“Of course,” I say gently, glancing down quickly at his hand, still holding my sleeve. The feel of his fingertips through the fabric. When I look back up he’s staring at me; his eyes flick to my lips and I feel my stomach tighten. I look away again, my eyes seeking Graceford in the distance. I take a breath and without thinking I ask the question that’s been bubbling away in my head. “Matthew, what did you tell Dr. Samuels?”
He lets go of my arm and smiles, surprised by the question. “Er, I’m not entirely comfortable,” he begins hesitantly. “Well, I wasn’t comfortable saying it in front of you….”
“Why?”
“Because you won’t want to hear it,” he answers, his tone suddenly serious. “It’s not a good thing.”
I feel the hairs on the back of my neck rise. Oh God. “What do you mean, it’s not a good thing, Matthew?” The tone of our conversation has changed, the air sucked out of it.
He looks away, unsure how to proceed, and steps back, putting some distance between us. “I just—I know how to do certain things. I don’t know how I know these things. And I didn’t want to say, with you there.” He kicks at the sand, silent for a moment. But I can tell there is more coming, so I give him space. “Right, well. When I got hold of that guy this morning—I knew how to kill him, Emma.” He’s watching for my reaction; I try to keep my face neutral. “I don’t mean with the gun. I mean I knew how to kill him. With my hands. And—” He breaks off. “And I really wanted to do it, you know. I knew what it would feel like and I wanted to do it. Because he hurt you.”
“Okay,” I say, and for a moment I’m so taken aback I can’t think what else to say. He waits for my response and I try to snap back into doctor mode. “It’s okay. Whatever you’re feeling is okay. Don’t block it, just let it come as it comes. We’re going to work this out together, Matthew. You are not a bad person. Don’t start to think that. Something bad may have happened to you but you are not bad. Okay?”
His hand finds my bandaged one and for a second the dressings seem to confuse him. “I won’t let anyone hurt you again, Marni. You know.”
Marni, again.
I wonder if the bandages remind him of my burnt fingers. The burnt fingers he seemed to remember that first night we spoke. The same slippery thought from earlier this morning shimmers into focus. And for a second, I’m certain that this man has something to do with that night fourteen years ago. Two thoughts scream through my head: Is my father still alive? Do you have something to do with him?
And I’m speaking before I can stop myself. “Matthew, is there something you want to tell me? About why you’re here? We might not get this chance again.”
He turns quickly to check Graceford’s proximity. She’s still stationed high on the sand dunes ahead, far from hearing distance, but her gaze finds us as we stare across at her.
Matthew focuses on me, an intensity in his eyes. “Yes. But not yet,” he says furtively, and I notice he has taken my bandaged hands lightly in his again. “There’s something, but I need more time. Can you wait?”
This could be it. This really could be it.
I catch sight of Graceford moving in my peripheral vision, slowly making her way down the dunes toward us. Time really is up.
“Yes,” I say swiftly. “I can wait.” He squeezes my hands softly, holding me in his gaze, and I feel it through my whole body.
* * *
—
The light is starting to fade by the time we get back to the car, and Graceford suggests we leave the other destinations for another day and return to the hospital. I’m pretty sure we won’t get another day, but I agree. I just pray we have the time he needs.
He’s silent as we drive back to the hospital, deep in thought. I try not to read too much into his silence. Try not to guess at his thoughts. He clearly wants to tell me something but he was worried about Graceford. He needs to talk to me on my own. How can I make that happen? But I catch myself with the thought. Being alone with Matthew might not be such a great idea. I think of the way he looked at me on the beach, his gaze traveling to my lips, and the telltale flip in my stomach. It’s common for patients to develop feelings for their doctors. And doctors for their patients. But it’s rare for a patient to know so much about their doctor. Rare that anyone could know the things Matthew knows about me. The only other people who know as much about the details of that night are my family and Chris. Matthew feels so close and I shouldn’t have allowed that.
