Destroy Me by Karen Cole (read people like a book TXT) 📗

But curiosity gets the better of me, and I click on the message with a vague, unformed feeling of trepi­dation. A picture flashes up on my screen. Again, he hasn’t written anything, just sent this photo of a park somewhere. There’s a lake in the foreground, green fields beyond, with trees and a crenelated church tower in the distance. It looks more like England than America, and in fact, it looks very much like my local park. I enlarge the picture. Yes, I realise, peering at the distinctive yew hedge with arches cut into it; without a doubt, it’s the Abbey Grounds – the park in town, just behind the church. That’s weird, if not downright creepy. What is George from Wisconsin doing here in the UK – in my hometown of all places? And why has he sent me this photo? Is he stalking me?

I suppose he might not actually be here. He could have found the picture on the Internet and decided I would like a picture of my hometown. But how did he find out where I live in the first place?

I head to the kitchen to find some comfort food, and I’m rummaging at the back of the cupboard trying to find the crisps I’ve hidden when I hear a door slamming upstairs. The noise makes me start, the chair wobbles and I nearly lose my balance. Just a draught, I think, climbing down from the chair. I must have left a bedroom window open. But I’m suddenly on my guard and I’m acutely conscious that it’s just me, Dylan and Delilah all on our own.

Then, clearly, I hear the whine of the wardrobe door opening upstairs.

Someone is in my bedroom.

Dylan? I look in the living room. Dylan is still in there, watching TV.

A burglar then? My breath snags in my throat. Heart hammering, I fumble in the kitchen drawer and select the sharpest knife. I know they say that carrying a knife isn’t smart because someone stronger could easily take it and use it against you. But even so, running my fingers along the sharp blade makes me feel better, braver.

I tiptoe along the hallway, closing the living-room door softly as I pass. Whoever’s upstairs I need to keep them away from Dylan. Moving slowly and silently up the stairs, I tug the phone out of my pocket and tap in the emergency services number with a trembling finger.

At the top of the stairs, I freeze. My heart is beating so hard I can feel it in my ears. The bedroom door is ajar. Someone is in there without a doubt. I can hear them rooting around, opening and closing drawers. Clutching the knife tightly in one hand and my phone in the other, I push open the door.

He’s bent over a drawer, his bony buttocks in the air. As the door opens, he straightens up and swivels round, clutching his chest and I stare into a pair of startled brown eyes blinking at me from behind black-rimmed glasses.

‘Theo. What the . . .’ I say, relief flooding through me.

‘Jesus, Cat. You scared me!’ he exclaims, clutching his heart and laughing ‘I didn’t hear you come in.’

‘I scared you? I like that!’

‘Emergency. Which service do you require? Fire, police or ambulance?’ a woman barks briskly from my phone.

‘Sorry, I made a mistake,’ I mutter and hurriedly end the call.

‘What the hell are you doing here?’ I demand, glaring at Theo, my heart rate gradually returning to normal. ‘How did you get in?’

He eyes the knife in my hand. ‘Do you think you could put that down please? You’re making me nervous.’

I place it carefully on the bedside table, the blade glinting in the light from the window. ‘What are you doing here?’ I repeat firmly. He has no right to be here without my permission.

‘I’ve still got a key, remember? I just came to pick up a few bits and bobs. I hope you don’t mind. I thought I’d do it while you were out picking up Dylan. Didn’t think you’d be back so soon.’

I make a mental note to change the locks. ‘I do mind, actually,’ I retort. ‘You can’t just swan in here whenever you like. This isn’t your house any more.’

‘Well, technically . . .’ he breaks off and stares at me. ‘What did you do to your hair?’ he asks, as if he’s only just noticed.

‘Don’t you like it?’

He shrugs. ‘You look like what’s her name – the singer? The one that sings about pavements. Adele.’

‘I’ll take that as a compliment.’

‘It is a compliment. You look nice.’ He meets my eyes, and something passes between us. When was the last time he looked at me like that? When we were married, he barely looked at me. We barely looked at each other.

‘Anyway,’ he says, looking a little flustered. How’s my boy? Where’s Dylan?’

‘He’s downstairs, watching TV, but I don’t think it’s a good idea—’

He doesn’t wait to hear the end of my sentence but dashes downstairs. I follow, fuming with anger. He has no business coming here during the week. It will only unsettle Dylan. Lead to false expectations. ‘Wait. We agreed. No visits during the week,’ I say.

But Theo doesn’t hear me, or deliberately ignores me. I’m not sure which. And he is already pushing his way into the living room.

‘Daddy!’ Dylan exclaims delightedly, throwing himself into Theo’s arms. The angry tirade I was about to launch into dies on my lips and my heart softens just a little, seeing them there together like that. There’s no doubting their love for each other. Whatever else Theo might be, he’s a good father.

‘Hey, Dyl, I’ve missed you,’ he says, ruffling our boy’s hair. ‘Have you missed me, mate?’

Dylan nods. ‘Uh-huh. Are you staying for tea?’ he asks, plaintively.

Theo glances at me. ‘Well . . . maybe. It’s up to your mother,’ he says, glancing sideways at me.

‘Please, Mummy, can he?’ Dylan fixes his big brown eyes on me.

I bite back anger. Theo has backed me into a