The Vow - Debbie Howells Page 0,13

up. It could be a case of cold feet. However unlikely that might seem, you’d be surprised how often it happens. Taking time out before the biggest decision of your life isn’t so implausible.’

‘What about the flowers?’ As my gaze shifts towards the bloodstained floor, my shiver is involuntary. ‘There’s nothing innocent about the blood.’

‘No.’ Pausing, a frown crosses her face. ‘I don’t suppose there was anything to identify where they came from, was there?’

I shake my head. ‘But there wouldn’t be, would there? Not if you were delivering flowers with a message like that.’

‘Most likely not.’

I look at her. ‘You think the threat was directed at me, don’t you? Not Matt?’

‘It was obviously directed at one of you.’ She pauses. ‘Do you or your neighbours have CCTV?’

I shake my head. ‘Not as far as I know.’ In a quiet lane that doesn’t go anywhere, you don’t expect to need it.

‘We’ll ask your neighbours in case anyone saw them being dropped off. Someone may have noticed. In the meantime …’ Her eyes flicker away briefly. ‘Be careful. Keep your doors locked, that sort of thing. And if you see anyone hanging around, don’t hesitate to call us.’

Her words do little to allay my fear. Whoever left the flowers is still out there. Closing the door behind her, I lock it, then slide the bolt across, wishing the police would arrange for someone to watch the house – or at least call back later. What if the person who left the flowers decides to come back?

Chapter Five

By the end of the day, the ground has shifted beneath my feet. I’ve always trusted Matt implicitly, would have trusted him with my life, but I no longer know what to think. As darkness falls, all I can rely on are the facts. Matt lied when he told me he was taking a client from the States for dinner; a client his boss knows nothing about. How many other lies are there I don’t know about? But I’m holding on to hope, that there might be a reason; any explanation other than the most obvious one, that he lied. Matt could have been on his way home, after dinner, when someone attacked him and took his phone. Or worse, but I can’t bring myself to go there.

But he still lied. The brightness of the moon casts the garden in a dim glow and I shiver, despite what’s happened, suddenly missing him desperately. Missing Jess too, craving the comfort and reassurance her presence brings. I’ve always felt safe here, but now, I’m imagining eyes watching me from the shadows, my every move known, Matt’s too. Was that how it started? Were we watched?

I try to imagine Matt in a hotel somewhere, working through a personal crisis of some kind, except somehow I know he isn’t. He would have sent a message to tell me where he was, which can only mean that wherever he is, he can’t. Had it been a warning yesterday, when he called me? Was he trying to tell me something? The most innocuous of phrases his only way of alerting me to the fact that something was wrong? Knowing I’d be able to check with David about the client dinner, that it wouldn’t take much for me to work out he was lying. Knowing that when he and I never lie to each other, it would be reason enough for me to ask why?

Turning on my laptop, I bring up my Facebook page, then switch to Matt’s, scrutinising his photos and posts, checking to see who’s liked them. He isn’t a great user of social media, though he comments and shares posts from time to time. But there’s nothing recent. The last time was several days ago.

Getting up, I go through to the sitting room. It’s a room we rarely use, with a single window that looks onto the lane. Two velvet sofas are arranged in an ‘L’ shape facing the fireplace, above which there’s an abstract painting of Matt’s, with a simple neutral rug on the wooden floor. Glancing around, I don’t know what I’m looking for, but there has to be a clue, somewhere in this house, as to what’s happened. Searching through the small pile of magazines on the coffee table, nothing is out of place. From there, I open the antique pine cupboard, filled as I knew it would be with photos and Jess’s old school books.

Rifling through everything, I grow increasingly more frantic, apart from the