I glance at his reflection in the rearview mirror. I’m going to have to make sure I keep our relationship purely clinical, because what he needs from me and the way he makes me feel are starting to scare me.
Thankfully, Graceford accompanies us back up to the ward and waits outside the open door to Matthew’s room.
“I think that’s enough for today. I’ll see you tomorrow, Matthew. Okay?” I keep my tone light but businesslike. There’s no time like the present to set boundaries. “We’ll do some more memory exercises in the morning, and if we don’t hear from Dr. Samuels by the afternoon we can perhaps try another trip then. If you’d find that helpful?”
He ignores my question, starts to unzip his jacket, then pauses. “I know it’s not my business, Dr. Lewis, but have you thought about going back?” he says seriously, the quality of his voice matching mine in coolness.
“Back?” I ask, confused. “Back where?”
“Have you thought about going back to your old house?” he explains directly. “Where it happened?”
I feel the blood drain from my face. What is he doing?
His gaze moves past me to the bustling corridor beyond the door, where Graceford waits. Is he worried she can hear?
Perhaps this is what he wanted to tell me on the beach. Is he telling me to go back to my old house? Is there something there, at the house?
He reads the confusion on my face and adds carefully, “I’m only suggesting it because it might help you. Sometimes the most terrifying thing is our own imagination. The not knowing. You know? The reality of what happened, whatever it was, will never be as bad as the stories our minds tell us. If you go back, Dr. Lewis, you might see that.”
I stare at him. What is he talking about?
If I go back I might see what exactly? I can’t work out from his tone if this is an instruction or well-meaning small talk.
But he holds my gaze, his voice low as he continues. “I bet as soon as you get through those gates, what happened will seem so much smaller. It’ll feel more manageable.” I remember what he did for me this morning, how he saved me, how profoundly safe I feel with him.
Is there something there, at the house, that he wants me to see? Or am I just imagining things again?
I give him a smile, trying to lighten the weight of the moment and draw a line in the sand. Enough for today. “Thank you, Matthew. But just to be clear,” I joke, “we definitely didn’t have gates—it wasn’t that kind of place.”
He hesitates, lost for a second before realizing I’m joking, then a flash of relief bursts across his face.
38
DR. EMMA LEWIS
DAY 13—TIME TO GO HOME
I get up early the next morning, slip straight into my running clothes, and let myself out quietly into the thick muffling snow. The air’s crisp and fresh and I pick up my pace as soon as I’ve pushed through the low hinged gate at the back of the lodge. I thought about going out the front entrance, but it’s too early to make small talk with the officer stationed in the car out there, Sergeant Greene. And I’m pretty sure he’d veto a morning run and I desperately need to clear my head before going back to work today or I’ll go mad.
He took over last night from Graceford, and aside from taking him out a coffee before bed, I haven’t said two words to him. He’s a higher rank than Chris and Graceford and he’s certainly less amenable. Chris was waiting with him when Graceford and I
got back to the lodge last night. Apparently after that night the local police wouldn’t be able to offer twenty-four-hour protection, Chris explained. I guess Chris had told Sergeant Greene this news might be better coming from him. Inside, over tea, Chris explained my options: either I could head back to London and they could liaise with my local force on options going forward or I could leave tomorrow with the protected-persons unit, witness protection, if I felt a continuing threat to my safety.
“Are you joking, Chris?” I’d scoffed. “You seriously think I’m going to change my name again? Run away from this shit again? What about Matthew? I’m his doctor.”
Chris tried to be understanding but the facts had an inescapable harshness. “Okay, maybe the protection unit is a little extreme,” he admitted. “But you were attacked today. It was an attempt on your life, Emma. And the media are still at the hospital, and trust me, there are a lot of weird people out there. Maybe London is the best option. I don’t think staying on this job is a good thing for you or your patient at this stage.”
He didn’t stay long. I told him as he left that I’d think about it and make a decision soon.
