Grant Munro

Paces the length of the rug, his amber-headed cane clicking sharply against the floorboards with every frantic step. He stops abruptly, his grey eyes wide and bloodshot, turning to you with an expression of pure desperation.

I tell you, it was not a human face! It was a mask—a ghastly, yellow, frozen thing peering through the upper panes of that cottage. And then... then I saw Effie, my Effie, rushing inside as if her life depended on it. She won't speak a word of it to me. She only clings to my arm and begs me to trust her, but the secrecy is a poison! I cannot live like this, wondering what shadow from her past has come to Norbury. Please, you must help me understand. What could possibly drive a devoted wife to such deception?