If she does this, she thinks, she might be able to get away with it. She would definitely be able to hear someone coming down that long gravel drive. She’d certainly have enough time to get out, if she goes in.
She tries the front door handle. It pivots all the way down under her hand but the door does not budge. Locked. She smiles wryly to herself. Of course it’s locked. Nobody leaves their front door unlocked, not even in Norfolk. She turns to leave. Then she changes her mind.
She goes around to the back of the house and tugs at the patio door. It won’t budge. She doubles back to the side of the house; low to the ground there’s a long thin window, a basement window. She crouches to peer in. A dim utility room beyond. She gives the corner of the window a swift tug and nicks a nail. Locked.
She sucks her finger to dampen the smarting and thinks about what to do next. Suddenly concerned, she scans high along the eaves of the house for a security camera. Nothing.
Stepping back from the small window, she thinks of her options. She can just see around the side of the building to her car from here. The drive remains otherwise empty. She makes up her mind and swiftly walks up to the window, cautiously looking both ways before cocking her right foot back and kicking as hard as she can. The smash is loud and satisfying. She braces herself for a burglar alarm but no siren sounds. She nudges out the remaining loose shards with a heeled boot before leaning forward to check the hole.
Inside, the house is quiet and dark. Zara dusts off her trench coat and scans the dark utility room. She doesn’t really know what she’s looking for, she’s never done anything like this before, but she knows she needs to find something and it almost definitely won’t be in the utility room.
She heads up the basement stairs, gently opens the door at the top, and steps into the immaculate kitchen. Still no alarm sounds. If she can just find something, anything, to help explain what is going on, why this woman is here, who she is, and how she knows Chris.
Zara takes in the Victorian kitchen, full fruit bowls, fresh flowers in vases, and wonders when the doctor actually has time to do all of this. Perhaps the house is serviced. Because it’s perfect. So effortlessly perfect.
She tears her gaze away and wanders on through into the living room populated by deep sofas and expensive rugs. But thankfully, it’s messier in here, a soft cashmere throw tossed haphazardly on the sofa, a smudged wineglass on the floor beneath, a tannin stain chalky inside, a dirty plate. So, Dr. Lewis is a human after all.
And then Zara sees it. A glint. The edge of something poking out from under the rich fawn of the throw. The matte silver sheen of it. She reaches down and pulls it out. Emma’s laptop.
Zara sits down on the sofa next to it, one hand resting lightly on its smooth brushed-metal lid. If she does this then there’s no going back, she thinks. But then, she’s already come this far. She’s already broken into someone’s home. What difference would looking make?
Still she hesitates. She might find something she doesn’t like. There could be emails from Chris, more messages. What if looking through her laptop somehow changes everything? She would have to go home to Chris knowing but not being able to say.
No. It’s better to look, she decides. Yes, better to know.
She flips the lid and spins the laptop around to face her. It opens to desktop, the tab open on the last page Emma looked at—Chris’s Facebook page.
Zara’s heart skips a beat, her jaw hardens.
She minimizes the screen and pulls up Emma’s iMessages; she scrolls to Chris’s name and reads.
Sorry to text so late. Would it be possible to get a list of past employees at Waltham House? I can’t say why just yet but I think it might be helpful. Also, might have to rain check that drink. Snowed under.
Emma x
No problem, totally understand. I’ll get on it & let you know asap & I just want to say it was great to see you today Marn. Chris x
It’s Emma, Chris! X
Shit, sorry x
Zara stares at the screen, frowning. She reads the messages again, trying to make sense of them. She sits in stillness for a moment and then pulls up Google.
She types “Marn Lewis” and taps search.
Nothing.
She tries “Dr. Marn Lewis” and taps search.
Nothing.
She tries “Marn, Norfolk.”
The search autocorrects to “Marni, Norfolk” and below it pages and pages of search results appear.
Marni Beaufort. The Beaufort family. Christ.
Zara catches her breath. Holy shit.
A giggle of pure joy bubbles out of her beautiful screen-lit face, because, finally, Zara cannot believe her luck.
33
DR. EMMA LEWIS
DAY 11—PEOPLE ARE COMING
The call comes at 10:07 that night.
Up until then it had been a comparatively uneventful day of memory exercises and talking through Matthew’s positive response to his antianxiety medication. The lack of drama making me feel my decision not to resign yesterday had been the right one. Joe had been less understanding when I tried to explain on the phone. But it would be crazy to leave without knowing how Matthew has come to know so much about me and my father. But of course, I couldn’t tell Joe my reasoning in that respect. If he’d wanted me to leave before, he’d have dragged me off himself if he knew my reasons for staying.
I spent the rest of the day at the hospital finishing Matthew’s preliminary medical report and fMRI analysis. I emailed it across to Richard Groves at MIT for his opinion. And I sent it on to Peter too. The report included my initial observations as well as all Matthew’s scans and test results. Richard’s opinion, though obviously not essential, would be extremely useful to me at this stage.
Back at the lodge, I crack open another bottle of wine and heat some pasta. I’m eating when the lodge phone rings, which is a surprise because I wasn’t even aware the lodge had a landline. I find it by the window next to the armchair.
“Emma, has anyone contacted you?” It’s Peter Chorley. His tone is urgent, brusque.
“About what, Peter?” I ask, momentarily confused by the question. “Is Matthew okay?”
“Yes. This isn’t about Matthew, Emma. Has anyone from the press contacted you? In the last few hours?” There’s concern for me in his voice; something has happened.
“No. Should they have? Sorry, Peter, what’s going on? You’re scaring me.” I suddenly feel like I’ve wandered out onto a ledge in my sleep. My vertigo kicking in without a stimulus.