The sense of security Nye's presence had given me faded away with the last rumbles of his bike engine, leaving me alone with my worries. And that got me thinking about Tate's words from last night: How well did I really know Nye?

The answer was, not at all. Time to call Sophie.

She answered on the first ring, which was only to be expected from a girl who went into withdrawal if she got more than three feet from her mobile.

"Ooh, Liv, how have things been? Tell me Nye came?"

"He came, but his arrival gave me a bit of a surprise."

"Oh, dang it, I was going to text you, wasn't I? But I went out to a fashion show, and then there was an after-party, and oh my gosh, there was this model, and... Hang on—where were we?"

"You forgot to tell me Nye was coming."

"Oops. Sorry about that. Isn't he dreamy, though? I went to a pool party he was at the year before last, and wow, he must spend hours in the gym. He has an eight-pack for sure. And he most definitely does not need to stuff socks down there, if you know what I mean."

Great. Now that I had that picture in my mind, I'd never get it out. "Too much information, Sophie."

"Gosh, sorry, I keep forgetting you've got more important things going on. Have there been any more problems?"

"Only some paint thrown at my door. And a dozen eggs."

"Well, don't worry. Nye will sort everything out, I'm sure of it."

"That was what I wanted to ask about. I don't know anything about him, and he seems awfully young to have had much experience at this kind of thing."

"He's a year older than my brother, which makes him...uh, twenty-seven. They met at some martial arts class when they were teenagers. Taekwondo I think it was. Nye's a black belt, did you know that? Oh, no, I guess not. What was it you were asking about?"

"His experience as an investigator?"

"Well, he's been doing it since he turned eighteen. I remember him spending a week on my brother's bedroom floor after he first got the job because he had a massive argument with his father when he decided not to go to uni."

"But he seems so clever."

"Exactly. Anyway, Nye moved out of home and went it alone."

At least he'd been doing the job for a few years. That gave me some comfort. "Do you know any more about his work?"

"Not really, but he must be good at it, because I bet that sexy motorbike he rides cost a fortune. I heard him telling my brother he had the pipes customised, whatever that means. Did you see it? Or did he come in his car?"

Car? Nye had a car? Nye had a car, and he'd left it at home and made me get on that...that death trap?

Oh, he'd be getting a piece of my mind tomorrow, that was for sure.

"He came on his bike."

"Isn't it awesome? I've been badgering him to take me for a ride for ages, but he keeps resisting. One day I'll get that tight ass between my thighs. One day... And I wouldn't mind helping him out of his leathers afterwards, either."

My nether regions heated up at the mere thought of that, but I forced my mind back to the task at hand.

"You're married, Sophie."

"But I still have eyes."

"Do you know anything else about Nye?"

"He's gorgeous, he's not hurting for money, and he has a steady job. What more do you need?"

"I suppose you've got a point."

I'd forgotten how one-track Sophie's mind could be. Well, two-track; men and shopping.

"Of course I do. Anyway, he's Mr. Tall, Dark, and Mysterious. He doesn't talk about himself much."

Just my luck. "Thanks for sending him, anyway."

"No probs. Good luck with the whole stalker thing, and don't forget to call me if you get any dirt on Nye. Or shirtless photos."

We said our goodbyes and hung up. Shirtless photos? I had more chance of riding a unicycle on a tightrope than getting up close and personal with a man like Nye. Sometimes, I thought Sophie lived on another planet.

Having learned little except that Nye could be a conniving git, I turned to my old friend Google. Twenty minutes of fruitless searching later, I gave up. Either Nye Holmes didn't exist online, or the internet disliked me as much as everyone else.

Nye didn't even have a Facebook account. Or Twitter. How could he have avoided social media entirely? Although on reflection, that wasn't necessarily a bad thing, because at least it meant he hadn't seen me cavorting with a stripper.

For completeness' sake, I searched for Tate as well. He didn't share Nye's reserve, it seemed, because the timeline of his life was laid out for all to see. Photos from a London wine bar, one of him at his desk, a whole collection from St. Andrews last weekend. Tate teeing off, Tate driving the golf buggy, Tate leaning on a golf club. At least I knew he'd been telling the truth about that.

Edward had been on a number of golf trips which I now doubted involved the type of hole-in-one he'd originally claimed. I couldn't go through that heartache again. And as if I'd invoked some kind of weird telepathic connection, my phone rang. Tate calling.

"How are you, darling? Have there been any more incidents?"

"No, thankfully. Everything seems quiet."

"That's wonderful news. I was calling on the off chance you'd be free for lunch on Thursday?"

Ooh, lunch? I was about to accept when I remembered Nye's friend was booked for that day. "I'd love to, but a man's coming round to fit new locks. Nye organised it for me. I could do tomorrow or Friday, though?"

"I do hope you're being careful with that chap. Other than Thursday lunchtime, my diary's jam-packed until Friday evening. How about dinner?"

"That would be lovely. And I am being careful. Nye seems genuine, and he's even arranged for a security patrol to check on the cottage at night."

