The Woman At The Door Daniel Hurst (online e reader TXT) 📖

be considering we were sat in the middle of a busy cafe, I had to assume she knew what she was doing. I certainly hoped she did when she gave me her fee a few minutes later.

Erica wanted me to give her £1000 if she was successful with tracking down this mystery woman.

I had initially baulked at the hefty figure she had quoted me and made a comment about how I might have to do some “shopping around” to see if I could find a PI that wasn’t quite as pricey. But Erica had assured me that her fee was more than fair and actually quite cheap considering how much work she was going to have to do in finding the woman based on all I had given her to go on.

I had sipped my coffee and deliberated over my decision for a few minutes, but in the end, I decided to go for it because what did I have to lose? I only had to pay Erica if she found this woman, and if she did that then it was potentially going to save my marriage, so it would be money well spent. The other option was not to spend the money and keep paying for a damn hotel room while my wife kept doubting me and thinking I had been up to no good behind her back.

My meeting with Erica had ended when the PI had taken the footage from Steve’s CCTV camera and told me that she would be in touch if and when she had something that could help. I had asked her how long that was likely to be, but she couldn’t give me a definite answer. She told me that in her line of work, it was difficult to put deadlines on things, and I suppose I can understand that. But I did ask her what she was planning to do to start tracking the woman down, although she didn’t tell me. She just said she had her methods and they had worked before, so she was confident that they would work again. And on that mysterious note, she had turned and walked away out of the coffee shop, leaving me to wonder what the hell she was going to do at my expense.

After the covert meeting had ended, I had called round at my house to pick up a few more things to keep me going in my new life as an estranged husband living out of a hotel room. Rebecca had been home, but she hadn’t been very chatty and not at all engaging when I had tried to get her to sit down and give me another chance to plead my innocence. She said she still needed more time and that unless I could give her answers about the woman and the lipstick, I would need to make myself comfortable at that hotel.

I had brought up the meeting with the PI and hoped that might go some way to proving how serious I was about uncovering the truth. I even told her that I was willing to spend £1000 if necessary to find out who that woman was and why she had lied. Rebecca had seemed a little shocked by that price tag, as I had been the first time that I had heard it, but she still hadn’t accepted that I was innocent in all of this. If she had done then I would have been at home now lying on my own bed instead of on this one right here. The mattress is lumpy, the pillow is as flat as a pancake, and it really isn’t worth the £47 a night that I’m paying for the privilege of sleeping on it. But it’s very cheap, and that’s important because I need to save all the money I can so I can pay the PI to get me out of here and back in my house where I belong.

Do I feel betrayed that Rebecca doesn’t believe me? Yes, it would be impossible not to feel hurt about it. She should trust me implicitly, just like I trust her. But I understand that it’s not easy. I have tried to put myself in her position and imagine what I would have felt like if some guy turned up at our house and told me that he had slept with Rebecca a month ago. Would I have believed him or her? And what would have happened if I had found something else to make me concerned a few days later as Rebecca did with the lipstick on my collar? Maybe I would have believed her. Or maybe I would have needed some time too.

This is a rubbish situation, but because I’m innocent, I’m able to cling to the belief that everything will be okay in the end. The truth will come out, and I have nothing to hide.

Nothing at all.

So why do I feel like I can’t relax?

23

REBECCA

I slept poorly last night, which was to be expected, I suppose. But instead of moping around the house all day wasting away my Sunday, I decided to give Ally a text and see if she was free to go for a walk. I was glad to hear that she was and now I’m standing in the large park near my house waiting for her to turn up.

It’s a bright and breezy morning, suggesting that the worst of winter is behind us in this country and that warmer days are ahead. I certainly hope so because I’m not a fan of the cold, and I hate when it goes dark while I’m still sitting at work. I have no idea how those people in Scandinavia cope where they live in almost permanent darkness for half of the year, but I’m grateful that while the English climate is bad, it’s not that bad. The speck of blue sky peeping through the fluffy white clouds overhead tells me that.

Better days are ahead, at least weather-wise anyway.

It remains