The blob disappeared.
‘No. No, no, no! Come back. This is like an end-of-the-world zombie movie and I’m the only survivor. Is there anybody out there?’ She crawled out from under the duvet again and stood by the window. One blob! Clearly phone reception only worked in this corner of the room.
She scanned through her messages – none from Brett, she noticed with disappointment. Timing meant he was probably asleep. She’d call him later and explain again why she was here and see if he understood. Which was probably a fruitless idea, really, because she didn’t wholly understand her need to be here herself.
There was a noise outside, below her room. A thud. Two.
What the hell? Emily held her breath, wondering what to do.
Then she heard the creak of the big front door and voices.
Strange.
Was The Judge up and about already? Who was he talking to?
‘Judge? Judge, is that you?’ she called out. Then clamped her lips together. What if it wasn’t The Judge?
Myriad horror scenes flooded her head.
‘Too many zombie movies, you stupid cow,’ she whispered, as she crept out of bed and tiptoed down the two flights of stairs. ‘It’ll be fine. Just a cat… or something.’
Investigating the noise was a sure-fire way of meeting a grisly end. But what else could she do?
There was a definite chill in the air, as if someone had let a gust of snow through the house, and muffled voices coming from the kitchen. She followed them.
Through the crack in the door she could see The Judge, dressed in a flimsy, overlarge, collared shirt that would have given his Savile Row tailors nightmares, and ancient khaki shorts. Another man had his back to the door, but from what she could see he was very tall with short hair, and dressed all in black. Like a cat burglar.
Who the heck was he? And why was he here at this time in the morning? Her fists curled by her sides.
If this was someone taking advantage of a confused old man she’d throw everything she had at them. She looked down at her empty hands. She wouldn’t be much of a threat like this. Glancing around, she found an old boot by the door, which she picked up ready to fling if necessary, and another bucket, sitting underneath yet another crack in the ceiling. The whole house seemed to be about to crumble.
‘Judge? What’s going on?’ She strode into the room, aware that she probably didn’t look terribly menacing in her sparkly I heart New York T-shirt and Daisy Duke Denim shorts, brandishing a single, moss-green wellington boot – but it was the best she could do under the circumstances. She snarled at the stranger’s back. ‘Who are you?’
‘I might ask you the very same thing.’ The man turned around and stared at her – a long, slow burn taking in her bed hair and T-shirt, her legs, which incidentally felt pretty naked – his eyes widened. Suspicion curled around his tone.
And, whoa. Not a cat burglar at all, but a tall, quite broad man who looked like an extra from a James Bond movie with his all-black get-up outlining honed muscles, and short, mussed-up, blond hair.
She wasn’t scared by him. She probably should have been, but she wasn’t. He was trespassing, after all, not her. ‘I’m Emi – actually, what has it got to do with you?’
His voice was stone. ‘Judge Evans is a friend of mine and I’ve never seen you before. Who are you?’
Hey, she was family not him. ‘I’m his… er… daughter.’
‘No, you’re not. I know Matilda and Tamara and you’re neither of them. Believe me, I’d have remembered meeting you.’ And he didn’t mean that in a good way if the frown over his penetrating blue eyes was anything to go by.
They made her feel just a little on edge. Okay, a lot on edge. ‘I’m Emily. The one no one mentions.’
‘No one mentions her because she doesn’t exist. Let’s ask your daddy, shall we?’ He leaned over towards The Judge, eyes glinting, and pointed at her. ‘Judge –’
She tried to stop him. ‘Oh, you… you think you’re being clever, don’t you? We both know he’s –’
‘Judge Evans, excuse me, sir, but can you tell me who this lady is?’ And of course his voice was melt-in-your-mouth polite to The Judge.
The Judge peered at her with rheumy, sunken eyes and frowned. ‘Can’t say I know, to be honest.’
‘Is she your daughter?’
‘Oh, no. I don’t have… Oh, wait… yes. Yes! I know you.’
Emily snarled at the intruder. ‘See?’
‘Yes… you’re… someone. Now… who? Oh, yes. The cook.’ The old man smiled, clearly pleased he’d passed the test. ‘Have either of you seen Chip? The little bugger’s disappeared on me again.’
The intruder shook his head and bobbed down in front of the old man, his voice a damned sight softer than when he was talking to Emily. ‘Judge Evans, I’m sorry, but Chip’s gone, I’m afraid. Remember?’
‘Gone? Oh, yes… I remember now. The car? That’s right. He was run over. Rum old state of affairs. Poor bugger never had a chance.’
The man shook his head. ‘I know.’ Then he uncoiled to his full, too-tall height and turned to Emily, holding out his hand, all softness gone. ‘The cook? Is that what you told him? I’ve heard about people like you. I need to see some ID.’
‘So do I.’ She did the same with her hand. And there they were in stalemate, eyes locked in a game of who the hell would back down first.
For the record, it wasn’t going to be her.
Just as her arm was beginning to shake with waiting he blew out a breath and fished his wallet out. ‘Here. Here’s my ID. Jacob Taylor. I live next door.’
‘The Lawsons’ old place?’
He nodded, eyebrows rising. ‘Yes.’
‘So if you know Tam and Tilda and The Judge, then surely one of them would have mentioned I was coming here?’
‘I haven’t seen Tamara or Matilda for weeks. I’ve been away for work, flew back in this morning. Luckily, I did, otherwise God knows where The Judge would have ended up.’ It was more growl than conversational. Oh, she did not like this man at all. ‘Now, your ID? Miss?’ He glanced at her left hand, nodding as he saw the diamond. ‘Miss…?’
It was none of his business.
‘You’re not the police. This is my house.’ Kind of, in a roundabout way. She put her hands on her hips. ‘I don’t need to show you anything.’
‘Well, I’m not leaving until I see something that says who you are, or have someone vouch for you.’
She could hardly say, pop down to the village and find someone called Greta who has kids and a husband and a café, she knew me twelve years ago, and finding anyone else in Little Duxbury to vouch for her at this time in the morning would be nigh on impossible, and she so wanted this obnoxious man to be gone. ‘Okay. Okay. Just wait here.’
She was back within minutes, panting after taking the rickety stairs two at a time. ‘Here. My passport. I used to live here, with The Judge and now I live in New York. Fine? Am I allowed back into my own kitchen? Sir?’
He still didn’t look convinced but he snapped the passport shut and gave it back to her. ‘Well, if it is your house perhaps you can spend a bit of time and effort fixing it up. It’s falling apart and your sisters don’t appear to be interested.’
‘Step.’