Rosie Hamilton

I had just wrapped up a reading in Bath, England, still buzzing from the energy, when I decided, on a whim, to come home a day early. My husband, Richard, a lawyer, was in London on business, so I didn’t think it would be much of a disruption. I sent him a quick text to let him know, but got no reply. No big deal.

The house in Richmond, our quiet London suburb, was dark when I arrived that evening. I set my bags down and sat at my desk, opening my laptop to jot down some notes for my next book. After 30 years of writing crime novels, I’ve developed a habit of working whenever I can, even at 63.

Then I heard it—an unmistakable noise from downstairs. At first, it was subtle, but then it came again, louder, like a window creaking open. My blood ran cold. I called out, “Hello?” but only silence followed. Another thud echoed, and my mind raced. I wasn’t a crime writer now—I was a potential victim.

I frantically scanned the room for something to defend myself with. My hands landed on a brass candlestick. It wasn’t much, but it would do. I gripped it tightly as footsteps hurried up the stairs. My heart pounded in my throat.

The door handle turned. The door creaked open. I crouched beneath the desk, holding my breath.

“Hello?” A voice called out, tentative. “Darling?”

It was Richard.

Relief and exasperation hit me at once, still clutching the candlestick like a scene from one of my books. "Richard! Why didn’t you use your key? Or ring the bell?"

He sighed. “My bag was stolen in Hyde Park. Phone, keys, wallet—the lot. I was lucky to get a few quid to make it home. Since I thought you wouldn’t be back until tomorrow, I tried the window.”

Two days later, someone found his bag. The money was gone, but his keys and his old junk phone were still there, like the universe playing a small prank on us.