The Therapist

by B. A. Paris

  The feeling of a huge weight being lifted off my shoulders is incredible. I go back to the sofa and sleep until my alarm rings at ten. The table and lamps are still in front of the door so I put them back where they’re meant to be and head to the kitchen for coffee. Now that I’ve decided to leave, I need to pack, call Debbie, Leo, Ginny, and Thomas. I can tell Eve that I’m leaving when I see her at lunch. For the first time in a long time, I feel happy. I don’t belong here.

  As soon as I walk into the kitchen, I know that something has changed. I come to a stop, the weirdest of sensations coursing through my body. I was right, someone has been here, I can feel it on my skin, taste it on my tongue. I walk further in and take a careful look around. I can’t see anything but something is definitely different.

  My eyes fall on the French windows that give onto the terrace. I go over and try the handle—they’re still locked. I stoop to examine the lock; it doesn’t look as if it’s been tampered with, but when I think about it, it’s logical that whoever is getting in is getting in this way, because of the mortice lock on the inside of the front door. Even with keys, nobody can get in if I’ve locked it from the inside. There have been times when I’ve forgotten to lock it. But not recently. Since Leo left, I’ve been obsessive about it.

  I go to my study and find the keys that Will gave me last night. There are only the two keys for the front door. The smaller one that would open the French windows isn’t there. Did Will remove it before he gave the keys back to me? Or was it never there?

  I call Leo.

  “Is everything all right?” he asks, as if he knows that it isn’t. It puts me on my guard. Everything puts me on my guard. I’m suspicious of everyone and everything.

  “Why shouldn’t it be?”

  “It’s just that you seem a bit all over the place at the moment.”

  I bite back an angry retort. He’s right, I am.

  “The keys you gave Will—were they only for the front door or was there one for the French windows?” I ask.

  “Um—only for the front door. There are only two keys for the French windows, the one we keep in the drawer in the kitchen and the spare in my study.”

  “Where in your study?” I ask, already checking the kitchen drawer to see if the key is there. It is.

  “In my desk, top drawer on the right. Is there a problem?”

  “If someone is getting into the house,” I say, running up the stairs, “the only way they could get in would be through the French windows, as long as I’ve locked the front door from the inside.” I get to his study and open the right-hand drawer. The spare key is there.

  “Or through a window,” he says.

  “They’d make too much noise. Are you sure there aren’t any more keys for the French windows?”

  “Quite sure. Ben gave me all the keys he had.”

  “Ben?”

  “From Redwoods.”

  “But you changed all the locks, so the keys he gave you wouldn’t work anyway.”

  “I changed the locks on the front door, but not on the French windows. It didn’t seem worth it.”

  Alarm bells clang in my head. “So,” I say slowly. “How do you know that Ben didn’t keep back a key for the French windows?”

  “Why would he do that?”

  “If the only logical way someone could get into the house is through the French windows, someone else must have a key, because the two that we know about are both here, I just checked.”

  “Don’t tell me—you think Ben kept one back and has been breaking into the house.” I can hear the resignation in his voice.

  “Don’t sound so skeptical. I’m only thinking that because he came here yesterday.”

  “What—Ben did?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  “He said he was in the area and wanted to introduce himself.”

  “Maybe he was just being nice.”

  “Or maybe he had an ulterior motive. He sort of hinted that he wanted to come in and see the work we had done upstairs.”

  “You didn’t let him in, did you?”

  “No, I told him to come back when you were here. It seemed a bit strange and then, last night, I was in the sitting room and I heard a noise in the kitchen. There’s no sign of a break-in or anything and nothing is missing. But now I’m wondering—what if it was Ben?”

  “That’s a huge jump to make. I mean—what would his motive be, if nothing is missing?”

  “Maybe he knew Nina—”

  “No.” Leo’s voice is firm and for a moment I think he’s telling me that he knows Ben didn’t know Nina.

  “But what if he sold Nina and Oliver the house?”

  “Alice. This has got to stop.”

  “What?”

  “Your obsession with this murder. It’s bad enough that you’ve suspected me and almost every one of our neighbors of having been involved. But when you start accusing our estate agent, when you don’t even know if he knew Nina—it can’t go on.”

  “I’m not going to stop until I know who’s been creeping around the house at night,” I say fiercely. “Because somebody has.”

  “Then find proof. If you have proof, we can call the police. But we need proof. We can’t just tell them that we think somebody has broken in, they’ll laugh at us. So, until you find something missing, or something that isn’t as it should be, we can’t do anything.” He pauses. “I’m going to come back, Alice. You shouldn’t be there on your own.”

  “It’s all right, I’m leaving. I’m going back to Harlestone.”

  “When?” His relief is evident.

  “Today, at the end of the afternoon. I’ve got lunch with Eve, so I’ll leave after. You can move back in tomorrow.”

  “I’m really sorry it’s come to this,” he says quietly.

  My eyes fill with tears. “So am I.”

