Lifting my head, I stare ahead as if the answer to my problems can be found on the high street, but all I see is Margie leaning in the doorway of Coffee and Cake, chatting away. From her animated expression, I’d bet money it’s about Alexa Clarke.
My brow furrows. So many people are talking about what’s going on like Alexa’s life is entertainment. They’re swapping theories and sharing stories, but no one isdoinganything.
I can’t be like them.
As soon as that thought registers with me, it’s like a lightbulb switches on. Forget milk, forget apples – Alexa is the reason I am out of the house today.
I decide to start where I would start if this were a book – with Alexa’s last known whereabouts.
Typing Maple Crescent into Google Maps, I set off driving. The further I get from the high street, the more I come alive with purpose and the less I listen to the voice in my head warning me that what I am doing is borderline insane. By the time I reach Maple Crescent, checking out Alexa’s house doesn’t seem inappropriate. If anything, it feels entirely sensible.
Driving down the leafy street, I think back to Natalya’s words about Alexa’s home:That big modern one, she’d said.
As I make my way down the road, I can see why a modern structure would cause a stir somewhere like this. It’s a narrow, winding road with uninterrupted fields running along one side and beautiful period properties on the other. Everything is as I imagine it was one hundred years ago, with the pretty ivy-fronted houses dotted around like something from the front of a Christmas card. Or, if I listen to the cynical side of my brain, a documentary about a remote, off-grid cult.
I pass four well-proportioned cottages with sweeping gardens, then an ornate home set back from the road. Slowing, I study the bold brickwork and design, then shake my head. This house looks like it comes straight from the pages of a Victorian Gothic novel. Natalya called Alexa’s house modern. This house would have only been considered modern in 1859.
Continuing onwards, I creep past a subtly signposted entrance to a public footpath, a cute cottage and another grand period property before reaching a T-junction with Oak Avenue.
My forehead scrunches as I read the street sign confirming I’m on Maple Crescent.
Spinning my car around, I travel back down the road, slower this time. I pass the last house and the cottage, the Gothic dream home, the first four cottages – but no modern masterpiece.
Pulling up on the side of the road, I reach for my phone. My plan is to see if Google Maps can help me, but my hands are shaking with so much nervous energy that the phone slips out of my grip.
Bending to retrieve it, I rummage around the embarrassingly dirty footwell of my car. My fingers brush against scraps of leaves and dropped mints, but no phone. Reaching under the seat, I continue the hunt until out of nowhere, a shadow falls across the window, shrouding me in darkness.
CHAPTER 8
‘Fuck!’ I shriek.
I whip upright, moving so fast that I smack my head on my steering wheel. My teeth clench at the thud of impact, my face scrunching as a clout of pain ricochets through me.
The elderly woman standing beside my car looks as shocked at my outburst as I was by her sudden appearance. She holds her hand to her chest and for one horrifying moment, I panic I’ve just scared one of Bramblethorpe’s oldest residents to death.
‘What a fright we’ve given each other,’ the woman shouts, fighting to be heard through the closed window. ‘I didn’t mean to scare you, dear. I saw you driving up and down and thought you might be lost.’
Acting as if my pulse isn’t pounding in the base of my throat, I wind my window down. ‘That’s so kind, thank you.’
‘Oh, it’s no bother. I was gardening when you drove past, you see. It’s never too early to prep for spring,’ the woman says, waving a trowel in the air as if I’ll want to fact-check her story. ‘I’m Dorrit Holbeck. Nice to meet you.’
Stepping out of the car on wobbling legs, I shake Dorrit’s trowel-free hand. ‘Janine,’ I reply.
Introductions made, the well-worn smile lines on Dorrit’s face come to life. I memorise her features should I ever need to describe a character who is the epitome of a wholesome grandmother.
‘This here is Magnus,’ Dorrit says, nodding to a small Scottie dog by her feet who looks almost as old as she does. ‘He came to say hello. He’s terribly nosey, although his arthritis will make him suffer for that. Now then, how did you end up getting lost on Maple Crescent?’
‘I’m not lost. I’m looking for…’ I trail off as my attention finds itself being drawn back along the street, searching for the Clarkes’ home and the secrets it contains.
‘Let me guess, you’re here about Alexa?’
My focus snaps back to Dorrit. ‘How do you know?’
‘You’re not the first car that’s driven along here today, believe me.’
‘Right,’ I reply, cringing as I realise I must seem like another nosey local. ‘Do you know the Clarkes?’
‘I’m their neighbour, dear. Of course I know them.’