Trust Me - T.M. Logan Page 0,58
powerful it almost knocks me off my feet. My mind fills with an image of the stranger from the train two days ago. Thin build. Staring eyes. Fingerless gloves. He’s found me. We stare at each other for a moment and he takes a step forward into the room, a black spider unfolding itself from the shadows.
A masked stranger in my house. A stalker. Maybe a killer.
I move towards the open door but his left hand shoots out and slams it shut, the sound of varnished timber hitting the doorframe like a shotgun blast in the silence. He shakes his head slowly – no – his eyes two pinpricks of light inside the balaclava. In the mask he looks like a terrorist, an assassin – but there is a familiarity in the way he moves, in the articulation of his limbs. I scan the jumble of items on the floor at my feet for something I can use to defend myself with; blankets and sheets, clothes, pillows. Nothing solid, nothing that might do damage.
He takes another half-step towards me and I back away, further from the door, holding up my hands in a calming gesture.
‘Take whatever you want,’ I say, my voice taut. ‘And just go.’
His eyes take me in. A predator sizing up prey.
‘Not. Yet.’
His voice is smooth, calm, both ‘t’s’ pronounced clearly and precisely. As if he’s happy to take his time.
‘Just go, please,’ I say. ‘I won’t call the police, I won’t try to stop you.’
He snorts.
‘Put your phone on the bed.’
I’d forgotten I still had my mobile in my hand. I lean down and drop it onto the bare mattress without taking my eyes off him. He scoops it up in one fingerless black glove and switches it off, puts it up on top of the wardrobe.
I take a step back, away from him.
‘Keep it,’ I say. ‘There’s an iPad downstairs too, some money in my purse, jewellery in the master bedroom. It’s all I have that’s worth taking.’
He gestures at the mess on the floor, his eyes narrowing. ‘What? You think I did this? You think I broke into your house?’ Anger shimmers beneath his words.
‘You’re here, aren’t you?’
‘No,’ he snaps. ‘This was not me. I didn’t do this.’
‘I believe you, I’m sorry.’ I have to keep him talking. ‘I just assumed—’
‘I simply came over to take a look at your place for background and I saw your back door was open. I thought someone might be hurt.’
Background? I think. What is he talking about? He has a black rucksack on his back, big enough to hold all the baby clothes that have disappeared from the room next door.
‘OK,’ I say.
‘I was about to leave but then you came back and caught me by surprise.’
‘That makes two of us,’ I say.
Is he carrying a weapon? I can’t see one.
He moves forward again, edging me back towards the corner, his black-clad frame blocking the door, sucking all the light from the room.
‘Someone did quite a number on your house though, didn’t they? What do you think they were looking for?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Clearly they were searching for something.’
‘They?’
He shrugged.
‘Whoever did this. You must have something they want.’
‘What are you talking about?’
‘Did they find it, I wonder?’
He’s testing me, I realise. Checking to see if I give the right answer, or try to fool him with the wrong one. If I tell the truth, I can’t trip myself up.
‘I have no idea, I don’t even know what it is. All that I’ve found missing so far are some baby clothes.’ I want to say in the nursery but it sounds foolish, ridiculous, a word I haven’t said out loud for a long time. ‘They were in the little box room.’
He stares at me for a moment, his eyes narrowing. Weighing up my answer. Finally, his cheeks stretch beneath the black wool of the balaclava in what I assume is a grin.
‘This just keeps getting better,’ he says. ‘You don’t even know who the child is, do you?’
‘Child?’ I frown. ‘You mean Mia? How do you know about her?’
‘I know a lot, Ellen. About you. About her. All kinds of interesting details.’
I back away again, towards the window.
‘How . . . how do you know my name? How did you know where I live?’
‘I’m good at finding things out. It’s what I do.’
‘You’re the guy from the train,’ I say quietly. ‘The one who sat down at the table opposite me.’
The weirdo who took photographs, followed me off