Don't Turn Off the Lights – Part 1: The Locked Study

The house on Heriot Row had three floors, a marble staircase and twelve rooms that Rowan was told to keep neat. The owner was in Singapore for a month. The agency had sent a short email and a long list of rules. The most important was on the last line, in bold.

Do not, under any circumstances, enter the study on the second floor.

Rowan had read that line six times, then made a cup of tea and climbed the stairs to look at the door.

It was painted dark green, with a brass handle that didn't turn. There was no keyhole. Just a smooth panel and a faint smell of old paper.

That night the lights began to flicker.

Not all at once. First the chandelier in the hall, then the lamp in the living room, then the bulb above the kitchen sink. Each time Rowan went to check, the switch was in the right position, and the bulb was warm. Each time the lights came back on, there was a fresh note on the kitchen table, in neat block capitals.

DO NOT TURN OFF THE LIGHTS.

On the third night, the notes changed.

SOMEONE IS STILL IN THE HOUSE. ASK ELI.

Rowan sat very still at the kitchen table with the note between her fingers. Then she picked up her phone and found the only name on the agency's contact list that was not the owner's: a man called Eli Stewart, listed as brother, emergency contact.

He answered on the second ring.

"Who is this?" His voice was low and clipped, with an accent that sounded like Glasgow after a long time in London.

"My name is Rowan. I'm house-sitting for your brother's place on Heriot Row. Someone's been leaving me notes."

There was a silence so long she thought the line had dropped.

"Lock the front door," said Eli. "Turn on every light. I'm twenty minutes away. Don't go near the study."

"Who is in the study?"

"That's what I'm trying to find out," he said. "Please, Rowan. Trust me for twenty minutes."

She looked at the note in her hand, then at the lights above her head, glowing steadily. Then she went to lock the door.

The doorbell rang eighteen minutes later. Rowan opened it on a tall man in a dark wool coat, with rain on his shoulders, sharp grey eyes and a face that was tired, anxious and somehow very kind.

"You're Rowan," said Eli.

"And you're the emergency contact."

"I'm the one who's been sleeping in his car outside this house for a week," Eli said quietly. "Because someone's been using the study to hide something, and I think it's me they're trying to frame."

Upstairs, somewhere behind the green door, a floorboard creaked.

Rowan went very still. Eli's hand came to rest on her arm, lightly, steadily.

"Green?" he asked, low.

"Green," Rowan breathed. "Let's go up."