What Happened Next? Episode Four

Episode FOUR

A FAMILIAR FACe

After finding nothing else of note in the garden, the police finally left. They assured me that forensics would be back in the morning, but for now, the garden had been taped off and I was left with strict instructions not to touch anything and to call the minute Mark returned home. I paced around in the kitchen for a long time, clutching my phone, willing my husband to call or text me back, hopefully with a justification that would explain why that poor girl’s phone was nestled underneath the petunias. To my horror, he remained radio silent.

Every time a car passed outside, I rushed to the window, convinced it was him, but it never was. Eventually, I gave up and made myself a cup of tea I had no intention of drinking, just to keep my hands busy. As I clutched it tightly, I kept replaying the night in my head—the phone, the blood, the look on the detectives’ faces—and every time, my thoughts circled back to Mark. Where the hell was he? Why wasn’t he answering? Did he have something to do with this?

When the knock finally came, it was so ordinary that it almost broke me. Not loud, not frantic, just three steady taps on the front door, as if someone had come to deliver a parcel. I barely remembered stumbling through the hallway to answer it, only that my hands were violently trembling as I reached for the handle. I didn’t bother checking the peephole either, because I just needed him to be on the other side. I needed this all to be some terrible misunderstanding that Mark could fix, the way he fixed dripping taps, flat tyres, and broken boilers.

I yanked open the door, ready to collapse into his arms with relief.

But it wasn’t Mark.

Standing on my doorstep, looking utterly unruffled despite the late hour, was a man I recognised immediately, even though I had only seen him once before. He looked just like his photo: the same beard, the same slicked-back hair shot through with grey, and the same calm, heavy-lidded eyes I had seen on his website. It was Philip Anthony Smith, the so-called author whose email had started all this. As I tried to scrape my jaw off the floor, he simply smiled back, polite as a neighbour popping round for sugar.

“Good evening, Dolcie,” he said warmly, like we were old friends.

I froze for a second, unable to process what I was seeing. Although I knew better, he didn’t look dangerous. He didn’t look like someone who had sent a cryptic threat, taken secret pictures of my home for his book covers, or known things he shouldn’t know. If anything, he looked…normal.

“What are you doing back here?” I said, my voice wavering. I made no move to open the door further. If anything, I wanted to slam it shut.

He gave me a little shrug, like this was all perfectly reasonable. “I thought we should have a chat. In person. May I come in?”

I blinked at him, the cold night air sneaking in behind his shoulder. “It’s late,” I said, gripping the door so tightly my knuckles ached. “This isn’t a good time.”

“I won’t take long.” He smiled again, showing a slice of white teeth. “I just thought you might have questions.”

A thousand questions screamed in my head, but I didn’t let them out. I glanced up and down the street, finding it completely empty. There were no lingering police, no neighbours peeking out, not even a late-night dog-walker. It was just me and this man who had managed to turn my entire world upside down with a couple of emails.

“Did you have something to do with that missing girl?” I managed.

He laughed—a small, dry sound.

“Oh, come on, Dolcie. Do you really think I would return here if I did?”

Something about the way he said my name made my skin crawl. I wondered, briefly, if I could reach my phone and dial 999 before he forced his way in, but he didn’t move a muscle. He kept his hands in his coat pockets and waited, as though he genuinely expected me to invite him inside for supper.

“I think you should go,” I said, forcing the words out, trying to sound braver than I felt.

He tilted his head, looking almost disappointed. “All right,” he said softly. “But if you change your mind, you know how to reach me. And Dolcie—” He leaned in, lowering his voice so only I could hear. “Be careful who you trust.”

I stared at him, my breath fogging in the air, trying to keep my face blank. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Before I had a chance to ask anything else, he was already stepping back down the path, hands still in his pockets, whistling a tune I couldn’t quite place. He didn’t look back and simply disappeared into the night, swallowed up by the shadows between streetlights.

I closed the door, bolted it, and leaned my forehead against the wood. My hands were shaking. My tea sat untouched on the counter, stone cold. Upstairs, the house groaned quietly in the wind, and outside, the police tape fluttered against the garden gate. The ordinary world felt so far away. For a long time, I stood there, listening to my own heartbeat, waiting for the next knock.

I prayed that it would be Mark.

Thank you to Rachel Monroe from Cedar Rapids, Iowa for her contribution to this episode!