The Therapist

by B. A. Paris

  There’s a long pause, which I don’t like. “I’m afraid you’ll have to speak to Ben, Ms. Dawson.”

  “That’s exactly what I want to do. Can you give me his cell number, please?”

  “I’m sorry, I can’t do that. But I can ask him to call you as soon as he gets back on Monday.”

  “Yes, please do.”

  I cut the call, feeling stupidly close to tears. I rub my eyes angrily, but I can’t stop my increasing horror at the thought of our house being the scene of a murder. Becky might not have confirmed it but she hadn’t denied it. Rage begins to build up inside me. How could Ben have kept it from us? He told Leo that the house was cheaper than its market price because it had been standing empty for over a year. Leo would have asked why, and Ben must have lied, or avoided giving him an answer. Leo is going to be devastated. If it’s true, we’re going to have to start house-hunting all over again.

  My mind races ahead—Leo will put the house back on the market and we’ll move into temporary accommodation while we find somewhere else to live. Or, better still, move back to my cottage. I quickly extinguish the tiny spark of happiness that the thought of going back to Harlestone brings. It seems misplaced among the reality of the murder and anyway, my cottage is rented out for another five months.

  I want—need—to speak to Leo, but when I call his number, it goes through to voicemail. I wait a few minutes, then try again, but he still doesn’t pick up. I want so much to get to the bottom of it that I decide to call the estate agents back and insist on having Ben’s cell number. But something occurs to me. What if he wasn’t obliged to tell Leo about the murder? Bringing up my search engine again, I type Do estate agents have to disclose murder at a property? A helpful article came up but as I start to read it, my gratitude turns to dismay. It seems that although most estate agents would mention it, there’s no obligation to do so.

  Stunned, I lean back against the bench. I can’t believe that Ben was so unscrupulous. Even if he wasn’t obliged by law to tell Leo, what about his moral obligation? He was recommended to us by Ginny and Mark, he and Mark have become friends. I need to warn them about him.

  I send Ginny a message Can you talk? Ginny, being Ginny, is able to tell from those few words that something is wrong and calls straightaway.

  “Alice, what’s up? Are you all right, is Leo all right?”

  “Yes, we’re both fine. But Ginny, I need your advice. Actually, I need to speak to Ben. Do you have his cell number, by any chance?”

  “Mark does. Why—is there a problem with the house or something?”

  Surprise jolts through me. “How do you know?”

  “I don’t.” Ginny sounds puzzled. “But if you want Ben’s number, it must be to do with the house, because why else would you want to talk to him?”

  “Yes, it is about the house. I’ve just found out that a woman was murdered here, at number 6.” Just saying it makes the horror come back and I grip the wooden bench with my free hand, grounding myself.

  “What?” I can hear the shock in Ginny’s voice. “Did you say a woman was murdered in your house, the house Leo just bought?”

  “Yes.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes, I checked. Do you remember the Nina Maxwell murder? The woman who was killed by her husband?”

  “Didn’t he commit suicide?”

  “Yes, I think so. This was their house, Ginny, this is where it happened. I checked the news reports, they mention The Circle, they don’t say what number but it was here, I know it was.”

  “Alice, that’s awful, I’m so sorry!”

  “It must be why the house was empty for so long, why nobody wanted to buy it. I don’t blame them, I don’t want to stay here now, I can’t bear to be in the house. I’m sitting in the square and even that’s too close. Ben should have told Leo, but he didn’t.”

  “But—I don’t understand. Wouldn’t he have been obliged to?”

  “Apparently not, I checked.”

  “Perhaps he didn’t know.”

  “I think he must have.”

  The gate clangs open and looking up, I see Geoff closing it behind him as he comes into the square. He’s wearing his usual outfit of shorts and a baggy shirt, except that he’s added a peaked cap to protect his balding head from the sun. He gives me a cheery smile and for a moment, I’m tempted to jump up and ask him if he knows anything about the murder. Instead, I smile back, keeping my head bent low over my phone so that he’ll realize I’m on a call.

