Darkest Place Read Free

over her face. She’d let him in and she’d let him touch her.
    â€˜You’re okay, Carly. That’s the main thing.’ Dean signalled his partner. ‘And someone in your home is a serious matter, whether you locked your doors or not. I’m going to log your details now and organise fingerprinting and a check of CCTV before my shift ends.’ He paused to glance at the dark expanse of the warehouse beyond her door. ‘Maybe a canvass of your neighbours. And I’ll be recommending your case gets handed over to detectives. You should expect a call later today.’
    Carly copied his glimpse at the corridor. ‘What if he’s still in the building?’
    â€˜The building has been searched and there’s been a troop of cops through here tonight. That kind of thing usually scares an offender off.’ Dean’s partner moved between them into the quiet gloom.
    Carly lowered her voice. ‘What if he lives here?’
    Dean made a doubtful face. ‘Is there someone you can call?’
    â€˜No.’
    â€˜A family member? A friend?’
    â€˜I don’t know anyone in Newcastle.’
    â€˜What about your neighbours?’
    She hadn’t met them yet. She’d barely spoken to anyone since she’d moved in – and she wasn’t about to introduce herself at four o’clock in the morning and ask if she could camp on their sofa. ‘No, there’s no need to wake anyone.’
    Dean produced a business card. ‘This is my mobile number. Call if you’re worried. I’m working until nine but I keep my phone on during the day.’ He was through the door by the time he’d finished, held out a hand to shake. It was warm and firm and calm, everything Carly wasn’t. ‘Lock your doors and try to relax, okay?’
    Â 
    Carly toggled the deadlock back and forth, gave it a firm tug then pressed her back to the door. Held up her hands and eyed the twitching and jerking of her fingers: her baggage was trembling and breathless inside her.
    She didn’t need to hide it now, so she let it carry her away, long strides down the hallway and through the living room, unlocking and re-locking the balcony door, keeping the keys in her fist as she moved about. Restless, fearful, searching. She didn’t know what she what she was looking for, only that a man had made his way through theapartment to her bedside without waking her. He could have been here for hours.
    Wishing she had more lights to switch on, she lifted the cushions on the sofa, looked in the kitchen cupboards, the half bathroom. Then up in the loft: under the bed, in the ensuite, inside the wardrobe. There was nothing except the anxious apprehension crawling under her skin.
    She couldn’t go back to bed. She was repulsed by the thought of him in her loft, and couldn’t risk lying still when she was like this. Hauling at the sheets as though they were infested, she tossed them over the rail for washing later. She wanted a shower to scrub off the memory of him but was scared he’d come back when she was wet and naked, so she stalked the apartment instead. Tired but wakeful, drained but hyper, turning on the telly, flicking aimlessly through the channels, shifting from the sofa to the kitchen counter to the wall of checkerboard glass that looked out onto the balcony.
    A cup of tea kept her still for fifteen minutes. Another one made her doze fitfully for ten. At six forty, she stood at the windows and watched the sun lighten the sky, her body telling her she needed to be outside, pounding a path. Walking had been her physical and mental therapy for so long, it was the first thing her body craved when the agitation started.
    She zipped her mobile and keys into the pockets of a jacket and ran the four flights of zigzag stairs to the foyer, her breath steaming in the frosty air when she hit the street. She followed the route she’d taken both previous mornings, a flat,