Page 41 of The Lucky Winners

Friday

I woke up in the early hours and I’ve been lying here, staring at the ceiling as shadows creep across it, their shapes changing with the moonlight filtering through the edges of the blind.

The sheets tangle around my legs and I’m too hot one minute, then too cool. Dev, of course, is out like a light, his breathing deep and steady beside me. I envy how easily he shuts the world out even when he seemed to be as worried as I am about the photographs.

But my interior world is a cacophony of thoughts. Thoughts too terrifying to block out or ignore.

It’s as if the police left something here that’s haunting me. The house is silent, but I keep hearing footsteps that aren’t there, voices just out of earshot. At some point, around three, the past starts to bleed through.

It’s the same feeling I’ve had a thousand times when my mind flips back to the stark interview room in the police station, the smell of machine coffee and stale air. The way the detectives’ questions started off friendly and turned sharper when they didn’t get the answers they wanted.

I remember the heat rising in my chest that day, the way my hands wouldn’t stop shaking.

I had the feeling that, no matter what I said, they were quietly tightening something invisible around my neck, one word at a time.

Something told me that if I slipped – just once – it would all come tumbling down.

That’s the part Dev doesn’t know. That’s why I can’t tell him.

I found out something about myself that day at the police station. I found out I’ll do and say anything to survive.

I shift again, pushing away the thoughts and turning on to my side.

I pull the pillow this way and that until I’m comfy.

My gaze falls on the window. We’ve been keeping the blind open to enjoy the views since we moved in here until we’re ready to go to sleep.

The house is perched high up on this hillside, far away from prying eyes – or so we thought.

I sit up abruptly, dragging a hand through my hair. This house, this new life I thought would be safe, it doesn’t feel safe any more. I feel exposed, and even though he’s trying his best to cover it, I know Dev does, too.

I slip out of bed, careful not to disturb him, and pull on a dressing-gown.

My feet are silent on the cool wooden floors as I turn the key and pad out to the terrace.

The night air hits me, crisp and sharp. I stand for a minute or two, listening and watching.

There’s nobody around … not that I can see. I turn and look back at the house.

If someone were to place themselves strategically on the hillside and they had binoculars, they could possibly see directly into our bedroom. Especially if the lights were on. Cold dread pools in my stomach.

All those nights when we hadn’t bothered pulling the blinds until we turned off the lights. Getting changed. Undressing. The intimate, unguarded moments Dev and I have shared – on display for someone to view in real time.

My skin crawls, and I wrap my arms around myself, though it does little to chase away the chill.

I go back to the bedroom and close the sliding door with a soft thunk . I lock it, check it once, twice.

In the morning, Dev says, ‘I’m popping into town to have a look at the bike shop Jack told me about. Won’t be long.’

Despite his concern about the traitor in our midst and the police visit, Dev seems to have shrugged off the worst of his worries after his good night’s sleep.

‘I really think we should do the drinks party,’ he says. ‘And I don’t think we should jump to conclusions about who’s responsible for the online photos. We might be barking up the wrong tree altogether.’

When he’s gone, I sip my tea and think.

About Sarah and Jack. And Tilda. Even Simon. The names tumble through my head, each time sounding more accusing than the last.

I put down my tea and reach for my phone. My fingers hover over the screen before I gather the courage to start typing a message.

Hi! We’d love you both to come for drinks on the terrace on Saturday evening? Nothing fancy, just a chance to catch up and enjoy the nice weather.

I hit send to Sarah and Tilda and wonder who’ll be first to reply. Almost immediately, a reply pings back.

We’d love to! Thank you … can’t wait! Xx

My thumb rests on the edge of the screen, as I stare at Sarah’s reply. Can’t wait. Is her excitement genuine – or is it something else altogether? A cover for how she really feels?

Silently, I berate myself. Sarah’s the youngest among us. She’s bright and upbeat. That’s all this is.

But it’s also undeniable that Sarah’s had chances while she worked on the kitchen. Good chances when she could’ve easily snapped pictures without me knowing.

Fifteen minutes later, Tilda’s reply lands.

Sounds great! We’re looking forward to it.

If she’s somehow found out Simon came up here when only I was home, could she have posted the photographs out of spite? Like Sarah, she’s had her chances, too.

I lean against the kitchen counter and put the phone down, staring at it as if the messages might reveal something more. They don’t, of course. They’re just words on a screen.

But now I’ve set up the drinks party tomorrow, I need to work out how to make it count. The act of planning is mechanical, a distraction to keep my mind from spiralling.

I scrawl and scratch out ideas to run by Dev, ways to try to get to the bottom of which of our new friends might have a hidden agenda, but my thoughts keep drifting. My gaze is pulled beyond the terrace to the water that glimmers in the sunlight, calm and unbroken.

It looks peaceful, but it isn’t. Not underneath. And I can’t look at it for long without remembering. It stirs everything up again, like a twisting blade that presses hard from the inside out until I force myself to look away.