In the sunlight his sandy hair looks golden and I reach up and run my hands through it, loving its thickness.
‘Is that for me?’ I ask, eyeing the mug hopefully.
‘Of course.’
I wriggle into a sitting position and sink my head back against the pillows. ‘Lovely Day’, my favourite feel-good song, is playing on the radio downstairs and with the prospect of six weeks’ holiday in front of me, life feels good.
‘Thanks,’ I say, taking the mug from him. ‘Did you manage to sleep?’
‘Yes, like a log. I’m sorry I couldn’t wait up for you. How was your journey back?’
‘Fine. Lots of thunder and lightning, though. And rain.’
‘Well, at least the sun is back out this morning.’ He nudges me gently. ‘Move over.’ Careful not to spill my tea, I make way for him and he climbs in beside me. He lifts his arm and I settle back into him, my head on his shoulder. ‘A woman has been found dead not far from here,’ he says, so softly that I almost don’t hear him. ‘I just heard it on the news.’
‘That’s awful.’ I put my mug on the bedside table and turn to look at him. ‘When you say not far from here, where do you mean? In Browbury?’
He brushes a strand of hair from my forehead, his fingers soft on my skin. ‘No, nearer than that, somewhere along the road that goes through the woods between here and Castle Wells.’
‘Which road?’
‘You know, Blackwater Lane.’ He bends to kiss me but I pull away from him.
‘Stop it, Matthew.’ I look at him, my heart fluttering behind my ribs like a bird trapped in a cage, waiting for him to smile, to tell me that he knows I came back that way last night and is just teasing. But he only frowns.
‘I know. It’s horrible, isn’t it?’
I stare at him. ‘Are you serious?’
‘Yes.’ He looks genuinely puzzled. ‘I wouldn’t make something like that up.’
‘But…’ I feel suddenly sick. ‘How did she die? Did they give any details?’
He shakes his head. ‘No, just that she was in her car.’
I turn away from him so that he can’t see my face. It can’t be the same woman, I tell myself, it can’t be.
‘I have to get up,’ I say as his arms come round me again. ‘I need to go shopping.’
‘What for?’
‘Susie’s present. I still haven’t got her anything and it’s her party tonight.’ I swing my legs from the bed and stand up.
‘There’s no hurry, is there?’ he protests. But I’ve already gone, taking my phone with me.
In the bathroom, I lock the door and turn on the shower, wanting to drown out the voice in my head telling me that the woman who’s been found dead is the one that I passed in my car last night. Feeling horribly shaky, I sit down on the edge of the bath and bring up the Internet, looking for news. It’s Breaking News on the BBC but there are no details. All it says is that a woman has been found dead in her car near Browbury in Sussex. Found dead. Does that mean she committed suicide? The thought is appalling.
My mind races, trying to work it out. If it is the same woman, maybe she hadn’t broken down, maybe she had stopped in the lay-by on purpose, because it was isolated, so that she wouldn’t be disturbed. It would explain why she hadn’t flashed her lights, why she hadn’t asked for my help – why, when she’d looked back at me through the window, she hadn’t made any sign for me to stop, as she surely would have if she’d broken down. My stomach churns with unease. Now, with the sun streaming in through the bathroom window, it seems incredible that I hadn’t gone to check on her. If I had, things might have ended differently. She might have told me she was fine, she might have pretended that she’d broken down and that someone was coming to help her. But if she had, I would have offered to wait until they arrived. And if she had insisted I leave, I would have become suspicious, I would have got her to talk to me – and she might still be alive. And wasn’t I meant to have told someone about her? But distracted by Rachel’s text and the present I was meant to have bought for Susie, I’d forgotten all about the woman in the car.
‘Are you going to be long in there, sweetheart?’ Matthew’s voice comes through the bathroom door.
‘I’ll be out in a minute!’ I call over the sound of the water running wastefully down the drain.
‘I’ll make a start on breakfast, then.’
I strip off my pyjamas and get into the shower. The water is hot but not hot enough to wash away the burning guilt I feel. I scrub my body fiercely, trying not to think about the woman unscrewing a bottle of pills and shaking them into her hand, lifting them to her mouth and swallowing them down with water. What horrors had she endured to make her want to take her life? As she was dying, was there a point when she began to regret what she had done? Hating where my thoughts are going I turn off the water and get out of the shower. The sudden silence is unsettling so I locate the radio on my phone, hoping to hear someone belting out a song full of hope and cheer, anything to stop me from thinking about the woman in the car.
‘… a woman has been found dead in her car in Blackwater Lane in the early hours of the morning. Her death is being treated as suspicious. No further details have been given for the moment but the police are advising people living in the area to be vigilant.’
Shock takes my breath away. ‘Her death is being treated as suspicious’ – The words resonate around the bathroom. Isn’t that what the police say when someone has been murdered? I feel suddenly frightened. I was there, in the same spot. Had the killer been there too, lurking in the bushes, waiting for the opportunity to kill someone? The thought that it could have been me, that I could have been the one to be murdered makes me feel dizzy. I grope for the towel rail, forcing myself to take deep breaths. I must have been mad to have gone that way last night.
In the bedroom, I dress quickly in a black-cotton dress, pulling it from a pile of clothes left on the chair. Downstairs, the smell of grilled sausages turns my stomach before I’ve even opened the kitchen door.
‘I thought we’d celebrate the start of your holidays with a slap-up breakfast,’ Matthew says. He looks so happy that I force a smile onto my face, not wanting to spoil it for him.
‘Lovely.’ I want to tell him about last night, I want to tell him that I could have been murdered, I want to share my horror with him because it seems too big a thing to keep to myself. But if I tell him that I came back through the woods, especially after he specifically told me not to, he’ll be furious. It won’t matter that I’m here, sitting in the kitchen unharmed, not lying murdered in my car. He’ll feel like I do, scared at what could have happened, appalled that I put myself in danger.
‘So what time are you going shopping?’ he asks. He’s wearing a grey T-shirt and thin cotton shorts and, at any other time, I’d be thinking how lucky I was that he was mine. But I can barely look his way. It feels as if my secret is burnt on my skin.
‘As soon as I’ve finished breakfast.’ I look through the window to the back