"At least he's doing something constructive. It's high time more people got concerned about your welfare. Have you heard anything from Graham?"

"No, not yet."

Tate tutted down the line. "I've a good mind to have a word with the old fool. I'll call him today. He can't keep sticking his head in the sand over this."

"Thanks. I appreciate it."

His voice softened. "Anything for you, Olivia. I'll pick you up at seven on Friday."

At least I had something to look forward to. I just had to get through the rest of the week first.

When I took my parcels to the post office that afternoon, Betty managed a greeting and a half-smile, which was a marked improvement on recent visits. Looked as though Carol really did have some clout.

But that moment of brightness in the day was marred when Nye called at five.

"Christopher Johnston's a bust. He's out of juvie now, but on the first night you were burgled, he was in hospital having his appendix removed."

Dammit. I'd hoped we were finally getting somewhere. "Thanks for letting me know." Nye stayed on the line, but the silence grew painful. "Is there something else?"

"Have you met a guy called Laurence Hazell? Larry?"

"The name doesn't ring any bells."

"Son of Betty Hazell."

"Betty in the post office?"

"Yeah. Do you talk to her much?"

"We chatted most days when I first arrived, but she gave me the cold shoulder like everybody else after the rumours started. Why?"

"Be careful what you say to her for the moment. Larry's had a few issues with the police up north."

"What kind of issues?"

"He developed a fixation with a girl in his class at uni, and it escalated."

"What do you mean, escalated?"

"The cops found him hiding in her bathroom one night with a pipe wrench."

I sagged back onto one of the kitchen chairs and gripped my phone harder. "What was he doing there?"

"According to his police statement, she'd mentioned her tap was leaking, so he decided to pay her a surprise visit to fix it. Found the door allegedly unlocked, so he let himself in and got on with the job, which is bullshit. He didn't turn any lights on, for starters. But he did have a good lawyer, so he got six weeks of psychiatric treatment and a restraining order, and then they let him go again."

"Where is he now?" I couldn't keep the quake out of my voice.

"We're not sure yet."

I thought back to my conversations with Betty, but try as I might, I couldn't recall her saying anything about her son. Had she mentioned me to him? Had I seen him in passing and not realised? What if he'd been one of the strangers standing in the post office or browsing in Floyd's grocery store?

"How scared should I be?" I asked Nye.

"I didn't call to worry you. The patrol car will be back tonight, and chances are, Larry isn't even in the area. Just don't open your door to any strangers."

After that piece of news, I baked a fruit cake and made a batch of stew. I kidded myself that it was a cost-saving measure, that by cooking in bulk and freezing portions I'd save money, but really it was just to keep myself busy. If I concentrated on measuring and chopping, my mind couldn't drift to more sinister affairs.

Like the person out there, watching me. Where were they right now? The trees at the back of the garden seemed to close in, dark and foreboding. A stalker could easily hide there, and I'd never notice. They'd know I was alone, and...

Olivia! Stop it.

Twiglet wove through my legs, providing a welcome distraction. When he wouldn't stop miaowing, I gave him a spoonful of stew, and he licked it up then brushed against me, pleading for more.

"Okay, okay. Here you go."

He'd gone off cat food in the last week, probably because I kept giving him leftovers, but he was such a sweet cat, and when he turned those big eyes on me, I couldn't resist.

He repaid that generosity by nearly breaking my neck as I climbed the stairs to bed, but at least when we got there, he climbed under the covers with me like a feline hot-water bottle. The good news was that I had something to keep me warm at night without running up a huge electricity bill, but I couldn't help wishing it were someone.

As I closed my eyes, I found myself thinking of Tate. Handsome, well-bred, wealthy—he was perfect for me, on paper at least. But when I was with him, why didn't my pulse race? Like the way it did with Nye, for example. Now, there was a man unsuitable in every way, but whenever I got within three feet of him, my heart pounded like a jackhammer.

Thoughts of Tate turned into dreams of Nye as sleep claimed me. And thanks to my conversation with Sophie, those fantasies didn't feature him wearing very many clothes, merely a smile, a pair of tight briefs, and that leather jacket I absolutely didn't like. What was wrong with me?

I woke with a start just as he was about to peel the briefs off, and I cursed into the darkness, angry with myself for waking up and also for having had that filthy dream in the first place.

"Twiglet, I've lost my mind."

He barely stirred, just curled himself into a tighter ball as a creak sounded downstairs. That sound made the hairs on the back of my neck stand up, and I froze, listening to the near silence. The odd noise was to be expected, right? Old houses did that.

Hold on—what was that click? That sounded like the kitchen door.

Outside, a sliver of moon glimmered through the window and reflected in the cracked mirror above the dresser. Superstition said breaking a mirror brought seven years of bad luck, and by my calculations, the burglar should be well into double figures now.

I heard another creak, then another, too rhythmical to be the house settling. No, it was more like somebody walking across the downstairs hallway. I sat straight up, pulling the duvet around me as if six togs and a ladybird-print cover could protect me from whoever was there.

Sweat popped out of my pores as panic took over. What the hell should I do?