Page 18 of The Gloaming

A battered yellow couch stood in one corner by a set of drawers that contained my paints, paper, pencils and charcoals. At the opposite end, a paint-spattered easel sat by a three-legged stool. Early morning sun flooded the room, and dust motes danced on the air currents around me, swirling in patterns my paintbrush could never capture. I sighed. Okay, I’d made it up here. Now what?

The light was too beautiful to ignore, so I dragged the sofa from the corner into the middle of the room and grabbed a sketchbook from my desk. The urge to draw had been growing fainter for years – my time was pretty much eaten up by life-or-death situations instead – but right now, something was tugging at the edges of my consciousness, and I wanted to get it down before I lost the feeling.

Splaying my fingers across the heavy paper, I let my pencil make its own decisions, its lead a familiar weight in my hand.The shapes and lines were meaningless at first, without context on an expanse of white. Little by little, features took form, and soon the face became familiar. I shivered, pulling my cardigan more closely around me as I held the result at arm’s length.

A strong jaw swept up toward a dark hairline; heavy waves of hair fell across a forehead – too long for the shape of his face. High, wide cheekbones melted into a smooth brow, the hunter eyes beneath shadowed and crinkled with the ghost of laughter. A straight nose and sculpted lips completed the image, pulled into a half-smile. Apparently my subconscious had been dwelling on my stranger. Cole.

Before I stopped to consider it, I’d crossed the room for my pastels. In short, quick movements, I highlighted the warm chocolate tones of his hair and the freckles across the bridge of his nose. His eyes were more difficult. None of the colours in my box were quite right, and despite my blending of greens, browns and even blues, I couldn’t find the right combination to create the golden flecks that were so unusual and, well, gorgeous. Apparently ‘genuinely stunning’ wasn’t a standard colour in my pastel set.

I stared hard at the drawing. The resemblance to Jon was still there – I hadn’t imagined it. But now I had a name for him and had heard his voice, the differences were clear. I shook my head, rolled up the sketch and snapped an elastic band over it. Now wasn’t the time for my musings, but I still wanted to finish it. I shoved it in my satchel to think about later, and my stomach gave a loud growl.

As always, time had flown while I was drawing. I made myway slowly downstairs, bringing the satchel with me, though I couldn’t have said why. Cooking was more of a Tom thing, really, but I could hunt in the kitchen, too, and soon tracked down a tin of soup. A glance at the kitchen clock said it was almost one.

I stirred the pan, pondering the drawing. No. Thinking about Cole. It wasn’t only his face that had been familiar – his voice, his mannerisms, even his laugh made me feel like I’d met him before. But I knew I hadn’t. I’d remember. So why couldn’t I get him out of my head?

I wondered what Maggie would make of him. She’d probably tease me mercilessly about meeting a mysterious Scot in the dark, but her eyes would light up at the romance of it all. Fuck knows, I had no other female friends to share this sort of thing with – even if I did have to fudge half of the story.

I grabbed a bowl from the nearest cupboard and served up. There was no harm in heading into the shop early tomorrow, before the morning rush. Maggie could fill me in on her date with Tom too, since I knew he’d just roll his eyes about Cole and be oh-so-evasive about dinner.

The soup was hot, tangy and warming in the cold of the old house, and I savoured it slowly in the chair by the bay window, watching the odd passerby hurry past. November had turned cold fast, and I didn’t envy those stuck outside in the chill. Somewhere deep in the house, the thermostat clicked on. Warm air from the radiator by my feet washed over me, and sleep followed.

I woke with a gasp to a shrill, piercing sound that jolted me out of my seat. Grabbing my phone, I saw it was Tom.

“What’s up?”

“Erin?” His voice was unexpectedly ragged.

“Aren’t you supposed to be out with Maggie?” I asked, glancing out of the window at the fading daylight.

“I’m at her flat. I need you to get here. Now.” Something was wrong. My heart plummeted. It never occurred to me to stop and think whether my ankle was fit for driving – I’d have to manage.

“I’m on my way.”

Twenty minutes later, I pulled up behind an ambulance and two police cars. I spotted Tom, perched on the low wall in front of a stone building that looked to have once been a school. The streaky pink light of the violet hour contrasted with his dark hair and jacket, and as I watched he lowered his face into his hands.

I made my way over and sat beside him, glancing around for some clue as to what was going on. A pair of police officers nearby shot me a look, speaking amongst themselves. “What happened?” I asked, already dreading the answer.

He moved stiffly, indicating an open window with ugly floral glass behind us – probably a bathroom. Dried tear tracks marked his cheeks, making him appear much younger than he was.

“I got here for our date and tried knocking, but she didn’t answer. I called, and I could hear her phone ringing…”

I still wasn’t sure what he was getting at.Or you don’t want to get it.

“Is she… hurt?”

Tom shook his head and glared at the two officers who werestill standing by the door, speaking in undertones to a paramedic. A small group had gathered by the barriers that had been placed a few metres down the street. “They think she killed herself.”

A shiver of horror made its way down my spine. This couldn’t be happening.

“She can’t have,” he continued. “I saw her an hour ago at the shop, and she was fine. We booked a table for tonight, so she can’t have, right?”

He stared at me, but I didn’t have the answers he needed.

“It’s like—” He cut himself off.

Jonathan. I didn’t say it, but there wasn’t a single part of me that believed this was a coincidence. It hadn’t even been a week, but Maggie’s death was one more piece in the puzzle, and the message was clearer than ever: this was personal.

I swallowed, chewing it over. “Was it the same? With the… you know, the wire?” A police officer moved towards us. “I know it’s not—”

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