Chapter 6: The Neighbour Who Stopped Waving
Philippa Marsh answered her door in a gardening apron, trowel still in hand.
When she saw me, something crossed her face — not hostility exactly, but a kind of bracing.
Like she'd been waiting for this and wasn't sure she was ready.
"Lauren," she said.
"I won't take long," I said.
"I just need to ask you something directly."
She looked at the trowel in her hand, then stepped back from the door.
"You'd better come in."
Her kitchen was warm and cluttered in a comfortable way.
She put the kettle on without asking.
"About a year ago," I said, "you stopped speaking to me.
We used to wave across the garden.
You used to knock when you had extra tomatoes from the allotment.
And then one day it just stopped."
Philippa kept her back to me while the kettle heated.
"Did Diane contact you?" I asked.
A long pause.
"She came to my door," Philippa said finally.
She turned around.
"She said she was worried about you.
That you had a history of making accusations against people close to you.
That Ryan was struggling but too loyal to say anything." She looked at her hands.
"She cried, Lauren.
She sat in that chair where you're sitting now and she cried."
"And you believed her."
"She was convincing." Philippa set two mugs on the table.
"She brought photographs."
I went still.
"Photographs of what?"
"Of you.
Arguing with Ryan in the driveway.
Your face looked—" She hesitated.
"Angry.
She said you'd been screaming at him for twenty minutes before that was taken."
"Who took them?"
"I don't know.
She said a neighbour had sent them to her because they were concerned."
I thought about the angle.
Our driveway.
The sightline.
There was only one property with a clear view of our front drive from above.
"The Hendersons," I said.
"Number fourteen."
Philippa looked uncomfortable.
"I really don't know."
"Did she ask you to do anything?
After she showed you the photographs?"
Philippa wrapped both hands around her mug.
"She asked me to let her know if I ever saw anything that worried me.
She gave me a number to call."
"A mobile number?"
"Yes."
"Philippa." I kept my voice even.
"I need you to find that number."
She went to a kitchen drawer, sorted through a small pile of cards and notes, and came back with a torn piece of paper.
She held it out.
I photographed it with my phone before I touched it.
It was a mobile number written in Diane's handwriting.
And underneath it, in the same neat script: *For Ryan's sake.
Thank you.*
"She built a neighbourhood watch," I said quietly.
"Against me."
Philippa sat down.
The colour had left her face.
"Lauren, I'm so sorry.
I thought I was—"
"You thought you were helping.
I know." I looked at her.
"Would you be willing to give a written statement?
About what she told you, the photographs, the number she gave you?"
"Yes." No hesitation.
"Whatever you need."
I stood up to leave.
At the door, Philippa touched my arm.
"She came back once more," she said.
"About four months ago.
She told me that if you ever came to me with complaints about her, it was part of a pattern.
That I shouldn't believe you." Her voice was tight.
"She was covering her tracks before you'd even started."
I nodded slowly.
"She's been doing this for three years," I said.
"She just never expected me to have a camera."
I walked back to my car.
Sandra needed to know about the photographs.
And the number.
And the fact that Diane had been cultivating witnesses against me in my own street — people who thought they were protecting Ryan while she quietly dismantled every person who might one day stand in my corner.
My phone buzzed.
A message from a number I didn't know.
*This is Diane.
I think it's time we spoke woman to woman.
Before the lawyers make this something neither of us can come back from.
Please call me.*
May you like
I stared at it for a long moment.
Then I forwarded it to Sandra and drove away.
