Cassie couldn’t help but grin at him. The waitress took that moment to appear with their coffees, and the smile dropped like the proverbial lead balloon from her face. She barely even knew this guy and already she was feeling protective over him.
He smiled warmly at the girl, and a knot of jealousy tightened in her guts.
“So, tell me,” he said when the blushing girl had gone, but not before she threw Ethan a final, longing look. “Why have you never worked?”
“I never said that,” she said caught off-guard by the accuracy of his question.
“You didn’t have to.”
“Christ, you sound like…” my psychiatrist she was about to say, but she just managed to bite it back in time.
“Sound like who? Your husband?”
“Yeah.”
Admitting to that was surely better than saying her shrink. He would run a mile from their date if he knew that she was a headcase.
A date? she wondered. Is this what this is?
Be careful, a little voice warned in her mind. You don’t know this guy from Adam… And you’re married, remember?
Pushing aside all the niggling doubts and the contradictory emotions, she took a sip of coffee for want of something to do with her hands, wishing with all her heart and soul that it was something stronger than coffee.
“Aren’t you going to take your gloves off?” he asked.
She looked down at her hands, cringing in shame. She really didn’t want to go there. Not right now, anyway.
“No,” she said flatly.
Their eyes locked, and she could feel the way he was examining her, as if he were trying to read her mind.
“Okay,” he said, lowering his gaze, as if getting that he was being pushy.
They lapsed into an uncomfortable silence for a moment, and Cassie racked her brains for something to say.
“I expect you’ve got a ton of girlfriends,” she said lightly, finding that she was irrationally sickened by the thought of it.
It was more than a little hypocritical on her part, seeing as she was married, but it didn’t mean that she felt it any less.
“Nope, I’m carefree and single.”
“You expect me to believe that? Only a true ladies’ man would invite a married woman out for coffee.”
“Maybe. Or maybe I just felt drawn to you. But the real question is, Cassie, if you thought that, then why did you say yes?”
She opened her mouth to reply, but promptly shut it again.
Because the truth was, she didn’t know. Was she subconsciously looking for a bit of fun on the side? Or was this just an innocent coffee with a potential friend? Or did she feel a deep connection with him, even thought that would be plain ridiculous, seeing as they barely knew each other?
“Sorry, that was out of line,” he said, his expression seemingly genuine. “I mean, this is just coffee, right? It doesn’t have to mean anything.”
Something that might have been disappointment stirred in her guts. Maybe he was right. Maybe he did just want to be friends.
“Sure,” she said, pasting on a bright smile. “It’s only coffee.”
Nothing is ever ‘just’ anything, Dr Thornton said in her mind, before she roughly shoved the annoying little voice away.
“You know, I’ve never taken a married woman out for coffee before.”
“Why don’t I believe you?” she said, doing her best to keep the quaver out of her voice.
“I don’t know. Because I’m an honest kind of guy?”
“Uh huh.”
“It’s true, I am. What about you, Cassie? Are you honest? Do you have any deep, dark secrets?”
Part of her was tempted to make light of that question, to laugh it off, or just say a simple no.
But for some reason, she didn’t. There was just something about Ethan that inspired honesty.
“I do have a deep, dark secret, as it happens. But if I told you it, you probably wouldn’t want to talk to me ever again.”
He had been about to take a sip of coffee, and he put down his cup, his brown eyes big, round and like a puppy dog’s.
I could really fall for this guy, she thought before she had a chance to stop it.
“Try me,” he said softly.
She felt her mouth lift in a smile, but also the threat of tears behind her eyes. Hastily, she blinked them away before they had a chance to take root.
“I have a lot of baggage, Ethan. I have a past.”
“We all have one of those,” he said gravely. “Maybe talking to me will help.”
“Somehow, I doubt it. I just wanted you to know that, that’s all. I don’t know why.”
Although, perhaps she did. She was just tired. Tired of being a victim of the past. Tired of being a victim of herself. Just tired of everything. It would be nice to let it all go, to live a little, if only for a while.
“What happened to you, Cassie? Is it the reason why you don’t have a job?”
“Yes.”
His gaze was so intense, she had to look away.
“I’m sorry, forgive me. I didn’t mean to pry. I don’t know about you, but I could murder a drink. Do you fancy hitting the pub?”
“I’m married, Ethan. I can’t just go down the pub with you, what would my husband think if word got back to him?”
“But you’re here now, in a café, with me.”
“That’s different. I could’ve stopped off for a coffee by himself and you could be anyone that just happened to come and sit at my table.”
Ethan smiled wryly.
“Is that a fact?”
“Yeah,” she said.
“Are you always so devious?”
“No. To be honest, I very rarely get of out the house.”
“Then I’m honoured that you would choose to do so for my sake.”
Cassie could think of nothing to say to that and they sat there in a silence for a time, sipping their coffee. Outside, the weather had taken a turn for the worse. The grey sea was being whipped up into a frenzy, the wind howled along the prom and the rain lashed sideways against the window.
