The Closer You Get
Page 1
Praise for The Girl I Used to Be
“Torjussen knows how to deliver a teasing, suspenseful, and twisty read!”
—Shari Lapena, New York Times bestselling author of An Unwanted Guest
“[An] engrossing psychological thriller. . . . Paula Hawkins fans will find a lot to like.”
—Publishers Weekly
“[A] gripping psychological thriller. . . . Stories featuring young, unreliable female narrators are, of course, a seemingly unstoppable trend, but this one is better than most. Readers will genuinely feel for Gemma as her life threatens to unravel; they’ll also find . . . some memorable villains within the daily-life-gone-wrong nightmare that rings only too true.”
—Booklist
Praise for Gone Without a Trace
“Mary Torjussen spins a clever, fast-paced tale with a twist so sharp it will give readers whiplash.”
—Tami Hoag, #1 New York Times bestselling author of The Boy
“Has one of the most interesting narrators I’ve ever come across. Suspenseful and subtle, this novel plays with all of your expectations. Not to be missed!”
—Shari Lapena
“Gripping suspense with a chilling twist.”
—Meg Gardiner, Edgar® Award–winning author of Into the Black Nowhere
“[A] mind-blowing and heartbreaking premise, and I couldn’t read fast enough as the book revealed a series of twisting and even jaw-dropping surprises. This thriller thrills, but it’s grounded by complicated, complex, and sometimes deeply flawed characters I couldn’t stop thinking about. An absorbing, shocking thriller!”
—David Bell, USA Today bestselling author of Layover
“Torjussen draws you into Hannah’s plight until you’re wrapped in it like the coils of an anaconda. It’s a maze of madness and obsession that holds you until the final devastating line of the story.”
—Suspense Magazine
“The deliciously dark conclusion is perfect for this tale of all-consuming obsession, jealousy, and the secrets that lie beneath the most perfect of exteriors.”
—Publishers Weekly
“[A] creepy, adrenaline-fueled thriller. . . . Fans of Clare Mackintosh and J. T. Ellison will find plenty here to love. The concept is unique, with a clever setup that hooks on page one. . . . The writing is sleek, the pace is propulsive, and the tale’s tension remains palpable throughout. In a subgenre where third-act twists are the norm, Gone Without a Trace is the rare domestic thriller that simultaneously shocks, challenges convention, and delivers an important social message. . . . The book’s final page is guaranteed to chill.”
—Mystery Scene Magazine
“Torjussen delivers an absolutely thrilling novel with an ending as shocking and satisfying as any I’ve read.”
—Diane Les Becquets, national bestselling author of The Last Woman in the Forest
“Torjussen’s debut novel combines tightly wound suspense with an unfolding surprise ending, making for a gripping page-turner from start to finish. Fans of Gillian Flynn’s Gone Girl and Alafair Burke’s If You Were Here will love this.”
—Library Journal (starred review)
ALSO BY MARY TORJUSSEN
Gone Without a Trace
The Girl I Used to Be
BERKLEY
An imprint of Penguin Random House LLC
penguinrandomhouse.com
Copyright © 2020 by Mary Torjussen
Readers Guide copyright © 2020 by Mary Torjussen and Penguin Random House LLC
Penguin Random House supports copyright. Copyright fuels creativity, encourages diverse voices, promotes free speech, and creates a vibrant culture. Thank you for buying an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part of it in any form without permission. You are supporting writers and allowing Penguin Random House to continue to publish books for every reader.
BERKLEY and the BERKLEY & B colophon are registered trademarks of Penguin Random House LLC. The Edgar® name is a registered service mark of the Mystery Writers of America, Inc.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: Torjussen, Mary, author.
Title: The closer you get / Mary Torjussen.
Description: First Edition. | New York : Berkley, 2020.
Identifiers: LCCN 2019034715 (print) | LCCN 2019034716 (ebook) |
ISBN 9781984804587 (paperback) | ISBN 9781984804594 (ebook)
Subjects: LCSH: Man-woman relationships. | Adultery—Fiction. |
Marriage—Fiction. | GSAFD: Suspense fiction. | Love stories.
Classification: LCC PR6120.O75 C58 2020 (print) | LCC PR6120.O75 (ebook)
| DDC 823/.92—dc23
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2019034715
LC ebook record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2019034716
First Edition: April 2020
Cover design by Colleen Reinhart
Cover image by Laura Kate Bradley / Arcangel Images
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
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Contents
Praise for Mary Torjussen
Also by Mary Torjussen
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
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
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
&n
bsp; Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
Chapter 69
Chapter 70
Chapter 71
Chapter 72
Chapter 73
Chapter 74
Chapter 75
Chapter 76
Chapter 77
Chapter 78
Chapter 79
Acknowledgments
Readers Guide
About the Author
For Fiona Collins and Caz Finlay,
the best friends a writer could wish for.
