A sense of déjà vu washed over her as she found herself in the exact spot where Thomas had lain. Looking up, she locked eyes with Anne, who stood over her with a mixture of shock and teeth-baring determination as she fought against Sylvia and Zara, trying to restrain her.
“Stop resisting! We are making a citizen’s arrest,” Sylvia declared, her voice strained with effort. “The police were supposed to be here by now!”
Zara released one of her hands on Anne to hold one out for Ellie, but in that moment of distraction, Anne wriggled free from Sylvia’s grasp. Ellie watched as Anne’s eyes darted around the room, reminiscent of a cornered cat in an alleyway. She could almost see the gears turning in Anne’s mind, searching for her next improvised weapon—a pen, a gravestone, a statue—anything to aid her escape.
With a sudden burst of energy, Anne lunged for the nearest bookshelf. She let out a guttural roar as she heaved it forward, the duplicate back stock books tumbling out like a waterfall. Ellie yanked Zara back from the path of the bookcase just in time to avoid a crushing incident.
But Anne Collins really was resourceful. Taking advantage of the chaos, she bolted towards the back door. She flung it open, peering out into the darkness before whirling around. The sound of rapidly approaching footsteps echoed from outside the shop, and her panicked eyes moved onto searching for Plan B. In a desperate move, she charged at Sylvia, catching her off guard and planting an elbow in her side. Sylvia stumbled backwards, unable to block Anne’s path. With a clear route to freedom, Anne made a dash for the front door and the freedom of South Street.
Ellie watched in awe as Zara’s arm whipped forward, launching a hefty hardback through the air with surprising accuracy. The book struck Anne squarely between the shoulders, eliciting a pained wheeze as she stumbled forward. Despite the blow, Anne managed to stagger out the front door and into the night, the distant flash of blue lights barely visible in the darkness.
Sylvia, still catching her breath after being winded, gasped out, “You threw a book at her!”
“Yes, I know. I just did it,” Zara replied matter-of-factly. “She tried to throw a bookcase on me, so putting my bronze medal in shot put to use was the least I could do.”
“Bronze medal?” Sylvia gasped, moving in closer, her sore ribs forgotten. “I had no idea you were an Olympian, Zara. That explains so much!”
Looking less than impressed, Zara said, “Bronze medal at the parent participation sports day at my son’s school. And it does not matter, it did not stop her.”
“But it’ll have slowed her down,” Ellie added, a glimmer of hope in her voice as she dusted herself down. “I need to—”
Suddenly, PC Finn burst through the back door, panting for breath. Between gasps for air, he managed to explain, “Forgot... the alley... only had... one entrance. Went around the... wrong side...”
The young PC was out of breath, but Ellie had regained hers. She dashed outside, her heart racing as she caught sight of Anne and DS Angela Cookson rounding the bend of South Street. Making a split-second decision, Ellie turned and sprinted in the opposite direction.
“Where are you going?” Angela’s voice called out behind her.
Ellie shouted back over her shoulder, “The only place I think Anne would crawl.”
“Ellie, stop!” Maggie’s concerned voice echoed in the darkness. “Wait!”
But Ellie pressed on, her determination unwavering. “I need to know why,” she muttered to herself, her feet carrying her swiftly through the familiar streets of Meadowfield.
Her feet pounded the cobbles as she raced towards Blackwood House, her breath coming in short gasps. The cool night air whipped against her hair, still damp from the earlier sprinkler incident. As she approached the imposing black gates, her heart sank. They were shut, and a rattle confirmed they were locked.
Undeterred, Ellie looked around for alternatives. She needed something she could climb up, like a ladder, or… something she could climb on. The pub caught her eye, but its darkened windows offered no help. The village had settled into its nightly quiet, most villagers tucked away.
A figure perched on the stone war memorial on the green caught her attention. Ellie squinted, trying to make out the silhouette in the dim light. Could it be Anne? No, the person was too tall, and Anne was short enough that she was able to drive her pen up into Thomas’s ribs. Determined, Ellie moved closer to the pub. She just needed to get over that wall. She approached one of the nearby tables, hoisting herself up with a grunt as her fingertips grazed against the cold stone. She wasn’t sure if she’d expected that she’d be able to pull herself over like she was an army cadet in training, but she wasn’t able to hold herself up long enough to attempt a scramble.
“Ellie? Is that you?” Daniel’s familiar voice cut through the night. “What are you doing?”