  “I can’t believe Ben wouldn’t have told you,” Ginny is saying. “I don’t know him that well—Mark knows him better than I do—but I can’t imagine he would be so dishonest.”

  “That’s why I need to speak to him,” I say as Geoff walks past. “I called his office and they told me he’s away for a few days. But this is important. Could you get his number from Mark?”

  “I’ll call him now. Do you want me to call Ben for you?”

  “Would you?” My voice breaks. “It’s just that she was called Nina. If you could find out if he knew, I’ll take it from there.”

  “Of course.” Ginny’s voice is full of sympathy. She never knew Nina but she understands why I’m extra upset. “I’ll call you back.”

  * * *

  It seems an eternity before my phone rings again, an eternity where I feel completely alone, because Geoff has long since gone and there’s no one else around. Then, just as my phone starts ringing, I see Eve, Tamsin, and Maria come through the gate at the other end of the square with a group of chattering children. About to take the call, I shift quickly on the bench, turning my back to them, hoping they won’t see me and decide to come over. But when I check the number, it’s not one that I know. I stare at the screen, hating the effect it’s having on me, the way it’s making my heart race. What if it’s the private investigator?

  I press the green icon, accepting the call.

  “Ms. Dawson?” It’s a man’s voice and I’m about to cut him off when I realize it isn’t Thomas Grainger.

  “Yes,” I say curtly, because it has to be Ben.

  “Ms. Dawson, it’s Ben Forbes, from Redwoods. I’ve just had Ginny on the phone and I wanted to call you myself. I hope that’s all right?”

  “Yes, it’s fine, I just want to get to the bottom of this, I want to know how we’ve ended up living in a house where a woman was murdered.”

  “I know it must have come as a shock to you,” he says, echoing Thomas Grainger’s words.

  “You can say that again,” I say fiercely, because it’s obvious he knew. “Surely you should have told Leo, even if you weren’t legally obliged to?”

  “Can I ask how you found out?”

  “A neighbor told me,” I invent, because he doesn’t need to know about the private investigator. “Anyway, why does it matter how I found out? We should have found out from you.”

  “Can I ask—have you spoken to Mr. Curtis?”

  “No, he’s at work. He’s going to be devastated, because there’s no way we can live here now. I hope you realize that.”

  “I think you should call Mr. Curtis, Ms. Dawson.”

  “I will, once I know why you didn’t tell him about the murder.”

  “I’m sorry, Ms. Dawson, but Mr. Curtis already has the facts. He knew the history of the house before he made his offer. He knew why it had stood empty for over a year, why it was cheaper than it should have been.” He pauses, giving me time to absorb what he’s saying. “When he came back with his offer, I asked him if he was sure you were all right with it, because although we had a few couples who agreed to view the house, they said they wouldn’t feel comfortable living there. Mr. Curtis assured me that you were fine with it, that you were willing to overlook its history because it meant you’d be able to keep your cottage—in Sussex, I believe?” Another pause. “I’m sorry, Ms. Dawson, but you really need to talk to Mr. Curtis.”

  TEN

  I’m so numb with shock that I barely hear my cell phone ringin
g. It’s Ginny. I don’t take the call, I can’t. My mind is too busy stumbling over what Ben told me.

  I can’t believe it. I can’t believe that Leo went ahead and bought the house despite knowing about the murder, it seems too incredible. How could he be all right with it? How could he think, even for a minute, that I’d be all right with it? He knows how squeamish I am, how I can’t watch a film without leaving the room as soon as I sense something bad is going to happen. Which must be why he didn’t tell me, because he knew I’d refuse to live there. What makes it worse is that he lied to Ben about having told me. And what makes that worse is he told Ben that the reason I didn’t mind living there was because I wouldn’t have to sell my cottage. How could he? He’s made me out to be both insensitive and mercenary, and I hate him for it. At least Ben knows the truth now. But it only makes me feel marginally better.

  I can’t understand Leo’s motivation for not telling me. He must have known I’d find out eventually. Is that why he didn’t want to have people over for drinks, in case someone mentioned the murder? And why had no one mentioned it, why had neither Eve or Maria, or anyone else at the party said anything?

