have to take over on the Kensington project—not ideal as it means I will be away for a little longer than I had hoped, but it can’t be helped. I should be back by next Tuesday (i.e., a week today). Are you managing okay? Does that sound doable?
In terms of the children, Rhiannon finishes school today. Elise’s mum has kindly volunteered to collect both girls (they live down near Pitlochry so have to drive past anyway) and Rhi will be back at Heatherbrae any time from about twelve onwards. I have texted her, so she knows what’s going on, and she’s excited to meet you.
Jack spoke to Bill yesterday and mentioned that you are getting on very well with the girls; I’m very glad to hear it’s all going okay. Do call if you have any concerns—I will try to ring tonight before the girls’ bedtimes.
Sandra x
I shut down the email, unsure whether my overriding emotion was one of relief, or trepidation. I most definitely was relieved—not least about the fact that Jack had apparently put in a good word for me. But another week . . . I had not realized until I read Sandra’s words how much I had been counting on her arrival back this Friday, ticking off the days in my head like a prison sentence.
And now . . . four more days added onto my term. And not just with the little ones, but with Rhiannon too. How did I feel about that?
The idea of having someone else in the house was undeniably comforting. There was something absurd about the memory of those slow, measured footsteps, but even in daylight, I could feel the hairs beginning to rise up on my arms as I recalled lying there, listening to them pacing back and forth. Having someone, even a stroppy fourteen-year-old, in the next bedroom would definitely take the edge off.
But as I started up the Tesla, the image that flashed through my head was a different one—that scarlet scrawl across the bedroom door: FUCK OFF, KEEP OUT OR YOU DIE. There was something there. Something very close to Maddie’s furious, wordless anger.
Perhaps, whatever it was, I would be able to get to the bottom of it with Rhiannon.
The school run back to Heatherbrae took longer than the previous morning, because there was a van on the road ahead of me. I followed it slowly from Carn Bridge, tapping gingerly at the accelerator, sure that it would turn off at every junction we came to, but inexplicably it seemed to be going the same way, even as the road narrowed and grew more rural. It was with some relief that I realized we were nearly at the turn off to Heatherbrae House, and I was just about to signal left when the van signaled too, and drew up over the drive, forcing me to stamp on the brakes.
As I waited, the Tesla silently idling, the passenger door opened and a girl jumped out, a rucksack on her shoulder. She said something to the driver, and the back door of the van popped open. She dragged a huge case out, thumping it carelessly onto the gravel, and then slammed the door and stepped back as the driver pulled away from the curb. I was just about to lean out and ask her who she was and what she was doing in the middle of nowhere when she pulled her phone out of her pocket and held it up to the proximity sensor of the gates, and they swung open.
It couldn’t be Rhiannon, surely—she wasn’t due back until the afternoon, and that disreputable van certainly didn’t look like it belonged to anyone’s mother. Was it someone who worked here? But in that case, why the huge trunk?
I waited a few minutes for her to clear the gates, and then pressed on the accelerator. The Tesla slid smoothly up the drive, behind the girl, who turned, with a look of surprise on her face. However, instead of moving out of the way she stood her ground, hands on her hips, and the huge case at her feet. I braked again, feeling the gravel scrunch beneath the tires, and wound down the window.
“Can I help you?”
“I should be the one asking you that,” the girl said. She had long blond hair, and a clipped expensive accent, without a trace of Scots in it. “Who the hell are you and what are you doing in my parents’ car?”