  FORTY

  I find two suitcases in the garage and start filling them with the clothes I have in the study, then head upstairs, because I need some jeans and jumpers to get me through the next few weeks. My jumpers are still scattered on the floor from when I fell off the chair. It’s bad enough that I accused Leo of leaving a ponytail of blond hair in the wardrobe, thank goodness I didn’t accuse him of hiding inside it. But somebody did and they were here the day I saw the face at the window, I smelled their aftershave. I thought it was Leo’s, because he has several different ones and I don’t always recognize them.

  The thought of someone being in the wardrobe, watching me, when I was looking for Leo behind the bathroom door, makes me feel sick with retrospective fright. And what about the day after our party, when Leo had thought there was someone in the bedroom? The next morning, I had found my shoes pushed to one side so had there been someone hiding in the wardrobe that night too?

  “For God’s sake, Alice, get a grip!” I say the words aloud, trying to make myself see sense. Nobody in their right mind would hide in a wardrobe if people are sleeping close by. The only thing I’m sure of is that someone has been coming to the house. What does he do when he’s here, other than drape strands of hair for me to find? Are there other signs I’ve missed?

  I sit down on the bed, remembering the things that have never quite added up, like the time I couldn’t find my white sundress before it suddenly turned up, a couple of days later, smelling fresh and clean. But no one would sneak into a house, take a dress, wash it, and put it back in the wardrobe. Not unless they wanted to see how much they could get away with before anyone really noticed.

  My mind continues its processing. I take out my phone, call Leo again. He’ll be at work now but this is urgent.

  “I know this is a really stupid question but after the party, did you wash my white sundress for me?”

  “Er—no.”

  “And the cards we got from everyone, that I put on the mantelpiece in the sitting room. Did you put them lying flat, for a joke?”

  “No.”

  “OK. So did you leave a white rose for me on the
window sill by the front door?”

  “When?”

  “It doesn’t matter when, I only want to know if it’s something you’ve ever done.”

  “No.”

  “You’ve never left me a rose?”

  “No.”

  “Great, thanks.”

  I hang up, think for a moment, then call him a third time.

  “Sorry,” I say, “I won’t call you again, I promise.”

  “It’s OK.” He pauses. “Was I meant to have left you a rose?”

  “No. I just wanted to thank you for the champagne you left for me in the fridge. I forget at the time.”

  “What champagne?”

  “The Dom Pérignon.”

  “Dom Pérignon?”

  “So it wasn’t you?”

  “No. Are you saying someone put a bottle of Dom Pérignon in our fridge?”

  “It was probably there from when we had drinks,” I say hurriedly. “Somebody must have brought it along and stuck it in the fridge.”

  “A bottle like that would have jumped out at me,” he says. “Alice, what’s going on?”

  “Just trying to work things out.”

  I hang up before he can ask any more questions.

  * * *

  I leave my clothes and run downstairs, wondering how many other calling cards I missed. I’m sure he left one for me last night in the kitchen. I stand in the middle of the floor and turn slowly on the spot, scanning the room, looking for something that shouldn’t be there.

  “Where are you?” I cry in frustration. I go back to where I was standing this morning, when I first sensed that something was different, just inside the door. This time, I keep perfectly still. Only my eyes are moving as I make a detailed, inch-by-inch search, letting them travel slowly over each of the worktops, then up and down the cupboards, back and forth along the shelves, along the rack where the saucepans hang, over the cooker, the ovens, the fridge. But I can’t see anything out of place.

  * * *

  I send a text to Debbie to tell her I’ll be arriving this evening. For a moment, I wonder whether to cancel lunch with Eve and the others and leave straightaway, but while half of my brain is telling me that I’m in danger, the other half is telling me that everything I’m imagining can’t be true. Anyway, I don’t want to leave without seeing Eve. I might not have known her for very long but I feel close to her in a way that I can’t explain.

  Debbie replies that she’ll have a bottle of wine ready. I message Ginny and tell her that I’ve decided to go back to Harlestone today, and that we’ll speak over the weekend. And then I call Thomas.

  “Am I disturbing you?” I ask.

  “It’s fine, I can take a few minutes. Have you managed to find the name of Nina’s therapist from Tamsin?”

  “No, and I’m not sure it’s even relevant. Sometimes I wonder if I haven’t gone a bit mad. I mean, isn’t it a little crazy to link a disappearance three years ago with Nina’s murder, just because the word therapist came into it? Even the murder in France—it’s ridiculous to think it’s connected to Nina’s, just because both women had their hair cut off. Leo told me I need to let go of my obsession with Nina’s murder and I couldn’t be angry with him because he’s right, I am obsessed. I’m so obsessed that I’ve suspected everyone that I know of being involved, even though everyone tells me that Oliver killed her.”

  “I’m sorry,” he says quietly. “You don’t know how much I regret dragging you into my investigation—which, to be honest, I probably would have closed by now, despite Helen.” He sighs. “You’re not the only one questioning your motives.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Just that sometimes, I wonder if I’ve only been keeping it open so that I can carry on seeing you.”

  I feel a surge of happiness. “You can carry on seeing me anyway.”

  “But only because you’re no longer with Leo. Until you made that decision, I only had the investigation as a reason to see you.”

