Safe With Me by Slater K. L

Author:Slater, K. L. [Slater, K. L.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: thriller, Mystery, Suspense, Crime, Adult
Amazon: B01K4MJVH6
Goodreads: 31489055
Publisher: Bookouture
Published: 2016-11-03T07:00:00+00:00

Chapter 32

Anna

The front door clicks shut behind me and I step fully into the lounge.

The front of Liam and Ivy’s house is north-facing and so the room is cool and silent, despite facing on to the road. A faint damp odour persists; the smell of age and of furnishings that are years past their replacement date.

Ivy keeps the house relatively clean and tidy but there is just so much stuff here.

Neat piles, but nevertheless disorganised piles, of documentation lie dotted around, cluttering up every room. I’ve heard Ivy mumble numerous times, ‘I’ll read that properly later,’ when she adds yet another letter or a leaflet to a stack of mail.

It’s fairly obvious, looking at the towering backlog, that she never gives it another thought.

If the police have sent anything recently it will probably be ‘filed’ towards the top of one of her piles, so I sift through two or three stacks in the living room. My injured hand starts aching right away but I press on.

It is soon obvious there is nothing in here of interest to me but I stand for a minute longer, alone in the house without anyone knowing.

Granted, it is a shame I’m having to resort to such measures but I’m just going to have to force myself to do what is necessary for the good of Liam and Ivy.

I move to the doorway, deciding to leave the kitchen until last, and begin to climb the stairs beyond. I can’t afford to delay, not knowing exactly how soon they will return.

I turn left at the top of the stairs and enter Ivy’s bedroom.

The bed is made, the curtains open and a faint breeze wafts in through the scalloped nets, offering at least a little respite from the fusty smell that pervades the top floor of the house.

I am trying to work quickly but my bad hand is hampering me and my good hand is clumsy with jangling nerves.

I slide open the bedside drawer. Nothing here short of hankies, a pot of chest rub and a dog-eared Barbara Cartland novel.

The drawers under the bed hold only age-old bedding and towels. The dresser under the window boasts Ivy’s dated toiletries and a fine covering of dust but when I turn my attention to the free-standing dark-oak wardrobe with its ornate coving, I spot the old-fashioned long brass key still in the lock.

Inside, the space is dark and deep, with Ivy’s clothes nestling together in a clean line. I’m almost expecting to find fur coats, a sprinkling of snow and then maybe Narnia. But there are just more dresses here that surely belong to a time many years hence. A polka dot fifties-style halter-neck dress, a fuchsia-pink satin cocktail skirt complete with frivolous nets.

I feel a little softening inside despite Ivy’s treatment of me but it’s silly of her to keep such useless items for the sake of memories. I read somewhere that most people only wear twenty per cent of their wardrobe, eighty per cent of the time. In Ivy’s case I think she wears a mere five per cent, ninety-five per cent of the time.

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