I let my stride stretch out as I creak across the fresh snowfall, my feet and bandaged hands still tender from the basement glass two nights ago. As I find my rhythm my breath deepens, its reassuring huff and the dampened sounds of the forest working to quiet my mind.
So, do I stay or do I go?
Up ahead I see a worn path leading off the main track; it’s narrow and overgrown but bends back toward the lodge. I should stay close. I turn off and head into the denser wood, branches scratching and pulling, but I keep my pace.
Stay or go?
I think again of what happened to me yesterday—the attack, the anger that vile stranger had toward me. He wanted to take my life. He wanted me to die. I think of the chants and the pickets outside the hospital, and yesterday’s headlines. And I wonder in earnest if all of this was really worth it.
I came here for my career but I’ve stayed for Matthew. To help Matthew, because I’m his doctor and I’m the best and he needed me to stay.
But if I’m honest, that’s not my only reason. I’m here because of what he said to me that first night. The way he spoke to me. The things he knew that he couldn’t possibly have known. And more than that, the little things about him that seem so familiar to me, his gait, his eyes, the slope of his strong shoulders. No matter how crazy it sounds, the truth is, I’m here because he reminds me of my father. Plain and simple. It’s just a feeling. I have put my life and family and career in jeopardy for a feeling. But there is something there, there’s something he’s not telling me. I think of what he did tell me yesterday. He told me to go back home. I might see something if I go back to that house. Perhaps this is what I’ve been waiting for.
Ahead the path opens out into a small snow-patched clearing. I slow as I approach, sensing it before I see it. Something about it not quite right.
Something in the undergrowth ahead, a dark huddled mass. I stop abruptly, a shot of pure adrenaline exploding through me.
A man. Someone’s here. I’m not alone. I see him crouching close to the ground, the figure, peering out from the tangled branches—as if somehow just bending behind the bush might mask him from my sight.
I flinch back immediately, stumbling away from the figure, a thought flashing through my mind: Has Simon Lichfield been released? My sneakers catch on a root and I tumble down, my eyes still glued to the unmoving figure. I freeze, paralyzed in the horror of the moment, but as I look on the figure seems to morph. I catch my breath—it’s not my attacker, it’s not a man at all, it’s an object, some kind of bulky fabric, large and strung incongruously onto the winter undergrowth. The draping of it imitating the bulk of a human figure.
A surge of relief bursts through me and I let out a laugh of pure unadulterated joy. Thank God. Oh, thank God. I am such a moron.
I take a moment before scrambling up to my feet. Nothing to be scared of, just good old-fashioned paranoia. Though, I remind myself, someone really did try to kill me yesterday, so maybe this error is less paranoia than due diligence.
Cautiously I approach the mass. Rich burgundy and deep navy, expensive-looking, it has an open zip running jagged along its length. A discarded puffer jacket—like Matthew’s. No, it’s too large for that. Suddenly I realize what it is.
It’s a sleeping bag. Weird.
I wonder how it got here. This is private property, far from the road. The bag couldn’t have been flung from a car, dumped as garbage. No, it must have been brought here by someone, then abandoned. I feel the relief drain from my body. Someone has been sleeping out here, just yards from the lodge where I’ve been staying all alone. I tell myself not to jump to conclusions.
In London it’s not unusual to stumble on homeless encampments while running through the woodland parks, but out here, miles from the nearest village, so close to the lodge, the sleeping bag doesn’t quite sit right. And it doesn’t look like the kind of thing someone down on their luck might own.
I suppress a shudder as I crouch down in front of the offending object. It looks new, its silky shell and plump downy filling scarcely damaged by the winter elements. It hasn’t been here that long, maybe a few nights, maybe as long as I’ve been here? Perhaps I should run back and alert the police officer.
But I hold off, still thinking it through. After everything that’s happened in the last few days, there’s a good chance I might be reading too much into this. The bag might just have blown here from a campsite nearby; it wouldn’t be unheard of in the strong coastal winds. Or maybe someone was innocently sleeping out here.
