Everything downstairs was white. The room was open plan, clean lines, minimalist. Huge pieces of abstract art provided the only slashes of color—streaks of bloodred, black upon yellow. Glass sliding doors opened onto a lawn that rolled down to trees along the river. The Bonny River, I presumed. I could see the mouth, where the brown bled into the aquamarine sea. Beyond the mouth was a rocky point where waves crashed and foamed, spray blowing white into the wind.
I padded into the living room, the white tiles smooth beneath my feet.
“Martin?” I called.
Silence echoed through the hollowness of the stark house.
“Martin!” I called louder.
No answer.
I saw a closed door to my left. I tried the handle. Locked. Martin’s office? Why would he lock it? My feeling of disquiet deepened.
The kitchen was huge. Again, all white, even the dishcloths. No dirty plates in the sink. No lingering coffee cups. The wine fridge was fully stocked with an array of whites and rosés plus two bottles of prosecco. A small craving pinged through me as I studied the chilled bottles, but I opened the main fridge, instead, in search of cold water. This fridge contained ciders, beer. I found bottled water. I opened the cap and swigged, but I was stopped by a sudden sense of being watched. I lowered the bottle, turned. The sensation of being observed intensified.
“Martin?” I said softly, but I could see no one there.
I went to the sliding door and stepped out onto the patio facing the river. The air was heavily scented with the sea. The sense of being watched lingered. I glanced up into the trees. As I did, two sulphur-crested cockatoos screamed and swooped down at me. I gasped and ducked. They fluttered, cackling into the sky. My heart hammered.
I turned in a slow circle, seeking the source of my unease. There was a vacant lot to my left—a tangle of drab vegetation. To my right was a neighboring property. I studied the second-story windows of the house that looked into our yard. A sheer curtain moved, possibly stirred by the hot breeze because I could see no one. The background noise of raucous birds was intense.
I walked over the coarse grass and down the slope toward the boathouse that Martin had said would be ideal as my studio.
Everywhere, droplets glimmered in the sun. It had clearly rained heavily last night. It was making the ground steam. Gum trees dripped. The blades of grass were sharp-edged under my feet, like everything else in this place was sharp.
Inside the studio the walls were also bright white—a kitchenette, a tiny bathroom, a daybed. A lone black-and-white clock hung above the bed. The clock was the exact same design as the one I’d seen on the wall of the living room in the main house. The boxes I’d shipped from Canada were stacked in front of the kitchenette counter. Glass sliding doors opened onto a small wooden deck that narrowed into a dock that led into the dark river.
I walked toward the daybed. It was covered in a white quilt. From the indentations it looked as though someone had lain on it recently. Sticking out from under a corner of a pillow was a piece of dark fabric. I lifted the pillow. It was a hair tie, a scrunchie. I picked it up.
The fabric of the scrunchie was deep green with skeins of gold thread braided through. A long strand of auburn hair had been trapped in a skein. Wavy hair. I frowned as a memory surfaced—Lennin watching us argue from the sales office window. It was followed by an earlier memory—the brunette with the Martin doppelgänger. I recalled the way the man I’d thought was Martin had looked right through me. A doubt began to whisper in my head.
No, Ellie, no, do not do this again.
I’d started going really crazy when I’d begun to suspect Doug was having an affair. I’d started seeing signs everywhere.
But you were right, Ellie. He was having an affair. You found out in the end.
Yes, but some of the things were imagined.
Right, like you imagined the man in the garage was Martin. But he was a doppelgänger, not Martin. So the brunette you saw with him means nothing to you.
But what about the brown hair trapped in this scrunchie on this bed?
I lifted the scrunchie to my nose and sniffed. As I did, I heard a noise. I froze. Listened. Heard it again—a thud.
Quickly pocketing the scrunchie, I exited the studio. No one on the lawn. I could see no movement through the big glass windows of our house. I made my way to the garage along the fence of the neighboring property. I entered the side door. It was dim inside. No truck. Martin had not yet returned. As my eyes adjusted I saw the garage interior was as neat as Martin’s closet. A wet suit hung from a hanger. A stand-up paddleboard leaned against the wall. Tools hung in an orderly fashion on the wall above a worktable. A fishing knife lay on the table next to a gaff like the one I’d seen on the Abracadabra. Perhaps it was the same one.
I exited the garage, and immediately that sense of being watched grew powerful. I stood still, shaded my eyes, and carefully studied the windows of the house next door above the fence tangled with jasmine.
The curtains twitched again in the window on the second floor. I tensed as a woman appeared, then quickly retreated out of sight. I stared at the empty space, wondering why on earth she hadn’t just waved hello.
“Hey!” I called as I went up to the fence, suddenly angry at being spied on and made to feel uncomfortable in my own yard. “Hey, hello!” I called up from the jasmine-tangled boundary.
Nothing moved.
I cursed and went back inside the house, intending to phone Martin and find out where in the hell he was and ask him what was up with the
