One of Us Is Lying: A totally gripping psychological thriller with a brilliant twist
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One of Us Is Lying
A totally gripping psychological thriller with a brilliant twist
Shalini Boland
Books by Shalini Boland
The Secret Mother
The Child Next Door
The Silent Sister
The Millionaire’s Wife
The Perfect Family
The Best Friend
The Girl from the Sea
The Marriage Betrayal
The Other Daughter
One of Us Is Lying
Available in Audio
The Secret Mother (Available in the UK and US)
The Child Next Door (Available in the UK and US)
The Silent Sister (Available in the UK and US)
The Perfect Family (Available in the UK and US)
The Marriage Betrayal (Available in the UK and US)
The Other Daughter (Available in the UK and US)
Contents
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
The Secret Mother
Hear more from Shalini
Books by Shalini Boland
A Letter from Shalini
The Other Daughter
The Marriage Betrayal
The Girl from the Sea
The Best Friend
The Perfect Family
The Millionaire’s Wife
The Silent Sister
The Child Next Door
Acknowledgements
*
Prologue
She slammed the car door and strode across the gravel drive, wincing as the security light momentarily blinded her. She was vaguely aware of an impending headache, not helped by the fact that someone nearby was playing inhumanly loud music. She should go and tell them to turn it down. Maybe later, because, right now, she just couldn’t dredge up enough energy. It had been another long, difficult day. A day of whispers and sidelong glances – some pitying, some filled with such loathing that it made her catch her breath. Like she was guilty too.
She didn’t know how she was supposed to go on like this. How long she could put up with everything. And what about the kids… what was she going to do about them? They’d gone to stay with her mother for a few weeks, supposedly to give them all some breathing space while it got sorted out. But how would it ever get ‘sorted out’? How? She bit back an angry sob, jammed the key into the front-door lock and gave it a vicious twist, scraping her knuckles on the door frame in the process.
The churning feeling in the pit of her stomach seemed to have become a permanent fixture – a kind of low-level background hum – and as she stepped over the threshold and into the bright hallway, her guts clenched even tighter. Why was she even here? Why was he still here?
‘I’m home!’ She walked through to the kitchen and dumped her bag on the counter. Reached for a couple of headache tablets and poured herself a tumbler of water, waiting for her husband to shuffle, round-shouldered, into the kitchen, to greet her with that hangdog expression he’d recently taken to wearing. The one that gave rise to both sympathy and fury. She downed the tablets and gulped at the water, discomfited by the liquid’s cold snaking descent into her empty, grinding stomach.
‘I’m back!’ Cocking her ear, she waited for his reply. He better not have spent the whole day sleeping. That would really be the final straw after she’d been running around doing everything. Again.
She had a strong urge to hurl the glass of water through the dark kitchen window. Pictured the flying shards of glass. Imagined the gloriously shocking crash, followed by her husband running in, eyes wide, mouth open. But she managed to restrain herself. Instead, she placed the glass carefully on the counter while moving her jaw from side to side, attempting to loosen it. To relax her bowstring-taut muscles. She might as well take a few deep calming breaths while she was at it. Inhaling, she rolled her knotted shoulders back and forth. Tried to shake off the tension and growing despair.
Abandoning the kitchen, she popped her head into the dark lounge, finding it empty. She’d try their bedroom next. Taking the stairs two at a time, she called his name and noted a bitter inflection in her voice that she’d never used before. He’d always been the love of her life. But now… now.
Their bedroom was deserted, the bed unmade, the curtains closed. The kids’ rooms also lay empty, as did the bathroom. Maybe he’d finally stirred himself into action and gone out. But who did she think she was kidding? It had been days, weeks. Jogging back down the stairs, a knot of worry began to tighten in her chest. She returned to the kitchen, dug her phone out of her bag and called his mobile. It went straight to voicemail. She left a terse message:
‘Hey, it’s me. I’m home. Where are you?’
It looked as though he really might have gone out. She’d check the garage, see if his car was still there.
Back out on the driveway, she smelt jasmine and caught the distant shouts of teenagers enjoying the warm summer evening. Closer to home, she could still hear that loud music, heavy and thrashy. Not her sort of music. She hoped whoever it was wouldn’t have it on all night.
She bent to open the garage door, and found it already unlocked. She also realised with a shock that their garage seemed to be the source of the music. Was her husband in here? It wasn’t his taste in music either. Could they have an intruder? Should she call the police?
Without thinking, she yanked up the garage door, ready for a confrontation. His car sat there, the engine grumbling while the music pounded hard and violent. For a brief second, she wondered what the neighbours would think. And then she realised that loud music annoying the neighbours was the least of her worries.
