Catherine’s hands trembled as she moved in the kitchen. The tile counter was packed with a chaos of baking ingredients, utensils, forms, and bowls.
On either side of the window, shelves displayed an array of ribbons and design awards. The kitchen was normally fragrant with the aroma of baking and cooking, but she hadn’t been able to focus on anything since she heard the news of her daughter. She reached for her pills, struggling with the childproof cap, her fingers unsteady.
“Breathe…I must stop and breathe,” she whispered to herself, her voice as shaky as her hands.
She gazed out the window at the idyllic scenery. Catherine often felt grateful for their wonderful home. Far from the chaos and violence of the cities, life was more peaceful in Galashiels. Because Dennis’ consultancy business allowed him to work mostly from home, they had decided to find a more rural environment to raise Tilly. It was ironic that on one of the few occasions he was required to travel abroad on business, it had to be now.
She thought of Dennis, and the frantic sound of his voice on the phone still echoed in her mind. He’d left for New York on business the morning Tilly disappeared and was making the laborious journey home, but he wouldn’t be back until tonight. The police insisted she wait at home in case Tilly returned, but Catherine was becoming frantic with worry. Staying home and doing nothing made her feel hopeless.
Rumours were already circulating in the village that the police had found several bodies in the woods, but they wouldn’t provide Catherine with any further information. She suddenly felt like she’d collapse. The room swam and, for a moment, she felt faint. She sagged against her wheelchair. If the rumours were true about the men, then who had killed them? And where, then, was Tilly?
These events couldn’t have been coincidental. Her imagination swirled with terrifying thoughts. She wanted to believe that Tilly got away and was hiding somewhere, but what if she was hurt? What if she were trapped somewhere? If she had her phone, she would have certainly called.
The more she thought about the terrifying scenarios that could have befallen Tilly, the more disturbing images popped into her head.
Catherine wheeled into the hall, her gaze sweeping over the framed photos gracing the walls. The images of Tilly's growth from an infant to a toddler, an inquisitive child, and a quirky teenager, blossoming into a lovely young woman with a promising future as an artist.
And yet, in the weeks before she vanished, Catherine had noticed a quiet shift in Tilly, an absent look in her eyes, a hesitation in her laughter. She’d brushed it off as stress or hormones. Now, those moments haunted her.
Her eyes were fixed on the phone, which had remained silent for too long. Catherine dialled Donte’s number. It rang three times before he finally answered.
"Donte?" she said, struggling to keep the quaver from her voice.
"No, there’s been no news."
Donte’s agitated voice came through the phone, prompting Catherine to grip it as though it were a life preserver.
"I was hoping she’d reached out to you. It’s been two days." Tears blurred her vision. "The police have been trying to contactyou. I know you’ve been searching, but it’s best you speak with them directly."
She hesitated.
"Donte...did you have a disagreement?" His sharp reply made her flinch.
"I believe you. I just needed to ask, if the police press further."
After hanging up, Catherine wiped away the tears welling in her eyes. Tilly was her only child. "Please, God, let my beautiful, precious daughter be safe," she whispered into the quiet room.
A heavy thud from upstairs broke her reverie. She glanced around in alarm at the sound of another thud, followed by the unmistakable creaking of the floorboards.
Heart hammering, she wheeled to the base of the stairs and looked up. “Who’s there?” her voice echoed, slightly trembling with fear and uncertainty.
A sharp knock at the door startled her. She spun around, momentarily distracted from the sounds above. Rushing to the door, she braced herself for news of Tilly.
She paused when she opened it and saw a burly, giant man with unusual features standing before her.
Dressed entirely in black beneath a billowing cape, her eyes were drawn to a scattering of cryptic tattoos which covered his oversized head, bull-like neck, and huge hands. As motionless as a statue, the man watched her with dark, sinister eyes.
“Can... can I help you?” She stammered.
“Does the girl with the rose barrette live here?” he said in a baritone voice.
A prick of fear surged through her as she took in his odd appearance. This stranger was unlike anyone she had ever encountered, and his intimidating demeanour set her nerves on edge.
“That’s my daughter,” She replied cautiously, “but she’s not here. Who are you and why are you looking for her?”
“My name is Horous. That’s all you need to know.” His dismissive tone only heightened her anxiety.
Another creek from upstairs made her glance toward the ceiling.