  Because they couldn’t, I realize dully. They presumed that I knew, that I was fine about it. They were hardly going to introduce it into the conversation—So, Alice, what’s it like living in a house where a murder took place? I remember Tamsin’s comment at the party about me being brave. She hadn’t been referring to my move from the country to London, but my move into a house with a terrible past. And then, this morning, the conversation I overheard when I went to join them. What had Tamsin said? I close my eyes and her voice comes back to me. “It’s amazing that it doesn’t seem to bother her.” And Eve’s reply—“I’m beginning to wonder if she actually knows.”

  I feel a rush of gratitude toward Eve, for realizing that maybe I’m not as heartless as everyone must think. I’m surprised she’s been so friendly, surprised the people here have been generally welcoming. Maybe some of them were secretly judging us for buying the house but the majority had seemed interested—

  Oh God. I lean forward, my head heavy in my hands. I had paraded people through the house, I had taken them upstairs. What must people have thought? The ones who had been eager to see the bedroom—was that because the murder had taken place there?

  My phone is still in my hand so I google the murder again and find an article written four days after Nina Maxwell’s death. There are more details: her body was found in her bedroom, tied to a chair. Her hair had been cut off and she had been strangled. A man has been arrested and is helping the police with their inquiries, the article finishes.

  Bile surges in my throat. I knew how Nina Maxwell had died, it had haunted me for months after. But to see it written in black and white—I fight down the nausea, channeling it instead into anger at the people who had wanted to see the bedroom where it had taken place. Tamsin and most of the women hadn’t accepted my invitation to show them the renovations, it was mainly the men who’d been interested. Eve had already been upstairs, not at the party, but the day she came over to introduce herself, and I’d dragged her to the bedroom to show her our huge wardrobe. She had held back at first and I’d put her hesitation down to a desire not to appear nosey.

  “Alice?” Lifting my head, I see Eve walking down the path toward me. “What are you doing sitting here?” A frown furrows her brow. “You’re shivering! Is everything all right?”

  “No, not really.”

  “Are you ill, do you need me to call someone?”

  “No, I’m fine. Well, I’m not fine, obviously,” I say, trying to joke. “But I’m not ill. I just feel so humiliated, so angry!”

  “Angry is good,” Eve says, coming to sit next to me. The smell of her perfume—Sì, by Armani—is oddly comforting. “Much better than ill, or sad. Why don’t you tell me what’s happened?”

  “I’ve just found out that our house,” I thrust my hand toward it, “was the scene of a brutal murder.” I look at her in anguish. “I didn’t know, Eve. Leo knew but he didn’t tell me.”

  “Oh, Alice.” The sympathy in Eve’s eyes is also comforting. “I was beginning to think that you might not know. At first, I thought you were one of those people who are able to compartmentalize things, who are able to say ‘that was then, but this is now.’”

  “I could never be that insensitive. I’m surprised you could bring yourself to talk to me. I’m surprised anyone could talk to me when I didn’t acknowledge the murder, not even to say how sorry I was that you had all lost your neighbor.”

  “No one was judging you, Alice.”

  “I think Tamsin might have been.”

  “Well, maybe. A bit. Nina was her best friend, so it’s understandable.” She pauses a moment. “The first time she saw you, she thought for a moment that you were Nina. She was standing at her bedroom window and she saw you crossing the square. You’re about the same build as Nina was and from that distance, she could only see your long blond hair. It gave her a bit of a shock.”

  I nod distractedly. “But why weren’t people judging me?” I ask. “Shouldn’t they have been?”

  Eve pushes her hand through her hair. “I think everyone was just relieved that the house had been sold, that it was going to be lived in and not standing empty. It had become a bit of a shrine, I suppose, and some of the children began to say it must be haunted, and their parents didn’t want them believing that it was. When we heard that someone had bought it, it was as if a breath of fresh air was coming to The Circle. At last, we were going to be able to move on.” She looks at me earnestly. “People are grateful, Alice. We see it as a new beginning.”

