Chapter One
There were two of us beneath the tree that day. We both survived... and I still don’t know how. Some people called it a miracle. Maybe it was.
The last thing on my mind as I hurried across the park that morning was the possibility of my life changing in any way, because I liked it just as it was. In fact, the only thought in my head as I left the path to take a shortcut back to the office was the mansion house flat I’d just viewed. I’d played it cool with the clients, but it had been hard to hide my excitement about the prospect of adding it to my company’s listings. I was so busy thinking about how to stage the elegant apartment for the video I’d post on social media that I scarcely noticed how the wind had suddenly whipped up, scooting grey clouds across the previously blue sky.
I wasn’t dressed for cutting across the slightly damp grass, and with each step I could feel the turf sucking hungrily on my stilettoes. They were an integral part of my work wardrobe, as much as the elegant designer dresses that I bought pre-loved on Vinted and eBay. Everything about Ellie Harker Properties was carefully curated to project a certain image – and that included me, Ellie Harker.
Owning my own estate agency had been my dream for as long as I could remember, and every time I saw my name emblazoned across the website’s home page, I felt a glow of pride for havingspotted a gap in how high-end homes were being sold in my local area and finding a modern way to fill it.
The wind ruffled my hair, disturbing the sleek red strands of my shoulder-length bob as a single fat drop of rain fell on my upturned face. Damn. I had another client consultation in less than an hour, and drowned rat was never a great look when you wanted to make a good first impression. It’s said buyers often choose a new home in less than eight minutes, and an estate agent even quicker.
It had taken a long time and a great many outtakes before I’d finally been relaxed enough in front of my phone’s camera to feel happy posting my videos on Instagram and TikTok. It was hard to believe how uncertain and nervous I’d been in those early days, when now, switching my phone to video and chatting to my followers – who’d grown to over ten thousand – felt as natural as breathing.
That’s not to say there hadn’t been some initial hiccups. ‘How come neither of you ever mentioned there’s something seriously weird about my voice?’ I remember asking Mel and Jackson, my two oldest university friends, who’d insisted on taking me out to celebrate when I officially launched the business three years ago.
‘Everyone thinks that,’ Jackson had reassured me, snapping shut his laptop. His help with the technical side of setting up my agency and the website had been invaluable.
‘Everyone thinks my voice is peculiar? Terrific.’
Jackson had giggled at that. It was one of his most endearing qualities. He was in his thirties now but still laughed with the abandon of a giddy six-year-old.
‘No, dummy,’ he’d corrected, flicking his hair like a young Hugh Grant, ‘everyone thinks their voice is terrible. The jury’s still out as to whether yours is actually worse than most.’
‘Don’t listen to him,’ Mel had said, already half tipsy from two glasses of Prosecco. ‘You sound great, and you’re going to be richand successful and will probably end up being far too busy and important to mix with the likes of us.’
I shivered at the memory, which had proved a little too prophetic for comfort. Not the rich part, but the bit about not mixing with my old friends. Weeks had developed a nasty habit of sliding seamlessly into months, and before I knew it, over half a year had passed and I was only calling Jackson when something went wrong with my software, and I honestly couldn’t remember the last time I’d spoken to Mel. The thought made me far more uncomfortable than the fast-falling rain.
Drops were landing like ink-spots on my navy shift dress, and I suddenly regretted not paying more attention to the breakfast TV presenter that morning, who’d stood beside a map decorated with lightning bolts and grey clouds. I’d left home without a jacket or even an umbrella, as though playing a dangerous game of dare with the elements.
‘It’s not going to rain,’ I told the chirpy weather girl, glancing through the window at a cloudless blue sky before taking one last swig of coffee and switching off the TV. I hurried from the kitchen, which was in its usual immaculate state – so pristine it could probably double up as an operating theatre if the local hospital ran out of space. I kept my home as though buyers were waiting on the doorstep to view it and liked everything to be just so... which I’m sure some counsellor could happily spend months unpicking if I had time to spend on discovering why, which I didn’t, because the agency was like a greedy sponge, sucking up every free moment of my life.