I sweep the clearing for other signs of activity, the innocent detritus that campers leave—food scraps, wrappers, ashes, or half-burnt twigs. There’s nothing, just the bag.
Huh.
I move to the other side of the clearing and look back in the direction of the lodge—I see patio doors, upstairs windows, all clearly visible from here through the gaps in the branches. This is the perfect vantage point for the back of the house. My bedroom window is in plain sight. I imagine it lit up in the darkness of night and fear fizzes through me afresh. Whoever was here wasn’t a camper.
They were watching me.
Perhaps they still are—instinctively my eyes flash around me, deep into the dense forest, my breath coming in short gasps. But I see no one, no threat in sight. Whoever was here is gone.
It can’t have been Lichfield, my attacker; he’ll still be in custody. And he wouldn’t have known where I was staying until the news broke yesterday. The only people who knew Marni Beaufort was staying here were my family, Peter Chorley, and Chris.
Unless? Unless my father was here? Has he come back? I sink down into a squat, my breath sucked from me. Could he have been here? I don’t stop to think, I rise, head straight to the sleeping bag, and grab it. I pull it to my face, my nose, and I inhale. I don’t know why I do it but I do, I try to smell him. I strain for his almost forgotten scent of cologne and cedar and bonfires. But the bag just smells of factory chemicals and damp. Frustrated, I tug it from its tangle of thorns and vigorously shake it out, hoping for what to tumble out I do not know. A message, a note, something. Nothing. Only dead leaves fall from inside.
I stand alone and terrified in the clearing, panting, my breath fogging in the air.
The truth of what happened yesterday hits me once again. I very nearly died. I nearly died yesterday, a man tried to kill me. The bullet that grazed Matthew was meant for me. And it wasn’t because of anything I did or didn’t do. It was because of what my father did. I almost died yesterday because of him. For the second time in my life.
He is the cause of everything bad that ever happened in my life. He hurt me. He hurt my family. He is the reason we changed our names, he is the reason we left our home, the reason we all tried so hard to start a ne
w life. And I’m still here pining for him. Waiting to find him, to hear it’s all not true, desperate to hear that he’s alive and well and that he’s so, so sorry for what he did.
I toss the sleeping bag away. Whether he was here or whether someone else was here hoping to hurt me, it doesn’t matter, the fault is his. I could be at risk for the rest of my life because of him. I feel my anger metastasizing inside me. Only one person is responsible for making me a target. I ball up my hands tight, feeling the wounds ache. Fourteen years of my guilt and wondering what I could have done differently. What I could have done differently! Rage flows molten through me, rage at what he did, at what he tried to do to me and Mum and Joe, rage at the media for twisting everything until we were all no longer victims but figures of hate, like him. But most of all, rage because I know with absolute certainty that whether he’s alive or not, what my father did won’t ever leave me alone, the legacy he’s left has touched every part of my life, a legacy I never deserved, and one I can’t ever escape from. Or can I? The sound of my own breathing seems to fade out as an idea begins to form.
When I return to Cuckoo Lodge, I head straight around to the front. Sergeant Greene spots me and exits his vehicle.
I explain that I will not be leaving for London today and I will not be requiring the protected-persons unit. I will be finishing my assignment. Sergeant Greene is keen to point out that if I do stay it will be directly against the advice of Norfolk Constabulary—and I tell him that’s fine.
“I’ll sign whatever you want me to sign but I’m not leaving today.”
I watch his car pull out of the long driveway, lock the front door behind me, and head straight to the shower. I peel off my sweat-soaked things and stand for a moment shivering in front of the bathroom’s full-length mirror, thick warm steam filling the tiled room around me. I look at myself. I’m older; I’m not sure when that happened to me. Older every year and yet I don’t seem to get anywhere. Not like Joe. Not like everyone else.
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