The Woman At The Door by Daniel Hurst (books successful people read .TXT) 📕

I would prefer not to do that either. I was just letting you know that it may be the only way.’

I nod at Erica and try to give her a smile, although it feels like more of a grimace. Then she tells me that I can keep the photographs because she has copies already before she turns and walks away, only needing a few seconds before she disappears from view on the crowded street.

After watching her go, I look down at the envelope in my hand and think about the woman in these photos inside. I think about what she has done to me, and I think about what she has done to Rebecca. That’s when I realise that I have to know the full story, no matter how I go about learning it. I will give Erica permission to do whatever she needs to do, no matter how risky. That’s because the things she finds out could not only be the key to saving my marriage, but they could be the difference between me having peace of mind again in my lifetime or not.

I’ll never be able to rest until I know why this woman came to my house and told a lie.

I’ll do anything to find out.

Even if it means risking prison.

33

REBECCA

It did me good to go to my family home and spend time with my parents for a couple of days, but now I need to start trying to get a little more normalcy back into my life. That means going back to work after a few days of sick leave. It means going back to my own house after a few days of sleeping elsewhere. And it also means replying to the messages and missed calls I have from my husband after a few days of blanking him completely.

I wonder if he came by our house at all while I was away, either hoping to speak to me or just to get a few more of his things from his wardrobe. He does still have his key, so he may well have done, and if he did then I’m sure he would have noticed that the bed hadn’t been slept in. It wouldn’t have taken him long to assume that I had gone back to my parents, but if he did figure it out, I’m just glad he didn’t turn up there and try to speak to me. That would have been a bad move on his part for many reasons, not least of which because my father would have likely gone berserk at him and told him to get lost unless he wanted a good punch in the face. Thankfully, that didn’t happen, and my father didn’t have to throw any punches, nor did my husband have to receive any.

It’s not that my dad is a violent man, but he is fiercely protective of me, as any parent would be of their daughter, so he isn’t too happy about the fact that Sam has gone and broken my heart. My mother isn’t best pleased either, and even though she doesn’t express her emotions in quite the same way as her husband does, I could tell that she was deeply hurt and deeply angry at what Sam has been doing behind my back. But of course, my parents are an easy audience for me. I’m always going to find sympathy there no matter what the situation. But that’s not the case out in the big, bad world. There’s little sympathy out there in the cold light of day, and that is where I must go now. I can’t hide away at Mummy and Daddy’s forever.

I have to go back to my own life.

I have to face the music.

Putting my key into the front door, I turn the lock and step inside, noticing the pile of letters on the doormat as I do. There is a couple of days’ worth of post in the hallway, as is to be expected when a homeowner goes away for a couple of days, so I pick it all up and carry it into the kitchen, where I take a seat at the table and start to sort through it.

The first thing requiring my attention is an electricity bill, and it’s a reminder of how even the most mundane parts of life carry on in the most difficult of times. It’s also a reminder of a job Sam didn’t do even though I had asked him to do it several times, which was to request that we get our bills electronically now instead of through the letterbox. Normally, I would be irritated that he hadn’t listened to me, but on a scale of what he has done to me recently, this indiscretion is minor.

The second and third letters are just leaflets from local politicians canvassing for my vote in the upcoming local election, so I scrunch them up and toss them into the bin, not because I have no time for politics on a good day, but just because I have no time for it right now. Then I get to the last letter, and I tear the envelope open without even looking at the front of it, expecting it to be just more of the same kind of thing. Something boring. Something normal. Something for the bin.

But it’s not.

It’s actually something very important.

It is a handwritten letter, though there is no name at the bottom of it to tell me who it is from. The message is a fairly short one which means I am able to read the entirety of it quickly, but I have to go back and re-read it a few more times before I can even start to understand what it might mean.

Hello Rebecca. I am writing to you because I feel bad about what I did the other night. I was just so angry that I had to do something to get back at Sam, and that was the only thing I could think of.