  “Are you saying that you think Oliver murdered Nina?”

  “No, I don’t think he did. I think her killer is out there. But I don’t think I’m ever going to find him. Too many people are lying, and untangling that web of lies is proving impossible. And if they’re not lying, they’re covering something up.”

  “Like a conspiracy, you mean?”

  “Yes. And if several people in The Circle are all covering up for each other, the only way we’ll ever be able to get to the truth is if someone breaks rank.”

  “It’s just as well I didn’t tell you my other theory,” I say.

  “Which is?”

  “Do you really want to hear it?”

  “I haven’t given up totally yet.”

  “OK. It’s that Ben is somehow involved.”

  “Ben? I haven’t heard of a Ben. What number does he live at?”

  “No, Ben from Redwoods. The estate agent who sold us the house.”

  “Wow,” he says. “OK.” There’s a pause. “I’m not saying you’re wrong,” he adds hastily, “I’m just wondering how you got there.”

  “You know I think that someone has been getting into the house at night? Well, I think they’ve been getting in through the French windows at the back. Leo told me Will had keys to the house so I got them back from him and there were only two keys on the ring, both for the front door. I checked with Leo and he said Will never had a key to the French windows, that there were only two, and both were in the house. And both are in the house, I checked. It means that if someone is getting in through the French windows, there must be another key.”

  “And you think Ben has it?”

  “Only because he would have had keys to the house so that he could show people round and the only lock we haven’t changed is the one on the French windows. And because yesterday, he turned up here.”

  “What—he came to the house?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did he say why?”

  “He said he’d been at a property here in The Circle, discussing a possible sale, and wanted to introduce himself. But he also hinted that he was interested in seeing the work we had done upstairs.”

  “Did you let him in?” He can’t quite hide the worry in his voice.

  “No.”

  “Thank God. Do you know his surname?”

  “No, he mentioned it but I can’t remember.”

  “It doesn’t matter, I can look it up on the website. Redwoods, you said? Hold on a sec—here he is, Ben Forbes. Do you know when Nina and Oliver moved into the house?”

  “No, why?”

  “Because maybe it was Ben Forbes who sold it to them.”

  My heart starts beating faster; he’s had the same thought as me. “Do you think there could be a connection?”

  “That’s what I’m going to find out. I’m willing to look into anything just to be able to tell Helen I’ve left no stone unturned. I want this over and done with, Alice.”

  “Me too,” I say. “Which is why I’m going back to Harlestone today. I’m too worried to stay in the house now, anyway. But don’t worry, I’ll come back next Wednesday to meet Helen.”

  “And to have lunch with me,” he says.

  “That too,” I say, smiling. “I need to go, Thomas, I’m having lunch with Eve, Tamsin, and Maria, although I’m not sure there’s any point trying to find out who Nina’s therapist was.”

  “See how you feel. What time do you think you’ll be back?”

  “By four, I should think.”

  “Then maybe I could come and say goodbye. Next Wednesday seems a long way off.”

  “I’d like that,” I tell him.

  “Good.” His voice is warm. “I’ll see you about four, then.”

  FORTY-ONE

  On the way to the brasserie, my cell phone rings. It’s Ginny.

  “What did you say to Leo?”

  “About what?”

  “The murder.”

  “Um—” I don’t know what to say in case Leo told her wha
t I said about Ben. And she and Mark both really like Ben.

  “I’m only asking because he’s spent the whole morning reading articles about it online.”

  “Didn’t he go to work?”

  “No. He said you were still convinced there’d been a miscarriage of justice and that it wasn’t like you to take on a cause for no reason at all. He was trying to find the article you read that made you decide the husband wasn’t guilty. And now he’s trying to speak to Ben, I’m not quite sure why. Something about wanting to know if he sold the Maxwells the house.”

  I feel a twinge of alarm. I’m touched that Leo wants to help but I feel bad that he’s wasting his time looking for an article that doesn’t exist. And what if Ben is involved in Nina’s murder, and Leo’s questioning spooks him?

  “I think he just wants to know when the Maxwells moved to The Circle,” I tell Ginny.

  “That’s all right, then.”

  “I’m sorry, I have to go. Lunch date with Eve, Tamsin, and Maria.”

  “Good luck,” she says.

  “I need to tell them I’m leaving. I’m sure Tamsin will be relieved.”

  She laughs and hangs up.

  * * *

  They’re waiting for me when I arrive at the brasserie, seated at a round table. They’ve left me the place opposite Tamsin, so I give each of them a quick hug and sit down between Eve and Maria.

  “Sorry I’m late,” I say, while Maria pours me a glass of wine. “I was busy packing.”

  “I thought your friend was coming to stay?”

  “No, I’ve decided to go to hers instead. But not just for the weekend. I’ve decided to go back to Harlestone for good.”

  Eve pauses, her glass halfway to her lips. “Really?”

  “Yes.”

  She puts her glass back on the table. “Oh.”

  “What about Leo?” Maria asks.

  “He’s staying here.”

  She puts her hand on mine. “I’m so sorry, Alice.”

  “Me too.” Eve looks as if she’s about to cry.