‘Hello?’ she cried, peering into the gloomy interior. But no one could possibly hear her puny voice over the incessant wail of guitars. For goodness sake.
She huffed over to the driver’s side and tapped on the window. It was dark, but she could make out her husband’s profile. What was he doing? He was just sitting there, facing straight ahead without even acknowledging her. He must be in a bad mood. Annoyed with her about something or other. Well that was rich, after everything.
She knocked angrily on the window once again. Still no response. The least he could do was get out and talk to her. She reached for the car handle and yanked open the door, and as she did so, everything seemed to slow down…
The music came at her like an avenging army. She suddenly couldn’t breathe. She was choking, coughing, wheezing. Her eyes watering. What was that smell? Fumes! And throug
h her discomfort, her husband didn’t even turn to her. Didn’t speak. Instead, he tipped forward like a sack of potatoes, his head landing on the steering wheel, hitting the car horn. At the same time, an empty pill bottle rolled off his lap, bouncing onto the concrete floor by her feet.
Then, just like that – as her eyes streamed and her lungs squeezed – she realised he was never going to get out and talk to her. Not ever again. Because her screw-up of a husband was stone-cold dead. And through the shock and the horror, a new kind of anger began to grow.
One
Wednesday
TIA
‘Your Leo’s a real bundle of energy.’ Pip shields her eyes and stares out across the heat-hazed playground as my three-year-old son races around on his scooter with a couple of the other preschoolers, his brown springy curls streaming out from beneath his sun hat.
‘He never stops.’ I glance from Leo to Pip’s son Milo, who’s holding her hand and pressing himself into her legs. I smile down at her fair-haired child, wondering how two boys the same age can be so different. Glancing back at Leo, I’m all prepared for a possible wipeout and tears, my bag already stocked with antiseptic wipes and plasters. But for now Leo’s grin is wide, and his energy is at maximum.
Pip sighs and runs a hand through her short dark hair. ‘I wish Milo would join in more. He’s always glued to my side.’
‘He loves his mummy.’ I give her a smile before glancing down at my watch. ‘They’re late out today.’
‘I hope they’re not much longer,’ Emily huffs. ‘Maisie’s got a dental check-up at four. We’re going to be late. You guys looking forward to Saturday?’
Pip and I nod and grin. The Ashridge Regatta is the town’s social event of the year – a traditional family day where the adults relax, and the kids always have a blast.
‘Are either of you racing this year?’ Emily asks with a toss of her glossy hair.
‘Not this time.’ I shake my head regretfully, remembering the glory days where I used to win the ladies’ race on a regular basis. ‘Ed’s having a go at the pursuit race this year.’ My lovely husband isn’t a natural sailor, but what he lacks in technique, he makes up for with a bucketload of enthusiasm.
‘At last. Here they come.’ Emily points to the broad, dark-haired figure of their teacher, Mr Jeffries, followed by an orderly two-by-two crocodile of five-year-olds. I’m in awe of how he gets them to come out of their classroom so neatly, especially as he’s newly qualified. I can barely manage two kids. How he does it with thirty is a mystery.
‘Leo!’ I wave my son over from the far end of the playground, where he’s in a huddle with some of the other preschool kids, but he’s pretending not to hear me. Sighing and shaking my head, I scan the line of children. I can see Pip’s daughter Sasha and Emily’s daughter Maisie, but I can’t seem to locate Rosie. The three of them are normally inseparable. I call over to my son once again. ‘Leo!’ This time I manage to fix him with a come-here-right-now stare. His shoulders dip and he scoots over, spraying gravel as he comes to a stop. ‘Stay here. We’re going in a minute.’
‘Where’s Rosie?’ he asks in his little croaky voice that’s so cute I can never stay cross at him for long.
‘Mrs Perry!’ Mr Jeffries catches my eye and waves me over.
‘I’ll keep an eye on Leo,’ Pip offers, then lowers her voice, ‘while you have some extra-curricular time with the sexy Mr J.’ She winks.
‘Er, I don’t think so. He looks about sixteen.’ I shake my head and shoot her a grin before walking across the playground to see Rosie’s teacher, wondering where my daughter could be. He’s definitely good-looking – he has that whole dark-haired, brooding Heathcliff vibe going on – but way, way too young. And anyway, I’m a happily married woman.
‘Hi, Mrs Perry.’ Mr Jeffries gives me a friendly nod. ‘I won’t be a minute.’
I wait while he hands off all the children to their parents, starting to feel a little uneasy about what he might have to tell me. Is Rosie ill? In trouble? Hurt? The playground is emptying. Pip waits under the oak tree with her two and Leo. I shrug my shoulders to let her know I have no idea what’s going on. She waves away my concern. ‘It’s fine,’ she calls out. ‘I’ll wait!’
‘Thanks,’ I mouth back.
