Leaving my car on the street, I move towards the hedge. There, I find the start of a driveway, curving back behind the hedge and so well hidden I missed it before. Craning my neck, I hunt for a better view of the building at the end of the driveway, catching a glimpse of an imposing modern structure.
‘Bingo,’ I whisper.
My brain itches to move, but sense makes me pause.This is madness,it tells me. I should go home to my manuscript. I shouldn’t evenbehere. But before I can talk myself out of it, I set off down the gravel.
The first thing that strikes me as I make my way towards the house is how silent it is here. If where I live is isolated, then Alexa Clarke’s house is another level of remote. Even though I know a public footpath runs close to the house, it feels like I’m the only person left in the world.
Shuddering, I wrap my arms around my waist and force myself to focus on the crunch of gravel beneath my feet, not the buzz of my nerves.
The further I walk, the more details of the house I see, and the more it takes everything in me not to drop my jaw. The building is like something from an architectural TV show, all sharp edges and metalwork contrasting with highly polished wood. Sitting in the middle of landscaped gardens, it’s both intimidating and stunning at the same time. I can’t help but wonder how much it’s worth.
To the right of the house is an impressive garage, designed to mirror the architectural style of the main building. Beside it sits a smart, grey car – Alexa’s car. I know this already thanks to the village gossip. My legs move of their own accord, pulled towards the vehicle by curiosity.
The car is so dirty, I notice the grime from a distance. Despite clearly being an expensive model, it looks unused. Unloved. Peering through the windows, I find that the interior is bare apart from a parking ticket stub perched on the dashboard. The date on it reads April 11, cementing the idea that Alexa’s car hasn’t been driven in a long time. And, with it still in her driveway, it definitely wasn’t used the day she disappeared.
As the sound of a car passing along Maple Crescent registers behind me, the hairs on my arms stand to attention. I should leave now, before I’m caught, but instead I duck around the side of the building, out of sight should the driver look this way.
Chewing my lip, I walk the perimeter of the building until I come to a glass façade at the back of the property. Its wide windows invite me to look into the main living area of the house. The space is plunged in darkness, indicating that no one is home. My pounding heart can’t help but feel relieved, although if I was writing this scene, Otis’s absence would mean one of three things.
One: he is with the police.
Two: he is out looking for Alexa.
Three: he is doing something normal, like working.
The first option can’t be right because, at least as far I know, Otis hasn’t gone to the police. The second might be true, but if Otis were out looking for Alexa, Katherine or Natalya would likely have heard about it through the village grapevine and messaged.
Which only leaves option three. The worst option. With his wife missing, surely Otis being at work is an indication of one thing: guilt.
Gulping, my eyes trace over the darkened living space.
A large open kitchen sweeps across the back wall, looking upon a dining table with chairs for twelve guests and a luxurious living room. Three plush sofas face a log-burning fireplace that looks like it would be at home in an exclusive spa resort.
But the main thing I notice is the mess.
There are discarded cups and dirty plates scattered around the place, but the thing that’s caught my attention is the dining table. It’s in disarray, the surface covered entirely in papers. From my position, I can’t see what’s written on them, but that doesn’t stop my imagination from running wild. Maybe they reveal that Otis’sbusiness is in trouble, or that he has recently taken out a life insurance policy for Alexa. Maybe they’re divorce papers.
Curious, I step closer to the window to get a better view, but in doing so I catch sight of a photo on a side table. It’s a cosy shot of Otis and Alexa, wrapped in each other’s arms. Their smiles pummel me enough that I step away from the window.
These are real people, not characters in a book. I’m not doing creative research. I’m trespassing. I’m breaking the law.
‘What the fuck are you doing?’ I whisper to myself, heading back to my car, without another glimpse at the house. My steps are slow at first, but they pick up speed as I become increasingly aware of the stillness of my surroundings. Even though there’s no one else here, I can’t shake the feeling that I’m being watched. By the time the road comes back into view, I’m tempted to break into a run.
Gripping the sleeves of my jumper, I order myself to walk on calmly, as if I am not petrified. I stare at my feet, counting my steps to keep me going. It’s only when I register the sound of gravel crunching that I look up.
As soon as I do, my heart stops.
There’s a car driving down the driveway, coming straight towards me.
CHAPTER 10
My eyes lock onto a stern-faced Otis Clarke behind the wheel of the car.
I want to run, but where can I go? There’s nowhere to run and nowhere to hide. I am in the centre of Otis’s driveway, and his frown tells me that he has well and truly spotted me. Through the windscreen of his car, I watch his frown turn into fury. I can’t say I blame him.
When Otis reaches me, he brakes sharply then exits his car.
‘What the hell are you doing on my property?’ Otis’s voice doesn’t sound like it did yesterday. Instead, it’s strong and forceful, filled with an anger that has my heart hammering.