I didn’t tell them why I wanted to interview her, and fortunately it made no difference. So far, nine Darrens have replied in the negative, and two attached charming pictures of their penises.
I scrolled through all the probate deals in the area for the last two years and found no trace of an Amanda ever owning Black Wood. I even rang Peake Probate. But all I’ve gotten are annoyed receptionists who made weak excuses about why Rodney wasn’t available to take my calls.
“Well…” I must’ve zoned out again, because Mrs. Reid’s icy voiceinterrupts my thoughts. She leans forward and grips the white leather couch with tense fingers. “Looks like my time’s nearly up.”
She gets to her feet, loops her lime-green handbag over her shoulder, and I blink in surprise. I’ve never had a client abort their session like this. My eyes drift to the clock ticking silently over her head. 4:41p.m.
I clear my throat, embarrassed that my client paid $120 for this session and wants to abandon it twenty minutes early. I gesture grandly to the couch she just vacated, in a “please sit down” motion. “Oh, there’s still plenty of time left,” I tell her airily, crossing my bare legs at the ankles. “So, tell me about—”
My phone beeps urgently. I whirl around, panicked. My iPhone sits faceup on my desk, screen glowing. I recognize the Instagram logo, and my heart burns with fear and expectation. Darren Foster. It’s got to be him.
I turn back to Mrs. Reid, pulse leaping in my throat. She gives me a look that says,What the hell is wrong with you?before she grips her handbag tighter and leaves my office in a cloud of anger. She won’t be back again. I’ve got to start paying attention before I lose more clients.
Quickly, I close the door and lock it behind me. I lean against my desk, and it digs into the small of my back as I snatch up my phone. My hands shake so badly, I have to tap my phone password in twice. Finally, Instagram opens. And there he is. I squint at the profile picture. It’s a man in his mid-twenties, with thick black hair that brushes his shoulders, aviator sunglasses, and an arm slung around a golden retriever. A green circle on his profile picture says, Active Now.
Who gave you my name?His message is short, blunt.
I chew the inside of my cheek, wondering if I’ll get Dan the builder in trouble if I reveal him as the source. I tap the reply, feeling guilty.
Dan Martin. The builder working at my house.
Immediately, three gray dots appear as he types a reply. I inhale sharply and wait.
You bought Black Wood after Amanda.
So shedidbuy it. Then why is there no record of it? Desperation seeps from my pores, and my fingers fly over the tiny keyboard.
Yes, I did. Can you tell me anything about Amanda? What happened to her? Where is she now?
Three dots appear, then disappear. I bite hard into my cheek and wait. Finally, two messages fill the screen, and my hands go cold with fear.
Be careful.
They’re watching you.
Chapter 17
I think Darren blocked me on Instagram. I can’t find his account anymore, and our chat thread’s disappeared. But there’s no way I could forget his final words.
They’re watching you.
I stare at the forest mural in my bedroom, unable to sleep. Unable to do anything at all but lie here silently for the third hour. Joe finally came home an hour ago. He’s been coming home later and later. He hates Black Wood House and me and, oh, everything really. Except his new girlfriend, I guess. Today he stayed out until eight. I haven’t even bothered checking the bank statements to see where he’s been. For a while I listened to faint gunshots drifting upstairs from whatever game he was playing, and thecrack-hissof him opening another Pepsi Max. But he’s quiet now.
I tap my iPhone’s screen. 12:34a.m.I roll onto my side and check Instagram again, searching for the Darren Foster with the golden retriever. But he’s gone.
The bedroom lamp throws ghostly shadows over the walls, until it really is like sleeping in a forest.
They’re watching you.
Unwillingly, my eyes drift up to the rotting forest, not sure what I’m looking for. A camera, maybe? A listening device? I wouldn’t even know what one looked like.
I toss and turn, unable to get comfortable. Maybe it was all bullshit. Maybe this Darren Foster didn’t know Amanda at all and thought he’d mess with me. The only problem is, I never said she lived at Black Wood.Hewas the one who told me that. He knows her. And he thinks I’m in danger.
My stomach clenches in fear, and my ears prick up. Suddenly, every creak of the floorboards is someone sneaking up on me. Staring at me. Watching.
Beep.
I gasp, choking on my own breath. My phone lights up: Instagram DM. Frantically, I read the name, and my heart sinks. It’s not Darren Foster. It’s Judy Fuller, a fan I occasionally chat with.
