Page 1 of When You're Lost

PROLOGUE

Victoria Palmer felt the last rays of the waning sun stretch over her shoulders as she tried to capture the light on her canvas.She was an old woman—well into her seventies—yet she still possessed a steady hand for delicate brushstrokes.Her hair had once been the color of honey but was now a muted silver, swept into a small bun at the nape of her neck.She sat perched on a folding stool in her back garden, wearing a frayed straw hat, the brim shading her eyes from what remained of the early morning light.It was a type of light she was trying to capture and one that did not hang around for long.

A pair of sturdy, dark-green wellies covered her feet.She wasn’t sure how much longer she could remain outside before the cold of early March settled into her joints, but she was determined to finish as much of this painting as she could.Behind her rose the modest stone cottage where she lived—ivy crawling along the walls, a thatched roof in dire need of an update.She’d been meaning to hire someone, but the trouble had seemed so minor compared to her immediate needs.

The back garden was both her pride and her refuge.It took up a decent stretch of land, bordered on three sides by tall hedgerows.These hedges—trimmed at the top but dense in the middle—were thick enough to block the wind and create a sense of seclusion.At the far end of the garden, an iron gate stood, leading to a narrow lane behind the property.The lane wound beyond fields and a few scattered houses, including her friend Daisy’s place.

If Victoria looked past her easel, she could make out the lines of the gate from where she sat.It was a simple wrought-iron design with vertical bars, but thick patches of untrimmed growth on both sides made it feel half-reclaimed by nature.And though she tried to keep her eyes on the painting, she found herself glancing toward that gate every so often—drawn by a nagging worry she couldn’t name.

She dabbed her paintbrush in a spot of ocher mixed with white, carefully adding lighter tones to the sky on her canvas.The painting itself showed the scene of her garden in the early sunrise: the lawn, the hedges, the line of daffodils that were only just beginning to open, and the cottage in the right foreground.She wanted to highlight how the early morning sun’s last beams gilded the stone walls and made the damp grass glisten.The composition was coming along, but she wanted to get the hedgerows right, too—the way they loomed just so, with their mottled greens and browns.

Her gaze flicked to the real hedgerow, then inevitably drifted once more to the gate.The iron bars stood silent.There was no silhouette, no movement, just the emptiness of the lane beyond.Victoria gave her brush a small sigh.

“Calm down, woman,” she muttered under her breath.“Nothing there.Just your imagination.”

She returned to the painting, aware the light was weakening.In about ten minutes, she wouldn’t be able to pick out the subtleties of color she needed.With swift strokes, she tried to capture the shifting hue in the sky—somewhere between lavender and pale gold.A few more seconds passed in relative peace, the only sounds a distant blackbird warbling and the faint rustle of a breeze.Then she heard a sharp noise from the lane—a scrape, like metal against stone.

She froze.For a moment she listened, paintbrush suspended midair.The noise didn’t repeat.Slowly, she stood, setting her brush on the wooden ledge of the easel.Her knees protested, but curiosity and caution propelled her forward.She walked toward the gate, the hem of her tattered sweater brushing her legs.The moment she placed her hand on the cold iron, her heart thudded heavily in her chest.

She nudged the gate open and peered through.Evening shadows stretched along the lane’s packed dirt surface, the tall hedgerow on the opposite side creating pockets of darkness.Victoria stepped out, letting the gate creak behind her.A quick wave of unease made her stomach churn.She saw no one.The lane lay empty, quiet.

She pressed her lips together.“Hello?”she called softly, hardly daring to raise her voice above the hush of the countryside.Wind teased the branches overhead, but no person answered.

After half a minute, she stepped back into her garden, closing the gate firmly with a clang.She walked back to her seat, scolding herself as she went.

“Jumpy old fool,” she whispered, settling onto the folding stool again.“You’re seeing ghosts and hearing nonsense.”

