine it was quite the scandal back then. I am not a fan of titles. I go by Bird or Birdy, and have never felt the need to label myself for the benefit of others. What other people choose to call me is up to them.
The boy cop looks a little less sure of himself. “I’d still like to see some ID,” he says.
My insufficient stockpile of patience expires.
“So would I.”
Not because I don’t believe this pretty pipsqueak is a police officer, I just want to know his name. He shows me his badge and it still looks shiny and new. I make a mental note of the name—Carter—and rank—sergeant. He’s very junior, nothing I need to worry about. I show Carter my driver’s license and he seems satisfied.
“Sorry to have disturbed you,” he says then, looking a little sheepish and stepping back from the door. “I just wanted to make sure everything was okay. We have zero tolerance of crime here in Hope Falls and Blackmoor National Park, which borders the village. So much so they are advertising for a new detective to cover the area. It’s statistically one of the safest places to live in England and we want to keep it that way. Now that I know who you are I’ll leave you to it.”
He starts to walk away and at first I’m glad. But there is something he could help me with, given he has lived in Hope Falls for so long.
“Did you know her? My grandmother?” I ask.
He stops and turns back to face me. “I’m not sure anyoneknewher. Your grandmother was a woman who liked to keep herself to herself. She lived in the village longer than anyone else; I think she was born here, and was almost one hundred years old when she died. I know she had a live-in carer—I’d see their red Mini parked outside—but nobody ever saw much of either of them. I didn’t know your grandmother but I knew of her.”
“Was she a good person?” I find myself asking without meaning to.
He shrugs. “I don’t think she was a bad one. Like I said, I never met her. She didn’t like to leave the house and I don’t think she ever had any visitors. Strange how you can live in the same place as a person and know almost nothing about them. I guess some people are very private. Or maybe she just felt the need to shut the rest of the world out.”
I can relate to that.
“Do you know the name of the live-in carer?” I ask him.
“Sorry, no.”
“At least there was someone with her when she died.”
