But so far, he hadn’t seen another soul. Jack frowned. He wished he hadn’t discussed his original plans with Jade. His wife had no idea he’d changed his tune completely and had no intention of getting rid of the theatre.
Jack kept walking. He couldn’t remember where the back door stage entrance was, the one they’d sneaked into asteenagers. He imagined that whoever it was had left by now through that door.
He reached the last door, which had a single star painted on the wood. A lead dressing room. He opened it and shone his torch inside without stepping in. He was about to close it when something felt … wrong.
He pushed the door open fully and flicked the light on. Unlike every other room, this one was spotless.
Jack frowned. ‘How odd.’
He stepped inside and caught the scent immediately. ‘Is that … mint tea?’ A cup sat on the dressing table. He touched it. The cup was still warm. His eyebrows shot up.
He turned slowly and saw the curtain – heavy cotton, an old-fashioned floral print, drawn across the width of the room on an extendable pole. The curtains were drawn closed, dividing the room.
Jack crossed the room and pulled it aside. He stepped back in surprise. Behind it was a makeshift bed; a chaise longue repurposed with care – sheets, blanket, duvet neatly arranged. At the end of the bed was a bookcase crammed with novels. A lamp. An old suitcase, open, filled with clothes.
Near the end of the bed was a small table with a tablecloth, a kettle with a box of mint teabags, and a small vase with a bunch of fresh flowers. There was also a small camping stove which Jack imagined was used for the kettle.
A microwave perched on a small fridge. He opened the fridge. Every shelf was stacked with ready meals.
Jack stared at it all with the dawning realisation that someone was living there. Bridie had a squatter in her theatre – not a ghost.
A glint at his feet caught his attention. He bent and picked up a necklace, the chain delicate, the pendant swinging. It was a gold locket engravedI.R. He unclipped it. Inside were twophotographs – a baby and a young man. Jack stared at the second image. ‘Reggie,’ he murmured.
‘You’re not a ghost at all … are you, Isobel Raine?’ A grin spread across his face. He had his answer. And his proof. He’d found the person who’d been sabotaging the theatre.
Clutching the locket, Jack ran. Out of the theatre, down the promenade, heart pounding, not with fear now, but with triumph. Isobel Raine wasn’t dead. She had disappeared years earlier, but she’d come back. And she’d been living there all along.
He burst into Cobblers Yard and headed straight for the art and craft shop. Then he stopped dead. Through the window, he saw them, Bridie and Oliver, sitting together on the sofa. He wasn’t surprised she’d invited him in for a cup of coffee after walking her home.
He was about to burst in when he saw Bridie get up and hold out her hand. He stepped closer, breath held.
Oliver took her hand.
They disappeared up the stairs.
‘No,” Jack whispered, his palm flattening against the glass.
His chest ached.
He remembered the locket still clutched in his fist. For a moment, he considered throwing it away, but instead he hung it carefully over the shop door handle.
Then he stepped back and saw the light flick on in Bridie’s flat upstairs.
Oliver followed Bridie up the stairs and paused at the top. ‘Bridie?’
‘I’m here,’ she said, emerging from the kitchen. ‘I was just opening this.’ She held up a large bottle of red wine. ‘Will you join me?’
‘On an empty stomach?’
‘You had a sandwich, didn’t you?’
‘I thought you were inviting me up for dinner.’
‘I’ll take that as a no, then.’ Oliver heard the pop of the wine bottle cork in the kitchen and the sound of wine being poured into a glass.
Bridie reappeared, draining the glass. ‘Wow. That hit the spot.’
‘Take it easy,’ Oliver said, watching her refill.
