The House Guest by Mark Edwards(34)

Yeah, whispered a voice in my head. Like Ruth.

I closed the computer. Again, I had to push through my disbelief and try to accept what seemed to be the likely truth. Eden belonged to a cult and had taken Ruth. The question was, why? Why target Ruth? Had she come to Jack and Mona’s house with Ruth as her target? That had to be the case; it couldn’t be random. But how did she know about Ruth? Again, the answer seemed obvious. Ruth was an actress. She was known in certain, small circles – the theatre world and the kind of people who watched arthouse horror films. Had Eden targeted Ruth because of her role in the movie? That made sense, except Eden had acted like she’d never seen The Immaculate before. Her emotional reaction, her surprise at the events in the film, had seemed genuine – although I already knew Eden was a practised liar. A convincing actress in her own right. And that made me wonder if she was in fact an actor, if she was part of theatrical circles too.

Then there was the other big question. How had she known we were at Mona and Jack’s house, and that they were away? Eden had seemed to know about the Cunninghams. She knew details about their lives. Or was I imagining that? Had she used generalities, like a medium conning gullible audience members? Or had she parroted back facts we had told her? Perhaps everything she had known about Mona and Jack could be found on their social media accounts.

In fact, Eden could have found out that we were house-sitting for Jack and Mona through our social media. Hadn’t I tweeted something about how excited I was to be heading to Brooklyn? Did I mention we were staying in Williamsburg? I followed both Jack and Mona on Twitter. If they had tweeted about going to their retreat it wouldn’t have been too hard for Eden to put the two things together.

Or maybe it was less complicated. Perhaps Eden had followed us there. Perhaps she had been following us for a while. And maybe she really did know the Cunninghams – or knew someone who knew them.

I opened my laptop again and began to go through my and Ruth’s photos. I concentrated on any that had been taken in a public place, scanning the faces in the background, looking for Eden. I went through all the photos from the cruise, including the day we’d docked in New York. I went through the pictures I’d taken around Brooklyn once we’d started house-sitting, as well as those that Ruth had posted on Facebook and Instagram.

It was remarkable how many blonde strangers there were in the backgrounds of our photos. I kept zooming in, scrutinising them. But none of them were Eden.

I checked the time. I had been down the internet rabbit hole for hours. Alison’s would be opening soon.

I grabbed my sunglasses and wallet and headed towards the door, then hesitated. If I was potentially in danger, shouldn’t I take a weapon?

I grabbed a small but sharp knife from the kitchen drawer and slipped it into my bag.



Alison’s looked very different during daylight hours. The only patrons were a couple of guys huddled in a dark corner with laptops open. I glanced over at the table where Eden and I had sat, and I couldn’t help but wonder what she had thought of me. Did she think I was stupid? Easy prey? Maybe, at the back of her mind, she thought she was teaching me a valuable lesson: never trust a stranger.

There was a single barman on shift, who I vaguely recognised from my night here. He had a shaved head and the vampirish complexion of someone who spends their days in a dark place.

‘What can I get you?’ he asked as I approached.

‘Just a Diet Coke, please,’ I said.

He handed me my drink, and before he could turn away, I said, ‘Do you have CCTV here?’

He stopped dead. ‘The cash register’s empty.’

‘What? I’m not . . . I’m not going to rob you. I was actually hoping you could help me.’

His shoulders relaxed. ‘Oh yeah?’

I had already thought through the best way to approach this. After flirting with the idea of pretending to be a cop or private investigator, I had decided to be honest. It was such a crazy story that it went past implausibility and became believable. That was my hope, anyway.

So I told him about Eden and Ruth and me, being as succinct as possible.

The barman narrowed his eyes and glanced at the door then back at me. ‘This is a prank, right? I’m going to end up on YouTube, looking like an asshole.’

‘It’s not a prank. I wish it was.’

He didn’t seem convinced. But he seemed intrigued, and I guessed this was a lot more interesting than what usually happened during his day shift. Maybe, like a lot of people around here, he was an aspiring writer or filmmaker who thought he might be able to use this.

‘So what exactly do you want me to do?’ he asked.

‘I was hoping I could take a look at your CCTV footage from last Wednesday evening. If you haven’t recorded over it already, that is.’

I immediately regretted saying this, as I’d given him an out. He could easily get rid of me by telling me it had been deleted.

Instead, he said, ‘You want to see if you and this girl are on there.’

‘Exactly.’

‘I don’t know . . .’

‘Please,’ I said. ‘I’m desperate. And I can pay you for your time.’

For a moment I thought I’d offended him, and again I wanted to take my words back. But I had misread him.

‘How much?’ he asked.

I plucked a figure from the air. ‘A hundred dollars.’