It occurs to her then that they must still be playing, every week. They’ve had an automated direct debit paying for a rolling subscription all these years. The same numbers, the same Euromillions Friday game. It didn’t occur to her to cancel it after the win, what with everything else going on.
Paula exits the websites and instead pulls up the lottery site, bookmarked at the top of the page. She logs into her account.
There it is, the subscription, same as ever. It looks like they even won another two pounds forty recently.
Paula scans the page, her eyes landing on the six numbers ranging from one to fifty. Always the same numbers. Every week for thirty years. Except . . . oh.
The lottery numbers. The ones they’ve played every week for three decades. The same ones they’ve been playing since the time the lottery was still called the lottery. The numbers.
They’ve been changed.
Paula brings a hand to her chest; it’s shaking. Her heart is thumping hard and frightened. How could they have been changed? It was always the same numbers. She knows them off by heart. She and John had chosen them carefully in those early days – they were all meaningful in some small way. Her birthday, his birthday, their wedding date – all the special numbers. How could there be new ones here now? Who could’ve changed them?
Is it possible there’s a fault on the website? Paula clicks refresh and waits breathlessly for the numbers to reappear. The new numbers are still there, unfamiliar and strange.
Only a handful of people know about her lottery numbers. She mentioned them in the family grief sessions, and she’s told Audrey, Ivy and Teddy.
But why would any of them change them? And how? Why?
Paula clicks through a few settings, finding a log of the numbers played. She can see clearly now, the numbers were changed just over a week ago.
She definitely didn’t do this, so who did? Perhaps the lottery people did it? Maybe once you’ve won the jackpot, they automatically change the numbers for you?
She shakes her head. That seems implausible.
But how else could it be done? Who would even have access to this laptop?
Yes, the back door is always unlocked because of Seb living in the garden, and yes, the computer sits in the same corner of the kitchen, on the countertop, always unlocked. All of Paula’s passwords are auto-filled in because how is anyone supposed to remember them otherwise. So it would be easy enough if you were really motivated.
Could someone really have let themselves in here and done this? What if one of the creeps who’ve been messaging her online came here? What if it was one of the lottery obsessives? What about those photographers, or the journalists in the vans outside? Could they? The most likely culprit is, of course, the loan sharks – Craig and his friend. They’ve so far been avoiding the house because of the photographers outside, but they could’ve sneaked in here one night. The thought fills her with horror.
But why would they?
Why? Just to scare her? Just to send some kind of message?
The thought Paula doesn’t want to think hits her: what if it wasn’t a stranger. What if someone she knows did this to torture her? She considers that tweet she read earlier.
‘I personally know Paula Sheldon VERY WELL’ they’ve written.
What if—
Suddenly there is a noise at the back door and Paula is on her feet, grabbing for the nearest weapon before she can think.
It’s Seb. He’s standing in the doorway, frozen with shock at his mother’s wild expression. His eyes travel to the large wooden spoon in her hand, raised and ready to strike.
‘Mum?’ he says in a wobbly voice, like he’s not sure. ‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you.’
Paula lowers her weapon, her breathing slowing. ‘Sorry, Seb. I . . .’ She can’t find an explanation for him. Or for herself. ‘I was just having a moment. I thought you might be an intruder.’
Seb’s shoulders relax as he moves into the kitchen. ‘If I were a burglar, I’m not sure a wooden spoon would’ve done you much good,’ he points out nicely.
Paula stands up straighter. ‘This is a very expensive wooden spoon from M&S actually. I think it could withstand a couple of hard heads.’
‘I stand corrected.’ Seb gives her a small smile. ‘I’m glad you’ll be well armed with defensive wooden spoons when I’m away next week.’
Paula blinks at him and he raises his eyebrows. ‘You remember the course I’m going on? I told you about it?’
‘Of course I remember!’ Paula says emphatically, though this is entirely news to her. ‘The course!’ She pauses to swallow, willing the guilt not to show on her face. ‘The course, of course! I hope of course that the course won’t cause you to be too . . . coarse!’
