Читать книгу Apple of My Eye: The gripping psychological thriller from the USA Today bestseller - Claire Allan, Claire Allan - Страница 16

The screech of the security alarm wakes me. Did I hear glass breaking? My heart’s thumping and I sit up in the darkness, afraid to turn on the light, trying to figure out what’s happening as my body adjusts to the rude awakening. I can’t think. The noise is too loud.

I put my hand to my stomach – a protective instinct, maybe. It’s what a mother should do. Mother. I think of my mum. She’s two doors away down the hall. Is she awake? Is she safe? I want to call out, but what if someone’s near? An intruder. What if I’m drawing attention to us? My bedroom door’s closed but not locked. Why would it be?

I curse the alarm. It’s so loud I can’t hear if anyone’s approaching, climbing the stairs, rattling the door handles.

The security company will call, I remind myself. If I don’t answer, they’ll send the police. Or at least, I think that’s what they’ll do. I’ve never really checked; never felt like we’d really need the system. It was just one of those things.

I try to place the breaking glass – had it happened or had I dreamed it? It has to be real. The alarms only go off if there’s a breach into the house.

Climbing out of bed, I lift my phone, switch it to silent mode, creep to the en suite and lock myself in, keeping the lights out. I’m shaking. Adrenaline, I tell myself. A hormone. Just like all the other hormones. It won’t kill me. I’ll be fine. I hope my mother is. I need her to be okay. I need her to be here with me. And God, I wish Martin were here, too. And where are the police? The call from the security firm? I glance at my phone. They’ll call him first, I curse, if no one taps in the security code.

I think of how isolated I am. Here in this beautiful home, which is to all intents and purposes in the middle of nowhere. People don’t just walk past. Most people don’t even know this house exists, closeted away as it is by the surrounding trees. No one outside these four walls will hear the alarms. No one else’ll come running to help us.

I search my phone, fat fingers mistyping as I try to see if I have a number for the security firm saved. I should just call the police. I can’t think. The noise of the bloody alarm’s starting to hurt my ears and my stomach’s swirling, with both fear and pregnancy sickness. I realise that I’m going to throw up. I clamber to the toilet, try to be as quiet as I can.

My mother’s still two rooms away. Or I hope she is. What if she’s hurt? I grab a towel, wipe my mouth, try to orientate myself after the sickness has made me dizzy. My phone lights up with the sight of an incoming call notification from a private number and I answer, trying to keep my voice low, which is ridiculous given the screeching of the alarms.

A calm voice speaks, asks me for our password and asks if I’m safe.

‘I’ve locked myself in the bathroom,’ I whisper. ‘I can’t hear anything over the noise of the alarm. But I think, I think there was broken glass before. I think I heard a smash.’

‘Okay. We’ve notified the police of a potential break-in. We can deactivate the alarm if you wish,’ the calm voice says.

‘Yes, yes, do that,’ I say, thinking it might give me a chance to think.

‘Okay, Mrs Hughes. We’ll do that. The police should be with you soon. If you’re in a secure place, we’d recommend you stay there.’

‘Okay,’ I whisper, trying not to think about my mother. What must she be thinking? Is she scared?

The alarm falls silent. I can still hear buzzing in my ears. A rattle at the bathroom door makes me jump.

‘Eli, it’s me.’ My mother’s voice. I hear it and feel it at the same time.

Tears spring to my eyes. I reach for the door and unlock it, pulling her into a hug.

‘Mum, you’re okay. Thank God. The police are coming.’

She holds me. I allow myself to nestle against the soft fabric of her dressing gown.

‘I’m fine,’ she says, kissing the top of my head. ‘Whoever it was ran away as quickly as they arrived. I was downstairs, couldn’t sleep. Heard the crash – it was the glass beside the door. I ran from the kitchen, but they were driving off. I’m sorry I didn’t get a look at the vehicle. I don’t have my glasses on.’

I can feel her trembling and cold as I hug her.

‘Oh, God, no, I’m glad you didn’t get near them. And they didn’t see you. Mum, you could’ve been hurt!’

‘I didn’t think,’ she says. ‘I just, well, I didn’t know what to do. They threw something in. I didn’t see what it was, but it looked like it was wrapped in paper.’

I stand up, start to walk towards the stairs.

‘Don’t you think we should wait? For the police. You don’t know what it might be.’

I switch on the landing light and look down into the hall. My mother’s right, of course, to be cautious. This is still Northern Ireland. Security alerts aren’t a thing of the past. You never know why someone might target you.

But it doesn’t look like a device of any sort. It’s more rudimentary than that. Solid. I can see the rough edges of a rock, wrapped in what looks like paper. A brown elastic band wrapped around both.

‘I think it’s just a rock,’ I call to her.

‘But better to be safe,’ she says.

She looks pale in the light. Shaken. She must have had such a fright.

I feel a chill run up my spine. This could’ve been worse. If they’d seen her, would they have hurt her, or did they see her and that scared them away? I walk down the stairs, get closer to the rock. No signs of wires or tubing. I know I should leave it for the police but I’m curious. I can’t understand why anyone would do this.

‘Wait there,’ I call to my mother.

I open the door of the hall cupboard, dig into a bag filled with other plastic carrier bags and pull two out. Wrapping them around my hands, I walk back to where the rock lies.

‘Eliana, you’re not going to lift that, are you?’ My mother looks horrified.

‘It’s just a rock. I’ll be careful. Look, I’m covering my hands, making sure I don’t disturb evidence.’

I can’t believe I’m even having this conversation. Evidence? When did my life become an episode of CSI? I chide myself for being too flippant. I carefully lift the rock, pull the elastic from it and unwrap the paper. I turn it towards me and staring back at me, I see the same neatly printed writing that I saw on the note in the bottom of my bag.

My stomach drops. I feel my legs start to shake. I can’t ignore this. I can’t see this as anything more than what it is. A threat. A revelation. An accusation.

SO MUCH TO DO IN LONDON AT THIS TIME OF YEAR

ROMANTIC WALKS, PERHAPS?

A DATE AT THE THEATRE?

IF I WERE YOU, I’D WATCH MY HUSBAND MORE CLOSELY …

I drop the rock. I hear my mother’s voice somewhere in the distance just as I hear the siren of an approaching police car.