Page 8 of Rescue

Jon doesn’t reply, but he nods slightly, his gaze drifting over the cosy interior. When his eyes land on the stone fireplace, his expression softens just a little.

“It’s nice,” he says quietly.

“Glad you like it,” I reply, leading him up the narrow staircase. “Your room’s just at the top. There are plenty of spare blankets in the cupboard—it can get chilly even in summer. Oh, and the Wi-Fi password is on the little card on the dresser.”

I push open the door and let him step past me. I’ve given him the largest room I have. Mrs Thornburry, who’ll be back next weekend, usually has it, but I thought with Jon staying so long, he should have the extra space.

Jon. I like that name.

He sets his bags down and glances around the small room I have taken him too, his expression unreadable. “Thanks, Ms Carter.”

“Well, I’ll leave you to it. Oh, and please call me Abigail… or Abby.” I give him a big smile.

“Abigail,” he repeats. I like how my name sounds when he says it.Fuck me, I will kill Nancy because she brainwashed me into these ridiculous thoughts.

As I head back downstairs, I let out a small breath of relief. He’s quiet, yes, maybe even a bit grumpy, but not unkind. Still, I can’t help but feel a little flustered, there is something to him that puts me on edge… in a good way.

Chapter 3

Jon

The room at SunshineCottage is cosy—small but well-appointed, with floral curtains framing the window and a sturdy oak dresser that feels like it’s been here for decades. Everything is quaint, rustic, and charming, which should feel relaxing. Instead, it’s making me itch to put everything in order.

I open my suitcase, taking out each item one by one and finding the most logical place for it. Socks and underwear go into the top drawer, neatly folded and sorted by colour. Shirts get hung in the wardrobe, perfectly spaced on the hangers I brought along, because there’s no way I’m dealing with mismatched, flimsy wire ones. My toiletries line up along the bathroom sink in strict height order, labels facing outward. Shampoo, toothbrush, razor—it’s all precise, just the way I like it.

The small bedside table drawer is next, for my charger and earplugs. I slot them in carefully, then step back and take in the room. It’s better now, less chaotic. Everything in its place.

I sit on the bed and pull my phone out of my pocket. The Wi-Fi here is surprisingly good, and it doesn’t take long to connect. The signal bars fill up, and I scroll through a couple of notifications—mostly junk—and then pull up Mum’s number. It rings twice before her voice comes through, warm and familiar.

“Jon, darling, how are you? Did you get there alright?”

“Yes, Mum. I’m here. It’s nice,” I reply, keeping my tone even. “Quiet.”

“Well, I should think so! But you could’ve had quiet at the estate, though. Your father and I hardly see anyone these days except for the gardeners and the odd dog walker that wanders too far.”

I sigh, rubbing the bridge of my nose. “We’ve talked about this, Mum. The whole point is to go somewhere completely different. New surroundings, no reminders of—” I stop myself, unwilling to bring up the incident. “Just... away from everything.”

She huffs lightly on the other end of the line. “I know, I know. Your therapist suggested it. I still don’t see why you couldn’t take a few days with us, and then your ‘therapy holiday,’ or whatever you want to call it.”

“It’s not a holiday,” I say, the irritation creeping into my voice despite my best efforts. “It’s three weeks to decompress, think, and... reset. That’s it. No distractions, no... London.”

She softens at the mention of London. “Are you nervous about the investigation, Jon?”

I hesitate. Am I nervous? Of course I am. “A bit,” I admit. “But this isn’t about that. It’s about clearing my head before I go back. That’s all.”

“Well, your father thinks it’s good for you,” she sighs. “He said just yesterday, ‘Jon’s a sensible man. If this helps, let him do it.’ Of course, he also said you’d probably get bored stiff out there.”

“I’ll be fine,” I say, glancing around the room. “It’s... peaceful.”

“Hmm. Peaceful is good,” she says, then adds, “You’ll still call, won’t you? You know I hate not hearing from you.”

“I’ll switch my phone off most of the time, Mum. That’s part of the plan. If there’s an emergency, you can call the cottage. They have a landline.”

“Switching your phone off,” she says, incredulous. “Honestly, Jon. It’s like you’re going back to the Dark Ages.”You would think I’m thirteen not forty-three years old.

I smile despite myself. “It’s only three weeks.”

“Three weeks,” she echoes. “Alright, then. Just don’t lose your mind out there.”

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