“Okaaay. . .”
“She said to tell you not to worry.”
“About what? Why would I worry?”
“Granny’s in hospital.”
“Oh.” Not again.
“Yeah.”
“Is it the cancer?”
“They’re not sure.” A faint crackle on the line is the only sound for a few seconds until Meghan clears her throat. “Mammy went around this morning and found her at the bottom of the stairs. She’d fallen. She’s broken her arm,” her voice catches, thick with sobs, “and her face is all bruised. I heard Mammy telling Daddy that there was loads of blood from where she’d hit her head.”
“Poor Granny! How is she feeling?”
Meghan mumbles.
“Say that again? I can’t hear you.”
“She hasn’t woken up yet.”
I don’t stay on the phone for long after that. I can hear how upset Megs is. She didn’t exactly tell me to come home, but I know she wants me there.
I get into bed and stare at the ceiling in the dark. Pull my sheets up so just my face is visible, burrowing down into the duvet. I can’t go home now. Knowing Granny, she would never forgive me if I went back and she was OK. She’s a stubborn old bird and the one who encouraged me to follow a dream she never got the chance to.
On the other hand, she’s not well and she’s my granny.
I wish I could sleep on it.
Hours pass. Eventually, I flick my phone on to see that it’s almost three in the morning. There’s no way I’m going to sleep feeling like this, so I do what Granny would tell me to do: not lie here fretting but go and make something warm to drink, so I climb out of bed to venture to the kitchen.
The air has a bite to it as I close the door gently behind me and start to pad down the hall, grateful for my thick dressing gown and bed socks. Hardly glamorous, but I’m way past caring. I wrap my hand around the little pot of drinking chocolate burrowed deep into my wide pockets and pray that no one has nicked my milk again.
I remember the last time I walked the corridor in the middle of the night and feel a shiver of unease, but the lift is quiet and the lights are on. I’m on the first floor now, directly above reception, and I’m insanely grateful for that.
My milk is in the fridge, safe and sound, and I ease open cupboard doors in search of a small saucepan. I find one, a dull silver thing that needs a good wash, and start to run the hot tap.
My thoughts are miles away as I scrub the pan – back at home, with Granny. I dry it on a questionable tea towel and turn on the electric hob, which is splattered with what I hope is bolognaise sauce. The familiar ritual sooths me: pouring the milk, letting it bubble up into foam and adding three hefty scoops of powdered chocolate, before whisking it all together with a clean fork. I let it boil a few seconds longer and then take it off the heat, giving it a little time to cool down.
I wander over to the large cork board and stare blankly at old notices advertising tutors and term time university nights out. There are long windows in the kitchen and the streetlights outside are bright. Bright enough that I didn’t have to turn the light on when I came in.
Which means I see the figure outside before he sees me.
Will.
My breath hitches painfully as I drop to the floor for the second time that day. I pull my phone from my pocket and inch up carefully, snapping a few pictures, even though I know they’ll be too grainy and dark to show anything. It’s definitely him, though, watching the building. Watching me? The curve of his nose is unmistakable and I can see his long hair from here. I’d swear he’s wearing a grey jacket, too. Was it Will I saw at the theatre? Has he been following me, like he followed Tasha? I glance down at my phone and hesitate. It’s gone three in the morning. I’ll wake Detective Moran if I ring him now.
Well, it’s that or go back to bed and wait to be murdered.
I dial the emergency number.
“Hullo?” A male voice, thick with sleep, answers on the third ring. “Detective Moran speaking.”
“Hi,” I whisper urgently, my voice low even though I know Will can’t hear me through the window. “Sorry, I didn’t want to wake you. . .”
“Miss Hughes?”
