The house was still. Beth kicked off her shoes and made for the kitchen, turning on lights as she went. Her limbs carried the ache of an eight-hour shift. With a groan, she reached for the kettle, longing for the warm sweetness of a hot chocolate before she headed up to bed. The clock on the wall rested just before the stroke of midnight. It had been a long day.
The sound of water boiling filled the kitchen and hall. Beth turned on more lights, and as she entered the lounge, she froze for a moment, saddened not to find Josh slouched in the corner of their sofa, watching a repeat episode of Top Gear on Dave with dead eyes. Then she remembered that hours earlier her phone had buzzed in her pocket, where she kept it poorly concealed, like everyone else at the cinema did.
Meeting the guys for drinks later, it’s DB’s birthday. Will be a late one. Don’t wait up. Love you x
That explained the stillness which had greeted her when she came in. Beth imagined her boyfriend three beers deep, surrounded by friends, laughing jovially. When Josh smiled, his entire face crinkled. And he had that infectious kind of laugh that could spread through an entire bar. Beth had been surprised the first time she’d laughed in front of him, having been quite certain that she’d forgotten how.
A click from the kitchen told her that the kettle had finished boiling. When she returned to the lounge, she had a mug of hot chocolate in hand. She moved to sit in the corner of the sofa she’d claimed as her own back in the furniture showroom two winters ago. Her free hand instinctively reached for the television remote. With Josh out, this was a perfect opportunity to enjoy one of her favourite Netflix shows – perhaps a couple of episodes of Gypsy – before bed. But, as though on autopilot, her hand drifted past the remote on the arm of the sofa and grabbed her nearby laptop. Moments later, it was open, screen glowing, and Beth was once again staring at the news story about Joanne Rowles.
They were the same age, divided by less than a hundred miles. At least they had been, before Joanne died. Beth scanned the article, taking in now-familiar words. She sipped on her hot chocolate but found it bitter to the taste.
She tried to find a corresponding Twitter profile, Facebook page, but there was nothing. Joanne Rowles was a ghost in every sense of the word. In the months that had followed her death, it made sense that any social media profiles she’d had would have been closed down. But that didn’t help Beth, who desperately wanted to get a sense of the deceased woman, to at least find a picture of her. Maybe then she’d find a connection.
One a.m. came and went. Beth abandoned her drink, let it go cold, along with any thought of sleep. Questions pulsed behind her temple like a disturbed vein. Questions she couldn’t ignore.
It was beginning to feel like Joanne Rowles was a dead end. Beth had found an address but nothing else.
The list. She didn’t even need to look at it any more to be able to reel off the names. Her fingers began to type out the second person, Trevor Hoskins. Again, the name was completely unfamiliar, her mind devoid of even the dimmest glimmer of recognition.
Methodical. That’s what she was being. If she was being manic, she’d google all of the names at once, drown in an ocean of information. Instead, she was being patient, collected. She was done with the first name. Now it was time for the second.
And you’re the third.
Beth hit return and waited for the results.
Google presented her with names, social media profiles. A former jockey. Leaning forward, Beth scanned the data as her phone buzzed against the kitchen table. Like an alarmed bug, the sound rattled through the house.
‘Dammit.’ Beth slid her laptop from her knee and stalked back into the kitchen. Quietness and solitude pressed in on her from either side. But she ignored them both, instead reaching forward for the phone she hadn’t touched in hours. She had a new message from Josh.
So sorry babe but DB has pulled us all into Passions. I’ll try not to wake you when I get in. Love you x
Beth could almost feel the thrum of the bass in the nightclub through her phone. Was Josh now dancing drunkenly beneath neon lights?
There wasn’t even the time to feel a pang of jealousy or concern. In less than a minute, Beth was back on her laptop, back to conducting her latest search. She drifted past the links that felt obviously incorrect: those of men too young or too old to be connected to her. She had a strange sense of purpose, as though she were following a trail of digital breadcrumbs that had been left just for her.
On page six of her search, she found an article that sucked the air out of her lungs. It was another story from a local newspaper, the Telford Tribune. Another little town just beyond the borders of her own county. Beth’s hands seized up, feeling like they’d been plunged into a bucket of ice water. With some effort, she forced herself to open up the link. The headline made the frozen sensation in her hands seep further into the rest of her body.
LOCAL MAN PRESUMED MISSING FOUND WASHED UP ON RIVERBANK
So did that mean …
Not daring to inhale, Beth read on.
Telford resident Trevor Hoskins, 31, was reported missing by colleagues six weeks ago. In the early hours of Tuesday morning, a body was found along the banks of the River Severn near Ironbridge. Police have identified the body as Hoskins.
Trevor Hoskins had … drowned? Beth read the article again. And again. The words blurred as her eyes became tired. Still she needed to keep taking it in.
Joanne Rowles had been killed in a house fire. Trevor Hoskins had been drowned in a river. Those were the first two names on the list. And the third was—
The lock in the front door turned so loudly that it shook through Beth like a gunshot. Panting, she clasped a hand to her chest and slammed her laptop closed, still reeling from what she’d just read.
‘Babe,’ Josh staggered uneasily over the threshold, bumbling between illuminated rooms until he found her. ‘You’re still up?’ He tilted his head and blinked at her.
‘I … I figured I’d wait up for you.’
She felt cold, so cold. Invisible hands were holding her in an icy embrace. The pulse behind her forehead had gained in pressure, threatening to crack her skull open entirely.
Joanne Rowles – dead.
Trevor Hoskins – dead.
Beth Belmont – alive … for now.
And the other two names on the list. Where were they? Were they dead too? She tasted bile.
‘Urgh, I’m knackered,’ Josh wilted in the doorway. Whilst Beth was at work, he must have come home and smartened himself up, as his usual work clothes were gone. Instead, he looked polished, in a crisp blue shirt and beige trousers. It was his face that told the story of his night out – the bloodshot eyes and the slur in his speech.
‘Okay, well, let’s get you up to bed.’ Beth welcomed the distraction and hurried over to her boyfriend, staggering back from the wall of stale beer that slapped against her when she reached his side. ‘Oh, jeez,’ she fanned a hand in front of her face. ‘You smell like a brewery.’
‘I feel like I drank one.’
‘Okay, bed for you.’
‘I need to piss.’
‘Then bathroom first.’
Beth helped a drunken Josh stagger from the bathroom to the bedroom. She was about to help him undress when he collapsed on the bed like a felled tree. Any concerns were quickly silenced by the steam-train-level snores which began to vibrate through his body.