Once the food was made and wrapped in tinfoil, stashed in the warmed oven, I decided to go have a quick shower before getting Connor and Amie out of bed. I was on my way back up the stairs when I noticed the white slip of paper taped to the door of Ronan’s study. Was it there before? I couldn’t remember seeing it, but then again I’d been concentrating on finding the kitchen so I could easily have missed it.
I wavered. Ronan was so specific about his study that I almost didn’t want to go and see what was taped to the door. It was probably a Post-it or something, reminding him to do something when he got up. I left notes for myself like that all the time. They say curiosity killed the cat, though, and it had already damn well near killed me a couple of times. It had certainly ended my marriage. I’d come home early from school one afternoon with a migraine and heard a strange noise upstairs. I’d gone up to our bedroom and found Will in bed with Melissa, and that had been that. So clichéd. If I hadn’t gone up there to investigate, there was every chance I would have still been married to Will. He was a coward; he probably would have continued screwing my best friend behind my back, but he would never have had the courage to leave.
Fuck it. I slipped down the hallway and stopped in front of Ronan’s study. Confusion swamped me when I saw that it wasn’t a Post-it note at all; it was a small, white envelope, and my name was written on it in blocky black biro. Why on earth would Ronan be leaving me notes taped to his study door? Wouldn’t he have slipped it under my bedroom door if he needed to leave me a note? Or on the kitchen counter, where I was more likely to find it? The study was tucked away from the rest of the house. You didn’t need to pass it on your way to any of the other rooms. It was a miracle I’d even seen the note as I started up the stairs.
I pulled the envelope from the door and opened it.
Ophelia,
Please follow these instructions exactly. Call 825 730 4414 and ask for Robert Linneman. Ask him to come to the house immediately.
Following that, call 911 and ask for the police. Explain that I am dead, and that my body is hanging in the study.
Do not come into the study.
Do not allow the children into the study.
Keep the children calm.
Keep the children safe.
Ronan.
My heart was a hand grenade in my chest, and I felt like I had just fumbled the pin.
What?
I re-read the letter at least three times before I felt bile rising up in the back of my throat, burning there—I was going to be sick. I dropped the note on the floor and knocked on the study door, holding my breath. It wasn’t true. It couldn’t be fucking true. If this was Ronan’s idea of some kind of sick joke, then he was in for the shock of his life when I packed up my shit and left. No way I was hanging around for this sick, twisted kind of a trick.
“Ronan?”
Nothing.
Loud, this time.
“Mr. Fletcher?”
Still nothing.
Oh, god.
Without thinking, alarm rising through me, coming in crippling waves, I reached out and tried the door handle. The round knob wouldn’t even turn; it was clearly locked. “Shit. Goddamn it.” I tried rattling it, but the thing was solid, wasn’t budging an inch. Could I get into the study through a window outside? I had no idea. It was worth trying. I snatched the letter from the floor and ran back through the house to the front door, flung it open and raced outside. I wasn’t wearing shoes. Pain lanced through the soles of my feet as I tore across the gravel driveway. The side of the house was grass, thankfully. No more sharp rocks. Mud spattered up my legs, rank brown water soaking my pajama bottoms. It squelched up between my toes.
The first window was the living room window. The second window was the kitchen. It was the third window around the side of the house that belonged to the study. My palms slapped against the limestone on either side of the huge glass pane and I lurched forward, trying to see in.
I hadn’t even noticed that it was still dark. Dawn was moments away, but right now the sky was still a blanket of stars and faint, wispy clouds. There were no lights on inside the study. I had to press my hands against the glass, adjusting my pupils to the darkness before I could make out anything beyond obscure shapes and shadows.
And then I saw.
Bare feet.
The bare feet I’d felt giddy over yesterday. They were spinning very slowly in a counter clockwise motion. Ronan was still wearing the same simple plain black t-shirt and faded out black jeans he’d worn all day yesterday. His body was suspended in mid-air, hands relaxed by his sides. Slowly, slowly, his body spun, and then he was facing me, his head tilted to one side, eyes open and staring into oblivion. He was dead. There was no two ways about it. He was most definitely dead.