The Lady and the Locksmith (11 page)

It doesn’t say which year. There’s a harsh black line trailing away from the last word, as if the person who wrote the letter had gotten interrupted before they finished it.

I gasp out loud, but it’s not the words that shock me. I almost knew the contents would be cryptic. He was that kind of guy - the enigmatic stranger at the airport. It’s not the words that disturb me. It’s the way those words are written.

The handwriting.

Fear grips my throat, like a cold hand around my neck. I take a few short sharp gasps for air, and Lydia looks up in surprise.

“What’s wrong, Maddie?”

“Nothing!” I fold the letter up. I can’t let her see.

“What have you got there?”

She reaches for my precious letter, but I snatch it out of her grasp. My heart is pounding in fear. “Nothing! It’s just … a list … of stuff I had to pack,” I say desperately, struggling to concoct something she won’t question. “I think I forgot my cell phone charger. Can you believe that?”

“No,” she says. “Your dad will have got you three spares.”

I stare fixedly out of the window to hide my lies. I’m scared.

Lydia murmurs something about borrowing her charger when we get to the hostel. Then she leaves me alone and goes back to reading her book.

When my heartbeat has slowed down again, I take one more surreptitious glance at the letter, just to make sure I’m not seeing things.

But I’m not. Every detail is etched into my mind, correctly. The ‘H’ in the word Heathrow. The ‘g’ in forgive me – and the way the writer dots every single ‘i’ with a tiny little circle. Every detail is familiar.

I know the handwriting. The way the letters all lean backwards. The person who wrote this letter was left handed, just like me.

The person who wrote this letter was me.