Page 68 of The Stranger in Her House

Has Paul been back inside my house?

Panic accompanied by a sudden dizziness strikes me. Disorientated, I turn quickly, open a drawer and grab a breadknife, then I freeze again, listening once more for any indication he might still be here. But the house is silent.

My mind whirs with a thousand questions. Why has he been here? I look above me and the holes he drilled for his cameras to film me remain open, so it’s not to re-install them. He wouldn’t have come back just to turn a porcelain cat around and fuck with my head, would he? Did he come here as soon as he was released on police bail? If so, why the urgency? Does he know about the evidence the police have and does he think I gave it to them? Was he here to hurt me? Or was he looking for something in particular?

And then it hits me. Gwen’s will!

That must be it. If he thinks there is a chance he is going down for murder, this might be his one last chance to ensure that if he doesn’t get to keep the house, then neither do I.

I hurry into the dining room, stopping at the heavy curtains hanging over the patio doors. I feel around the hem until I locate the shape of the A4 pages that I’ve sewn inside. I pull the stitches apart with my fingers and flick through the document to check allseven pages Gwen and I drew up are here. They’re in the name of Rachel Evans and I recall how Gwen didn’t seem curious when I explained why to Reverend Eddie.

‘I go by my middle name and ex-husband’s surname for work,’ I told him as he witnessed it. ‘It’s on all my documents, so I’ll have to get around to changing them, I suppose.’

I slip the document back inside the curtain, temporarily folding the material back into place until I can get it out of this house and store it somewhere safer.

There are no further signs that Paul has been here when I search the rest of the house. So I’m just as confused as to what spurred it. His actions always have purpose. It’s unlike him to be this careless with the cat unless hewantsme to know he was here.

As I begin turning it back around, I notice something underneath it. I pull out a silver key, the kind that would fit into a front door. I have no idea who it belongs to or why it’s here.

The flash of a memory suddenly flares and I allow it to play out. It’s of the night he and Gwen came back from their trip to Clacton-on-Sea and learned the police were searching for her. The only time I heard Paul refer to one of her ornamental cats was when he claimed to have left a note under it containing Gwen’s new mobile phone number. I try and recall his exact words. What did he say, now? It was something along the lines of, ‘The green one in the dining room with the eyes that are always staring at something it wants you to see.’

Right now, the figurine is staring beyond the darkness of my garden and towards the houses further down the street and behind us. I follow its eyeline and then I realise.

It is staring at the rooftop of Walter’s house.

I grab my keys from my pocket and realise the one to Walter’s front door is no longer attached to it. It was under the cat.

Oh shit.

CHAPTER 56

CONNIE

Please be okay, please be okay, I keep saying to myself. I hope to God I’ve got this wrong and that I’m just a neurotic, paranoid mess. My own safety means so little to me right now that I don’t even look out for cars when I’m racing hell for leather across these darkened streets to reach Walter’s house. Of course he’s going to be alright, there’s no reason for Paul to have involved him in whatever the hell is going on between him and me. I’ve never wanted to be more right about anything else in my life. But there’s no escaping the fact that someone – Paul – put Walter’s key under the cat and turned it around so it was facing his house.

I’m wheezing by the time I reach Walter’s front door, and dip into my pocket to remove the key, realising in my panic that I’ve left it at the bungalow. I push my face to the front window but the curtains are closed. There are no lights on inside but that doesn’t necessarily mean something sinister has happened as Walter likes an early night. I pull on the door handle on the off chance it’s unlocked. It is. I should be pleased about this, but now I reallyknow I have reason for concern because, day or night, Walter keeps this place locked tighter than Fort Knox.

I step inside, but keep the door open because it’s pitch black in here. The landing lamp is usually switched on for his night-time trips to the bathroom, but that’s off. It takes a few attempts before I can muster enough strength to say his name. ‘Walter,’ I ask and wait. He doesn’t answer. ‘Walter,’ I say a little louder. Still nothing. I try one last time, and now my voice is trembling. ‘Walter, please say something?’ Silence.

For once, I do the sensible thing and dial Krisha’s number with the credit I bought at the train station newsagent. But it goes to voicemail. I begin to leave a hurried, garbled message about being scared Paul has done something to my friend, but before I can finish, my phone runs out of battery power. The timing couldn’t be worse.

There’s a sudden noise. What the hell is that? I can’t immediately place it, but I know I’m not alone. Something rushes towards me and I’m about to scream when it brushes my shins and I realise it’s his dog, Oscar. I clamp my hand upon my chest in a futile attempt to slow my racing heart. With my other hand, I fumble across the wall until I find the hall light switch and turn it on.

‘Jesus, you scared me to death,’ I say and reach down to pet him. He has a toy clamped in his jaws and he wants me to chase after him. ‘I’m sorry, I can’t,’ I tell him. And it’s only when I look at him more closely that I notice spots and streaks across his white curly fur. They’re reddish-brown in colour. Like dried blood.

My stomach drops like I’ve fallen from the top of a bridge.

Get out now, I tell myself.Bang on the neighbours’ doors and beg them to call the police.But what if Walter is injured and urgently needs help? I can’t leave until I find him, so I pluck up the courage to make my way around the lounge, kitchen and dining room, careful not to touch anything, before I climb the stairs.

His bedroom door is ajar, which is not unusual. ‘Walter?’ I ask again and pray that he’s been in a deep sleep and has only just heard me. I knock, but my fear makes me a little too heavy-handed and the door opens wide. The room is as gloomy as the rest of the house, and I reach to turn on the light.

Walter is here, lying on his bed and on his back, a dark bedsheet and blanket pulled up tightly to just under his closed eyes. I’m desperate to hear him breathing, but the only sound is my pulse throbbing in my temples.

‘Walter,’ I say again, choking back my tears. ‘Please say something, tell me Paul hasn’t been here.’

I slowly make my way towards him, gently tugging his sheet until it slowly moves down his face. The material is damp. I glance at my fingertips – they’re a dark red colour too. Only when I dare to look at Walter’s face do I see it. His mouth is wide open, his cheeks and chin black and bloodied.

Paul has cut the tongue from Walter’s mouth.

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