The Other People(68)

But they weren’t heading there.

They turned off the main coast road, on to a small private lane, and the house drew into view. Just the upper stories visible above the high walls that surrounded it. From a distance, in the fog, it looked grey, like some kind of stone castle perched upon the clifftop. Up close, it was whitewashed bright white, like a lighthouse. Beyond the wrought-iron gates stretched a long gravel driveway and acres of green lawn, and almost every room had a view of the sea.

That was the property’s name. Seashells.

Gabe pulled up outside the imposing iron gates. Katie had woken up and she peered out of the window.

“What is this? A hotel?”

“No.”

“Who lives here?”

“A woman named Charlotte Harris used to live here with her daughter.”

“Not anymore?”

“Her daughter was hit by a drunk driver when she was fourteen. She was left in a persistent vegetative state. She’s cared for by private nurses in a special wing of the house.”

“Oh God.”

He waited a second and then said: “I was the drunk driver. I visit her every week. I have done for over twenty years.”

He climbed out of the car and walked up to the gates, leaving this information to sink in. For Katie to put the pieces together. After a moment, he heard her climb out of the car after him.

“And her mother is going to let us stay here?”

“No.” He tapped numbers into the security pad set into the wall. “Charlotte Harris is dead.”

“Then who actually owns this place?”

Gabe pressed a button and the gates started to swing open.

“I do.”





A gift is never just a gift. Sometimes, it’s an apology, sometimes an expression of love. Sometimes, it is leverage or a subtle display of emotional blackmail. Sometimes, it’s a way to assuage guilt. Sometimes, it’s a way to make yourself seem benevolent. Sometimes, it is a show of power or money.

And sometimes, it’s a trap.

When Charlotte Harris’s solicitor had requested a meeting “at his most urgent convenience” that grey Monday in November, Gabe hadn’t known quite what to expect; he hadn’t even known that Charlotte was ill.

He never saw her on his visits to Isabella. Hadn’t done for years. Always a private woman, she had become a total recluse. Miriam, the housekeeper and head nurse, had confided that she only left her room to sit with Isabella. Never even ventured out into the grounds. Both captives, Gabe had thought, in their own way.

But with Charlotte dead, what would happen to Isabella? he had wondered. Who would look after her, pay the staff, ensure that her care continued?

And then the solicitor had told him.

Gabe had stared at the dapper little man, with his shiny bald head and small round glasses, and felt his jaw slacken.

“The whole estate?”

“That is correct.”

“I don’t understand.”

Mr. Barrage had smiled curtly. He looked like a caricature of a solicitor, Gabe thought. He just needed a bowler hat and an umbrella.

“Mrs. Harris had no other family apart from her daughter, Isabella, who is obviously in no position to administer her own affairs. Charlotte wanted the house and her estate to be looked after by someone who understands Isabella’s condition and will ensure that she continues to receive the highest levels of care. That is one of the conditions of the will. The property cannot be sold, but you and your family are welcome to live there. It is yours to do with as you wish, up to a point.”

Gabe had tried to process this. Charlotte Harris was wealthy. But Isabella’s care must cost hundreds of thousands a year. All the money would have to be kept safe to ensure that her care continued. He supposed he had always thought that, when Charlotte died, then his visits would stop, or at least reduce. His sentence would be lifted. But he should have known she would make provision. He just hadn’t expected this.

“And if I don’t accept?”

“The money will continue to be held in trust for Isabella and the estate will be administered by the executor of the will.”

Mr. Barrage had smiled thinly at Gabe. The executor. The executor was him. He had agreed to it a few years ago. Saying no to Charlotte wasn’t really an option. But it was just a formality, she had told him. Just paperwork. He hadn’t really thought much of it. Now, he understood. Snap. The doors of the cage slammed shut.

He considered. “What if I felt that it was in Isabella’s best interests for her care not to continue?”

“Then you would have to go to court to justify that course of action. Which could be costly. And I would draw your attention to clause 11:5 in the will, which prohibits the use of any of your inheritance for ‘any action which would cause the cessation of Isabella’s care or shorten her life.’ You’d be on your own.”

Of course. Charlotte really did think of everything.

“And then there are all the people who depend upon you, Mr. Forman. The staff at Seashells. They are your responsibility. You can ensure they keep their jobs and are well looked after.”

The solicitor took his small, round glasses off and offered what Gabe presumed was supposed to be a warm smile. It barely scraped past frosty.

Still, he was right about the staff. They were good people. Especially Miriam. She had cared for Isabella for most of her life, firstly as a housekeeper and then, using her nursing experience, to oversee her care after the accident. She deserved this far more than him.