Bright and Deadly Things

Lexie Elliott

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Informationen zum Autor Lexie Elliott grew up in Scotland, at the foot of the Highlands. She graduated from Oxford University, whe...

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Beschreibung

Informationen zum Autor Lexie Elliott grew up in Scotland, at the foot of the Highlands. She graduated from Oxford University, where she obtained a doctorate in theoretical physics. A keen sportswoman, she works in fund management in London, where she lives with her husband and two sons. The rest of her time is spent writing or thinking about writing, and juggling family life and sport. Klappentext A remote back-to-basics mountaintop retreat in the French Alps turns deadly as an Oxford fellow finds herself in the crosshairs of her late husband's dangerous secrets. The Chalet des Anglais should be the ideal locale for recently widowed Oxford don Emily to begin cutting through the fog of her grief. With no electricity, running water, or access by car, the rustic chalet nestled at the foot of the snow-topped Alps should afford Emily space to heal. Joining her will be a collection of friends from the university, as well as other fellows, graduates, and undergraduates. Something feels off, though, and heightens Emily's existing anxiety. Tension among the guests is palpable and as hostilities grow, Emily begins to wonder if the chalet's dark history has cast a shadow over the retreat. When a student disappears after Emily's room is ransacked and someone tries to hack into her computer, Emily realizes that she had better separate friend from foe and real from imaginedor the next disappearance may be her own. . . Leseprobe 1 There's someone in the house. I know it as soon as I'm inside, though I couldn't say how. Some indescribable change in the air, perhaps, or a sound I hadn't consciously registered. A wave of adrenaline sweeps over my skin, prickling all hair follicles on end. I stand frozen, just inside the still open front door, a layer of warm air and sunshine pressing at my back and the shadowy cool of the terraced house silently waiting for me. But it's the wrong type of silence. I stand motionless, staring, my ears straining to catch any sound above my own racing heartbeat, which is thumping in my ears, thumping in my throat; waiting for a moving shadow or the thud of a footfall or even just the tiniest of creaks-but nothing comes. The house, the intruder, me: we are all holding our breath. I squint down the corridor that leads to the open-plan kitchen/living area at the back. Beyond the rectangle of the doorframe, I can see the bright saturated green of the back garden's lawn through the floor-to-ceiling windows at the rear of the house, verdant in the sunshine after the rain we've been having. Call the police, I think. Call the police, call the neighbors and scream until somebody-anybody-comes . . . But even if I scream, no one will come: the residential street outside is quiet, drowsy with the heat; and anyway, most of my neighbors will be either at work or away for their summer vacation. And what can I tell the police? Come quickly because I have an absolute conviction that there's an intruder in my house, even though I haven't actually looked? But I know it's true: there's someone in the house. I can sense it with a pressing urgency, as if there's music playing at a pitch that's below my range of hearing, but nonetheless felt. Do something. Find something, some kind of weapon. Wait-I know . . . I check that my phone is easily accessible in my pocket, then slide my rucksack off my shoulder, easing it to the floor as quietly as possible-though surely whoever is here must have heard me come in-before reaching out slowly, silently, to the coat cupboard that is just beside me. My heartbeat is a hammering thud that must be audible streets away. I know the cupboard door will squeak, regardless of whether I open it slowly or fast. Fast, I decide. Fast, and use the noise. I take a deep breath. Go. "Get out of my house; I'm calling the police right now!" I yell, and keep yelling as I yank the screeching cupboard door...