But she knew exactlywhyshe was on edge.She rubbed her free hand along her elbow, recalling how, two nights ago, she’d been startled awake around midnight by a scratching noise.At first, she thought it was the branches outside her bedroom window.Then she realized it came from the front door.Alarmed, she had hurried to her window and peered out.Sure enough, a figure was crouched at the door—tall and wearing something dark.She couldn't see their face, but she could see an arm moving, a hand scratching at the wood or carving something.

She'd called down at the person, voice trembling, "Who are you?Stop that!I'm calling the police!"The figure hadn't even glanced up.That had terrified her more than if they'd run away immediately.Instead, they just… continued.She dialed the police station—her heart hammering so loudly she could barely hear the ringtone.When she looked back out the window, the figure was gone.

The police had come and found nothing but some faint scratches on the door's surface that looked almost like letters, but they weren't sure.They'd told Victoria to keep her doors locked and to call if she saw anything else.The entire ordeal made her uneasy.She'd gone to bed with that feeling of dread lodged in her chest, and now, every noise set her off.

She sighed, refocusing on her painting.The early color in the sky was nearly gone.She’d either have to wrap up soon or paint on memory.Still, she tried to capture a final flurry of detail in the garden scene, lightly brushing in the suggestion of pebbles on the footpath near the hedgerow.She forced herself not to look at the gate.But within moments, her eyes darted there anyway.

Nothing.Just the black iron bars, silent and dull in the dimming light.

She dabbed a few finishing touches at the row of daffodils.The smell of turpentine and paint mingled with the fresh, earthy scent of the garden.Then, wanting to rest her arm, she turned to pick up her glass of lemonade from the small foldable table.The liquid was cool—probably too tart from the extra lemon she always added, but it refreshed her.She took a steadying sip, telling herself everything was fine and that the local police would patrol the area more frequently.

When she set the glass down, a quick rustling noise snagged her attention—like fabric or a sleeve brushing against leaves.It came from the hedgerow behind her.Could have been the wind, but it sounded… heavier.

Her pulse spiked.“Hello?”she ventured, forcing her voice to sound braver than she felt.“Show yourself!”

A span of quiet followed.She realized her own breathing was loud in her ears.Eyes narrowed, she stepped closer to the gate again, this time being careful not to make as much noise.The gate was latched, so she pressed her face near the bars, peering into the lane.The passing gloom made it tough to see past the bend.She risked unlatching the gate, pushing it open with a squeak, and leaned her head out into the lane’s hush.The hedge on the other side was tall and thick.If anyone was out there, they could easily slip behind that corner, but she saw no movement.

“I...I'll call the police,” she tried once more, voice echoing faintly off the hedgerow.The lane remained empty.

She withdrew, letting the gate swing closed.“You old goose,” she chastised herself audibly.“Nothing’s there but your shadows.Even if someone had been there, they’re gone now.”

Back at her easel, she paused, a pang of frustration rippling through her.She needed a finished painting, but her focus was shot.One ear was practically tuned to every small noise.Standing there, half-silhouetted by the cottage lights behind her, she gave a short, unamused laugh.

“Right, that’s enough for one day,” she said to herself.Still, the painting was so close to completion that a small part of her argued to keep going.She tried, for several more seconds, to add faint detail to the leaves at the top of the hedgerow.But her brushstrokes felt jerky, her mind not on it.

Disgusted with her own nerves, she set the brush down.“I can’t go on like this.Let’s have a chat with Daisy,” she muttered.She fished her mobile from her cardigan pocket and dialed.

The phone barely rang twice before Daisy answered, voice warm and lilting, “Victoria, everything all right, dear?”

Victoria forced a bit of brightness into her tone."I'm not entirely sure.I keep thinking someone's snooping around the back lane, but every time I check, there's nobody there."She hesitated, then her voice dropped."You remember I told you about that strange person the other night at my front door?Well, I'm sure I'm not imagining things."

---