“Come to my place tonight,” Ethan said suddenly, breaking the silence.
“What?”
Her already erratic heart beat kicked up a notch and with exaggerated care she placed her coffee cup back on its saucer lest he should see the way her hands trembled.
“Come to mine. I’ll cook you dinner.”
“I’m married, I can’t do that.”
“I’d love you to. Please come. Do you have a pen in your bag? I can give you the address now. I live a few miles away on the edge of town so you’d have to drive.”
“I don’t drive.”
“You don’t? Then get a taxi. It’s only a few miles away. Or I’ll pick you up.”
“I don’t know…”
“Please, Cassie.”
“What kind of woman do you think I am, exactly?”
“Someone that’s lonely, just like me. Look, you may not believe me, but I’m not putting the make on you. I mean, I think you’re gorgeous, and everything, but I just want to see you again, that’s all.”
She looked into his wide, blue eyes, searching for clues that he was being honest with her or not. She detected no malice or deceit, but then, she reasoned, why would she?
She knew all about the lengths that pathological liars could go to disguise their true selves.
“Okay,” she found herself saying.
Against her better judgment, she found that she wanted to trust him, consequences be damned.
CHAPTER TEN
Cassie arrived home from her date with Ethan on a high.
It was not a date, she reminded herself sternly, but feeling positively floaty nevertheless.
As she walked up the path of her neatly-kept, long, front-garden – which a gardener came to tend every Monday morning – her thoughts drifted back constantly to Ethan. His lean, handsome, youthful face burned bright in her mind and unconsciously she clutched her sho
ulder bag to her chest, solely because inside it was Ethan’s address scrawled on a bit of paper.
I can always cancel, she told herself, but knowing deep down that she had no intention of doing so.
The fact that she was risking her home and her marriage if Hugh ever found out barely even registered with her. And she loved her house more than anything; her home was her safe-haven against the world and it meant everything to her.
She and Hugh lived in an Edwardian, semi-detached house on a quiet street that overlooked Whitstable’s golf course. Beyond the golf course was the sea, which could be glimpsed from their bedroom. As she hadn’t spent the last four years of their marriage working, the responsibility of the interior design of the house had entirely befallen her. She had put a lot of thought – not to mention money – into the project.
Now, everything in the house was exactly as she wanted it to be. The place was immaculate. The original floorboards had been restored to their former glory and every wall in the house was perfectly smooth and painted white. Each and every piece of furniture had been carefully picked out by her – be it the near, one-hundred-year-old, lovingly restored Chesterfield sofa in the living room, to the ultra-modern fixtures of the kitchen, they were all chosen by her.
Her beautiful, elegant, classy house that she loved with all her heart. This place was so much more than a house, it represented her emotional journey after that night.
Yet there she was, prepared to throw away everything she had built up for a sleazy little affair. It beggared belief, but there it was. A cold, hard fact.
Because the truth was, Cassie was bored, a fact that she was only just beginning to acknowledge. Her beautiful home was rapidly becoming her beautiful, gilded prison. She wanted change. Change and excitement. She felt sure that Dr Thornton was right, that such change shouldn’t come in the form of an affair, that she should be working on making herself a better person or really trying for a family in earnest, but she couldn’t seem to put the stoppers on the attraction that she felt for Ethan.
As she inserted the key into the lock and pushed open the front door, lost in her own thoughts, she noticed a white envelope that lay face down on the doormat.
Her first thought was that the postman had already been this morning, and the first stirring of unease churned in her guts. Frowning, she bent over to retrieve the letter, turning it over in her hands. Her name was scrawled across the front of it in big, spidery letters, making her think of a child’s handwriting. There was no stamp, no address.
This had been hand delivered when she was out.
With trembling fingers and a thumping heart, she ripped open the envelope…
Inside was a single sheet of A4 copy paper, folded three times. Shakily, she unfolded it, reading the five, handwritten words in stark disbelief:
I know. I’m watching you.
The sound of ragged breathing and whimpering reached her ears, and she realised that it was coming from her. The hallway lurched around her and she couldn’t seem to draw enough breath into her lungs. Still clutching the offending note, she staggered down the hallway, leaning against the wall on the way for support.
When she reached the stairs, she flopped down onto the first step, putting her head between her knees as she always did when she was having a panic attack.
She concentrated on her breathing. Long and slow, she told herself. Long and slow.
She stayed like that at the foot of the stairs for a few minutes, thinking of nothing except her breathing. When she felt like she was no longer on the brink of passing out, she tentatively sat upright. She felt a little lightheaded, but otherwise okay.
No one dies of a panic attack, remember? Hugh’s voice said in her head.
Ignoring his voice, she steeled herself to brave a look at the poison pen letter once more. Sure enough, those hateful words were still there, staring accusingly up at her.
Why? was all she could think. Who would do this? And what does it even mean?