Ellie paused, looking down at him from the table. “I’m trying to be resourceful, but I think I’m months of carrying boxes of books back and forth at the shop away from being able to do what I pictured in my mind,” she replied, a hint of frustration in her voice. “Can you trust me to explain later?”
Daniel nodded, though he didn’t look any less concerned about her being up on a table. “I was waiting for you. You didn’t get changed out of your wet clothes. Do you... do you need a helping hand?”
“Yes, please,” Ellie admitted. “I really would.”
Daniel moved between the table and the wall, cupping his hands to create a makeshift step. With his support, Ellie found the boost she needed. His strength compensated for her lack of upper body prowess, and she managed to pull herself over the wall, her sodden clothes making the task even more challenging.
Ellie perched atop the wall, her breath catching as she stared down at the ground below. Without a table to drop onto, the wall seemed much higher from up there.
“Ellie, are you sure whatever you’re doing is a good idea?”
“I’ll decide that later,” Ellie replied, searching the shadowy grounds for a way down.
A wooden trellis caught her attention, its latticed frame offering a potential escape route. Ellie shuffled along the top of the wall on her hands and knees, her damp jeans dragging against the rough stone. Reaching the trellis, she lowered herself onto it, testing each rung with her weight before committing.
What felt like halfway down, a rotten piece of wood snapped beneath her foot. Ellie’s stomach lurched as she fell, but the ground rushed up to meet her faster than expected. She landed with a soft thud, her knees buckling, though this time on her feet. The panic that had gripped her moments ago subsided as quickly as it had come.
“I’m fine,” she called out.
“Ellie, this doesn’t seem like you,” Daniel called out, his voice a mixture of confusion and worry. “See if you can open the gate from there.”
“I don’t think it works like that. Sorry, Daniel. Thanks for the boost.”
As Ellie ran towards Blackwood House, her eyes fixed on the red stained glass window above, she found herself agreeing with Daniel’s assessment. “No, it doesn’t seem like me…” she muttered under her breath before adding, “…whoever I’m supposed to be.”
Silence fell as Ellie stepped over the threshold of Blackwood House. The unlocked door swung open with an ominous creak, the darkness dragging her in. At the top of the stairs, the crimson red glow emanating from the steps up to the tower beckoned her closer. But she froze in the entrance, bracing for Anne to leap out from the shadows, wielding some improvised weapon. In the sitting room, the crime scene had been cleaned, the banister taped back together. That afternoon’s death was already swept under the rug.
That afternoon’s murder.
The house remained completely still, not even a floorboard daring to creak until Ellie began her ascent up the grand mahogany staircase. She’d never ventured this far into Blackwood House before, the unfamiliarity creeping her out enough that each step felt heavier than the last. What was she doing here? What did she expect to find? And why, of all times, was she choosing now to be so daring? This wasn’t like her at all, and yet... her feet kept climbing one step in front of the other. She was terrified. And she hadn’t felt this alive, this present, in years.
She’d been Quiet Ellie, content to nibble away at her continuity job, underappreciated and undervalued. Ignored, and yet she never stopped trying. Her sharp observation skills had cost them more work over the years. More time, more money, all for the average viewer not to notice. Though people did notice, and Ellie had lost count of how many YouTube videos she’d heard a detail she fought for be noticed in a ‘well, at least that is right.’
Did Ellie love being right enough that having that job was the peak of her life? Somehow, she’d let that studio become her entire world, neglecting her real life, her family, her village, her past. She hadn’t even been able to keep a plant alive, always the first in and the last out. And more than anything, she hated she was realising this as she felt the carpet turn to hard stone under her feet. She couldn’t think about that right now, but she’d use it. A burden had lifted, and her knees lifted higher as the red light swallowed her up. She tried to imagine what awaited her in Edmund’s writer’s lair, the one with the window that had always freaked her out.
Ellie rounded the last step into the office and her mental images of a gothic writer’s cave evaporated. The circular room with its stained glass window was nearly empty, save for a large desk and chair, which Anne was slumped in. As small and frail as a child, barely peering over the top of the high desk. There were no lamps, but enough light poured in from a nearby streetlamp that the edge of the chair glowed like misting blood around Anne, almost the colour of cherries. Ellie inhaled. She could smell it again, coming from below, and this time she was sure what it was. A cherry-scented cleaning solution, and she’d seen Anne pour it into a mop bucket with her own two eyes.