Around me people were pulling plastic macs from bags, erecting pop-up umbrellas, and running in every direction like disturbed bugs from beneath a log. I considered joining the throng heading towards the outdoor café, with its large canvas awning, but however fast I ran, I would be one of the last to arrive. Mums with pramswere ducking and diving like kamikaze pilots to get their offspring out of the rain, while dog owners were scooping up tiny pooches and tucking them inside their jackets to keep them dry, which I found infinitely cuter. And that’s something else an analyst would probably have a field day working on.
The rain was falling in earnest now and a loud crack of thunder stopped my dithering. Impulsively I stepped out of my heels, hooked the straps over one finger, inched my dress higher, and took off at a sprint towards a group of tall oaks beside the park’s boating lake.
It had been years since I’d run like that. Somewhere, in some long-forgotten drawer in my mother’s house, there had been a collection of medals I’d once won for competing at county level. But that was then and, contrary to the old saying about it being like riding a bike, every single muscle in my body had forgotten how hard running could be. My sides were heaving like a racehorse by the time I finally reached shelter.
It was only a moment or two before I was joined by a second rain refugee. He approached the oak at a run that didn’t appear to have winded him, dressed in jeans, jacket, and white trainers that I doubted would look the same after today. I couldn’t make out his features – the sky had now turned a shade of charcoal and the overhanging boughs effectively stole what little daylight remained. He was tall though, I could see that, and broad-shouldered, because the jacket – whose collar he’d lifted to keep out the rain – was stretched taut across his back. He was standing on the periphery of the oak’s shelter, scoping the park for the next cluster of trees. He kept checking his watch, and everything about him said he was in a hurry.
The rain was cascading off the leaves and the man shook his head, spraying droplets like a dog after a wet walk. There was plenty of free space farther beneath the canopy, but he kept his distancefrom me. I wondered if he’d even noticed there was anyone else beneath his tree. He certainly seemed preoccupied.
Even so, we both spun to our left as a bolt of lightning, more vivid than any I’d ever seen before, lit up the entire park like a photographer’s flashbulb. I saw panic on the faces of the people who were still out in the open as they faltered in their stride, not knowing which way to run.
Poor them. They should have sheltered under here, I thought, before the idea was shunted aside as the man with the white trainers glanced back and our eyes met. His were green, I remember that, almost as vivid as the foliage we were standing beneath. And there was a warmth in them as he flashed me a smile that I interpreted to mean Well, this is shit, isn’t it?
Thunder exploded like a bomb overhead and for a moment I swear I felt the earth beneath my feet shuddering from the sound-wave. It had come so quickly after the lightning, far less than thirty seconds, and some half-remembered fact from aeons ago told me that was significant, maybe even dangerous, but I couldn’t remember why.
The man turned slightly, and from the way he was bouncing on the soles of his feet, I could tell he was intending to move on, which bothered me on a level I never did have a chance to explore. He lifted a lightly tanned forearm, exposed by the rolled-up cuffs of his jacket, and checked his watch once more, and that’s when I saw the takeout coffee cup in his hand. Scrawled in thick black sharpie letters across one side was the name Rhys, which I remember thinking really suited him, when suddenly everything changed... irrevocably and forever.
There was light everywhere. It felt as though I’d been picked up and dropped into the centre of the sun. The tree branches were gone, so too was the park and the man who was beneath the oak with me. Everything was swallowed up by the light and then anintense jolt lasered out from above, below, and beside me, and I felt a tremendous power lift me off my feet. I don’t remember hitting the ground.
‘Are you okay?’
That was definitely the most ridiculous question I’d been asked in a very long time.
‘Can you hear me?’
I moved my head slightly in what might have been an attempt at a nod.