Because those five words were a genuine puzzle to her. She had no idea what this mystery person was supposed to ‘know’. Her twin had been a psychopath, and the letter writer surely had to be referring to that. But why? she thought. It wasn’t her fault. Sure, it wasn’t exactly something that she liked to share with people, but neither was it a secret. Her tragic past was strictly on a need-to-know basis. The fact that she didn’t have any friends and had cut off everybody from her past was neither here nor there.
She wasn’t keeping any secrets. This letter made no sense to her.
Shakily, she got to her feet. Perhaps she should call Hugh, or even schedule an appointment with Dr Thornton. Their last session had ended in disaster, but maybe she should give him a second chance. Anyone could have an off day, right? Maybe she had been too hasty in thinking he wasn’t doing his job properly. Maybe she should’ve better trusted his professional judgement. Up until the last session, she had always felt that the time spent with him had helped her immeasurably.
Maybe I should just call the police.
She couldn’t say that she relished the idea of that – the last thing she wanted was to sit in an interview room with police officers, no matter how well meaning they might be. She wrapped her arms around her chest, alarmed to discover that she had broken out in a cold sweat just thinking about it.
There was no question that going to the police would bring back too many bad memories. She couldn’t handle that – all she wanted was for her horrid past to just die.
I’ll go if I get any more letters, she decided.
The landline in the kitchen took that moment to shrilly ring, and she shrieked in surprise. Her heart thumped hard and fast against her sternum and she placed the flat of her palm against her chest in a vain attempt to steady it.
It rung three more times before she could bring herself to move.
Just answer the bloody thing, she told herself. It could be Hugh. At least go and look at the number…
She half ran, half stumbled through the kitchen door which was the last door at the end of the hallway beyond the stairs.
She ground to a halt before the phone, which was perched in its cradle next to the row of cookery books on the end of the white marble counter top. The flashing green letters on the face of the phone proclaimed that the number was withheld.
It’s just sales, she told herself, more than tempted to ignore it. But what if it’s something important? What if it’s Hugh?
Going against her better judgement, she plucked the phone out of its cradle and shakily pressed the receiver to her ear.
“Hello?”
Her greeting was met with silence.
“Hello?” she said again, keeping her tone neutral in the face of the irrational fear that squeezed at her guts.
Again. Silence.
“Who is this?” she said, alarmed at the high-pitched squeal that had crept into her voice.
And then the person on the other end of the line started to breathe loudly and her stomach clenched in fear.
“Who are you?” she asked again. “You should know that I have your number. You might think that you withheld your call, but you didn’t…”
She stopped when she realised how stupid she sounded, but the heavy breathing on the other end of the line continued.
The effect that a heavy breathing phone call might have on her was not something that she had ever given any thought to. But now that it was happening to her, she discovered how distressing the act could be. It was only someone breathing when all was said and done, but the effects were nothing short of devastating.
The breathing continued, slow and steady. Neither masculine, nor feminine. Sexless. Anonymous. Terrifying.
She listened for a few seconds more before slamming the phone back down in its receiver. Only when the call had been severed did she give in to the luxury of letting out a shaky gasp that was part scream, part whimper. She turned around so that her rump smacked against the edge of the counter top, allowing her body to slither
down the cupboard until she was sitting on her backside on the slate floor.
There was no stopping the tears and she sat there with her bowed head in her hands, the iron fist of fear clenching her stomach. Then the most irrational, downright idiotic, impossible thought occurred to her:
It was Chloe. She’s coming to finish what she started. She wants me dead…
She understood on an intellectual level that the thought was ridiculous, but it had taken root in her mind nevertheless, in all its twisted, diseased glory.
Yes. It was Chloe. She didn’t die. She tricked you, just like she always did…
She sobbed loudly and pressed her hands against her mouth to stifle the noise, even though there was no one around to hear.
She didn’t like the sound of it. It sounded like madness.
I’m not crazy, she told herself as she hugged her knees and rocked back and forth on the floor. Sure, she fully admitted to being messed-up and scarred, both mentally and physically, but she was not crazy.
I am not crazy.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Chloe’s dead.
Over and over, she had repeated those words in her head. Chloe was dead. She couldn’t hurt her anymore. And now, at nearly five in the afternoon and a few hours after the heavy-breathing phone call, she had mostly made her peace with this indisputable fact.
For the past few hours, she had busied herself tidying the house, being a firm believer that a tidy house equalled a tidy mind. Usually, this worked a treat for her, but today she was struggling with this mantra.
When the phone rang again, the sound of it made her shriek. She had been wiping down the stairs and she had hurried down them into the kitchen, almost taking a tumble on the way. Her heart hammered wildly and her legs shook as she all but skidded to a halt in front of the phone.
Relief flooded her body when she saw the name ‘Hugh’ blinking in green, which meant that he was calling from his mobile. Yet still this fact did little to calm the wild thumping of her heart or still her weakened, shaking legs.
“Hello?” she said into the receiver, wondering why she always went through the pretence of not knowing it was him that was calling, like she was oblivious to his name blinking on the small screen.
After She Died Page 5
