The Holiday Home: She thought she was alone, but he never left. by Ashley Beegan

Author:Ashley Beegan [Beegan, Ashley]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Independent
Published: 2022-06-29T16:00:00+00:00

Simone

There was no place more perfect than a strong shower for gathering Simone’s thoughts. The harshness of a powerful jet could wash away stress and bad memories, as well as dirt. She’d known the cottage was perfect as soon as she’d seen how forceful the shower was. Or she’d thought the cottage was perfect until finding out it was the lair of a serial killer.

Watching documentaries and reading books about psychos was one thing; being in a serial killer’s house was another altogether.

She closed her eyes and turned to the water, allowing the hot stream to run over her face whilst instrumental music played out from her phone. The melody was a live recording and echoed off the tiles as if the musician were in the room.

Even with such a beautiful distraction vying for her attention, the menacing note with its ominous black message played on her mind. The image of the paper was imprinted onto her brain, and it danced around inside, taunting her. Its ugly, solid handwriting wasn’t familiar. The letters were blocky, as if the writer was purposefully writing differently. They were playing mind games with her. God knows why, but the why didn’t really matter. The real problem was what to do about it.

An idea came to her, and she turned off the shower with a grin. The shower made her feel a little more human, though still shaky, and she switched off the music. She was careful not to burn her finger on the radiator rung as she pulled the red towel from its rail. She’d learned on day one that the radiators in the cottage always got ridiculously hot.

The warmth of the soft towel felt good against her wet skin. It reminded her of one of those hot face towels the spa used when she’d last had a facial. She hugged it tightly around her body and vaguely wondered when the last time she had a facial was. Definitely at least a year ago.

She walked into the bedroom still grinning. She was going to put her plan into action as soon as she dressed. Once dry, she pulled on a woolly, lemon-coloured jumper and some loose jeans, and sat on the bed with her phone in hand. She pulled a small business card out of her handbag, slipped her glasses back on and dialled the number printed upon it.

“DI Swanson,” a man answered with an authoritative, deep voice.

Simone jumped despite being the one to call. Why did the police still make her so damn nervy after eighteen years? She almost hung up, but held her nerve.

“Hi, DI Swanson. It’s Simone Johnson.” She held her breath, silently praying he remembered her straight away so she wouldn’t have to explain the attack.

He paused. “Hello, Miss Johnson. How are you doing?” There was a rummaging in the background as if he was looking through a drawer or desk.

“I’ve been OK, thank you, but I wanted to talk to you about something. If you don’t mind?”

“Please do,” DI Swanson replied.

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