The Lies He Told | PSYCHOLOGICAL THRILLER ROMANCE |

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

On the frigid morning of Monday, I awoke to the disconcerting realisation that my husband had departed the cliff house without a word.

My heart sank as I surveyed the empty bed in the guest room. His pillow was still imprinted with the shape of his head. He did not even bother to fix the duvet.

I was particularly incensed by his ongoing dismissive attitude. He continued to conduct himself as if I were solely responsible for the strain on our marriage.

In the kitchen, I found no trace of him, save for a lone coffee cup on the island, its contents cold to the touch, which only exacerbated my annoyance.

Rather than engaging in a contentious standoff to determine who would break first, I expressed my anger through a lengthy and emotionally charged text message.

The worst part was that I actually wanted to see him. He was the first person I thought about when climbing out of bed and pacing down the hallway in a hot, teary mess.

I had just had a nightmare, a recurring one, where the crazy, psychotic water nymph, with the black eyes of a demonic soul and the sibilant hiss of a treacherous serpent, did her utmost to drag me into the murky depths of the ocean.

In that terrifying instance, I needed to feel my husband's protective arms around me, to hear his reassuring words in my ear and to know that, no matter what, with him in my life, I was safe.

Fuelled by Daniel's ongoing dismissive attitude and refusal to take responsibility for his actions, I resolved to bite my tongue and started the day on a positive note.

I showered early and dressed with care, selecting a pair of jeans, ankle boots, and a casual jumper that struck the perfect balance between professionalism and approachability.

To avoid the error of arriving at The Mystic Willow late and overdressed for the third time in a matter of weeks, I ordered a taxi to drive me into the village. I did not feel comfortable walking through dark, cobbled streets by myself at this time of morning.

The happy-go-lucky taxi driver, seemingly overdosed on caffeine, pulled up at the end of the driveway and pounded at the car horn like he was auditioning to be a drummer for a world-renowned rock band.

I had a pleasant drive into the village, thanks to the idiosyncratic driver and the wild tales of his younger years.

With a wave and bid farewell, I paid the fare and headed straight for the dank alleyway tucked behind the metaphysical shop to help Mr Ross with this morning's delivery.

Jack was already down the alleyway, his crisp suit and polished shoes contrasting sharply with the grimy brick walls.

Reading glasses perched precariously on the tip of his nose, he carried a clipboard in one hand and a steaming cup of tea in the other whilst he engaged in an animated conversation with the delivery driver, the truck's doors wide open, the ramp unfolded and the backlights blinking.

When Jack discerned the soft splatter of approaching footsteps, he looked up and caught me in his sight. His expression was inscrutable, giving no hint as to whether he was pleased or displeased to see me.

"Good morning, Mrs Lewis." His voice was a croaky whisper, like the sound of leaves rustling in the months of winter. "I trust you slept well."

No, I had the worst night's sleep ever, with an unfriendly visit from my ghost and a new fear of drowning unlocked. But he did not need to know that.

"I slept like a baby." Shielding my eyes with a hand to protect them from the intermittent hazard lights of the truck, I raised a box containing freshly baked goods. "I have prepared breakfast."