  “Maybe, but we’re not going to be able to stay here now. At least, I’m not. It obviously doesn’t bother Leo.”

  “He told Will it was why he wanted to change it around upstairs, get rid of the room where it happened. He said he wanted to make it easier for you to live there.”

  “Insinuating that I knew about it,” I say, digging in my pocket for a tissue. “And of course, nobody dared mention the murder on Saturday, even though there were plenty who were eager to see where it had taken place. You’d have thought at least one person would have asked me if I was OK living with the ghost of a murdered woman.”

  Eve looks uncomfortable. “I might have had something to do with that. Leo told Will he’d appreciate it if no one mentioned the house’s history in front of you as you were obviously sensitive about it. Will told me and I sort of spread the word.”

  A memory comes back, of Leo going to see Will, the day after I told him I’d invited people for drinks. “I can’t believe it!” I say, my anger coming back. “He really didn’t want me to find out, did he?” I look at her, hoping she’ll be able to give me an answer. “I can’t understand it, Eve. He’s never done anything like this before, he’s never kept anything back, he’s never not told me the truth. And he must have known that I’d find out eventually. It’s not the sort of thing that can be kept a secret.”

  “How did you find out?” Eve asks, reaching into her bag and bringing out a peaked cap, and using it to fan herself.

  “I got a phone call,” I say, hoping she didn’t notice my slight hesitation. “From a reporter.” I’m not lying to her because I’m almost sure that Thomas Grainger is a journalist, and changed his job description to private investigator to make it sound more palatable.

  She jams the cap on her head, not caring that her sunglasses are caught under it. “What did they say?”

  “She asked me how it felt to be living at the scene of a brutal murder,” I improvise, changing the pronoun to move further away from the truth. “When I said that I didn’t know what she was talking about, she told me to google Nina Maxwell.” That part at least is true. “So, I did.”

  “What an awful way to find out.”

  I shake my head slowly. “I can’t believe Leo knew.” The memory of how I accused Ben of not telling Leo makes me flinch internally. “Leo told the estate
agent that I was fine with it because, with the house being cheaper, it meant I could keep my cottage in Harlestone. He made me sound completely heartless.”

  She tries to hug me but because of the way we’re sitting on the bench, it’s awkward, and I realize that I don’t know Eve, not really. Do I even know Leo?

  “What are you going to do?” she asks.

  “I need to speak to Leo but I don’t want to call him, I need to see his face. He’s back tomorrow evening so I’ll have to wait until then. But I can’t stay in the house, so I’ll go to a hotel.” I turn to her. “Can I ask you a favor, Eve? I need to get a couple of things from the house, would you come with me? I know it’s stupid but I feel a bit funny going in there now.”

  “It’s not stupid and of course I’ll come with you. And you don’t need to go to a hotel, you can stay with me and Will.”

  I falter at this, suddenly unsure of what I want. “Are you sure?”

  “Sure I’m sure!”

  “I don’t need much, just some pajamas, a toothbrush and a change of clothes. And my book and laptop.”

  “Come on then.”

  * * *

  On the doorstep, I hand my keys to Eve. She unlocks the door and goes into the house, while I wait on the doorstep, dread cramping my stomach. I don’t know what I’m expecting. For it to be different, I suppose. At least to feel different. But it doesn’t, it feels just the same, so I go in.

  Eve stoops to pick up something.

  “Someone’s card,” she says, handing it to me without looking at it.

  “Thanks.” I tuck it in my pocket and wait while she takes off her cap, shoves it into her bag, then kicks off her trainers. I slip mine off and follow her upstairs to the bedroom. She walks straight in but I stop in the doorway.

  She holds out her hand to me. “It’s just the same as before, Alice. Nothing has changed.”

  I take a steadying breath and look around the room. She’s right, it is the same. The patterned curtains are still billowing in the breeze, just as they were this morning. My hairbrush is still on the dressing table, the clothes I wore yesterday are still draped over the chair. But—