‘Thank you for waiting, Mrs Perry,’ Mr Jeffries says in his calm, quiet way.
‘That’s okay. Where’s Rosie? Is she all right?’
‘She’s back in the classroom with our teaching assistant, Mrs Miller. Don’t worry, she’s not hurt or ill. Just a bit upset.’
‘Upset?’ We walk over to the classroom together and it’s a relief to reach the shade of the building.
‘Yes, she’s been in tears on and off since lunchtime.’
‘Tears? Why?’
‘She won’t tell me what’s wrong.’
‘That doesn’t sound like Rosie.’ My daughter is usually a happy-go-lucky chatterbox who never keeps anything to herself.
‘That’s what I thought.’ He pushes open the heavy glass door that leads into the bright, airy classroom. ‘I didn’t want to bring her out with the rest of the children. Thought it best if you collected her from the classroom and maybe try to get to the bottom of what’s going on.’
‘Okay, thanks.’
Inside, Rosie is sitting cross-legged on a cushion in the reading corner while Mrs Miller sits next to her, reading a story about a puppy. But my daughter’s thumb is plugged into her mouth and she doesn’t seem to be reacting to the story at all. Rosie hasn’t sucked her thumb for years.
And then, the strangest thing happens – when Rosie sees me, instead of smiling and coming over, her eyes widen, and she looks… panicked?
‘Hi, Rosie.’ I walk over and kneel in front of her, my heart beginning to knock uncomfortably in my chest. Usually, she gives me an enthusiastic welcome, throwing her arms around me and then talking non-stop about her day. But, right now, she’s staring down at the carpet, a tear sliding down her face. ‘Hey, baby, what’s wrong?’
Rosie scowls and I notice her fists clench by her side. I wipe away the tear from her cheek, but she doesn’t even seem to notice.
‘She’s been like this all afternoon,’ Mr Jeffries says in a low voice, crouching by my side.
Mrs Miller confirms this with a nod, closing the storybook and placing it back on the shelf.
‘Rosie, do you want to tell Mummy why you’re sad?’ I ask.
There’s no reaction other than a couple of furious blinks.
‘Did someone upset you? Did they say something unkind?’ She’s never acted like this before. I mean, she’s had a few sulks and tantrums, like any other child, but never this sad silence. I look from Mrs Miller to Mr Jeffries. I get to my feet and move off to the side. Mr Jeffries and Mrs Miller come and join me. ‘What on earth’s happened?’ I whisper.
Mr Jeffries shakes his head. ‘She won’t say. Mrs Miller, did she speak to you while I was outside?’
‘Nothing. Poor little mite looks like she’s in shock or something.’
My heart pounds harder as my protective instincts start to kick in. ‘And she’s been like this since lunchtime?’
Mrs Miller thinks for a moment. ‘Well, that’s when I first saw she wasn’t her usual self.’
‘So, did something happen? Did one of the other children say something to her? Did any of the lunch staff see or say anything?’ I hear the sharpness in my voice, the accusatory tone.
Mr Jeffries doesn’t seem offended. ‘I asked the teachers on playground duty, but none of them noticed anything out of the ordinary.’
I shake my head and grit my teeth, trying to calm down. I’m not the most laid-back where my kids are concerned, and I’ve always found it hard letting go. Rosie’s first day of school broke my heart; it was the first step in her becoming independent; her first proper move away from me, spending all day with people who aren’t her family. But for all my reluctance to be away from her, she’s never been a clingy child, neither of my two are.
When we’re out socially, all I see is the back of their heads as they race off to be with their friends. She loves school, loves her friends. It’s so odd to see her this way.
I stand decisively. ‘I’ll take her home. Maybe she’ll open up to me on the walk back. Come on, Rosie, let’s go.’
She doesn’t move.
‘Rosie, come on, babe, we need to go. Leo’s waiting outside.’
At this, she looks up, her brown eyes huge and glistening. She adores her little brother. Treats him like her baby.
‘He’s wondering why you’re not coming out to see him. Come on.’
She gets up and smooths her skirt. I hold out my hand, worried for a moment that she’ll refuse to take it. Thankfully, she slips her hand into mine, but it feels light and distant, as if she doesn’t want it to be there. Nothing like her usual squeezy grip.
Mrs Miller hands me Rosie’s school bag. We say goodbye and leave the classroom. My daughter feels like a little stranger. My hands are clammy and my stomach flutters. Why is she acting so ill at ease around me?
Back outside in the still heat of the afternoon, the playground is now eerily quiet. I collect Leo from Pip, say goodbye to my friend without elaborating, and the three of us head for home. I decide to take the longer route around the lake to let Leo burn off some energy on his scooter, and to give Rosie a chance to open up.