And for Rosie and Louis, love always.
PROLOGUE
That last walk down the stairs seemed to be in slow motion. The carpet was soft and yielding beneath her feet, and she could feel the fresh gloss paint of the handrail as she clutched it for balance. The late-evening sun shone through the glass door panels, lighting the hallway in a kaleidoscope of colors, and the heavy, sweet scent of roses in the vase on the console table would stay with her forever.
Her head buzzed with pressure and for a moment there on the last few steps her vision blurred and she felt she might fall. But then the sun shifted and everything sharpened into super focus.
The body—for then she knew it was a body, and no longer alive—was twisted and lay at an awkward angle. The giveaway was the blood, though. It was coming from the ear. That’s never a good thing, is it?
Gently, she knelt and put her index and middle fingers on the carotid artery, just to the side of the windpipe. She couldn’t feel anything at all except warm, damp skin. There was no pulse of blood, no sensation of life. Again and again she pressed her fingers down, hardly knowing what she hoped for, but still there was nothing.
Her legs shaking, she scrambled to her feet, unsure what to do, when the room darkened momentarily.
Startled, she looked up.
In the hall mirror she saw the reflection of someone staring through the window at her.
She knew then they had seen everything.
CHAPTER 1
Ruby
The journey home seemed to take forever. I’d left the office early for a change, determined to get ahead of the evening rush, but still the traffic snarled to a halt within minutes. That’s not uncommon on a Friday evening, but it was usually a relief; this was the first time in years that I was impatient to be home.
It was a hot and humid summer afternoon in late June. The sky was overcast and showers threatened. The car’s air con was on full blast but my skin still prickled with sweat. The radio was on and I flicked from news channel to music as I waited for the cars ahead to move. I couldn’t find anything to focus on. My phone beeped and I glanced at the screen. It was a text from my husband, Tom.
Just left London. Back at 7 x
I read it and replied OK, then added X. I muted my phone and slid it into my handbag. I didn’t want to be disturbed: I needed to think.
Eventually the traffic started up again, with no indication of what had happened. There was no broken-down vehicle, no police cars or ambulance. Nothing but stationary traffic then a sudden release. I put my foot down on the accelerator, glad to be moving, to be on my way.
* * *
• • •
The railway station is a couple of miles from our house and on impulse I turned into its car park instead of carrying straight on home. I needed to check. I had to be certain.
As I drove in, I gave each car I passed a furtive glance. There was just the smallest chance I’d meet him on his way out; I wouldn’t have put it past him to have said he was on the train when he was actually in his car coming home from the station. I had no reason to be there and, if he saw me, he’d assume I was going somewhere or returning. The suspicion would always be there, no matter what I said. But maybe that didn’t matter now. The die was almost cast.
Still, when I finally saw his car I breathed a huge sigh of relief. He’d parked quite a way from the station entrance, and I remembered that morning, when he’d left the house at six for the early train. He’d been annoyed as he couldn’t find his wallet and would have to hurry. I was in bed, feigning sleep, my ears straining to hear what he was doing. Now I could see he hadn’t straightened the wheels before getting out of the car and pictured him braking sharply, reaching for his briefcase on the backseat, and then jumping out and slamming the door after him. I could see his expression, knew his face would be grim, his mouth narrow.
My stomach tightened at the thought, and I quickly left the car park. I needed to get home.
* * *
• • •
Our house looked dim and unwelcoming under the cloudy sky. Automatically, I parked in my regular spot on the road outside the house and quickly looked around. There was no sign of anyone. I’d made sure I was home before my neighbor Oliver arrived. Usually, he and I got back from work just after six and we’d have a chat there on the path between our houses before Tom came home. I was glad he wasn’t there that afternoon, but worried he might turn up at any time. I didn’t want anyone to witness this.
I reversed my car up the driveway to the garage, then went through the garden gate at the back of the house. I opened the kitchen door and listened, but the air was still and all was quiet. I took the key to the shed from its hook and went back outside.
For just a second, when I was unlocking the shed, I held my breath, my stomach tilting at the thought of what I was about to do.
Two large suitcases stood there, just where I’d put them at eight o’clock that morning. Quickly I moved them into the trunk of my car, checking the driveway each time in case I was disturbed. Another bag followed: my cabin bag that I’d bought for my last trip abroad. I hadn’t thought then that I’d use it for this journey, too. Then there were other bags that I’d put in the shed that morning containing towels, bed linen, my hair dryer and toiletries. My laptop. None of my books were there; I didn’t have room in my car to take them. I’d pick them up another day. Last to go into the trunk was a box file with all my documents: my birth certificate, our marriage certificate. Deeds to the house. Insurance. Bank statements. My passport. It had surprised me how much I’d had to take and how much I’d been able to leave. Each time I put a bag into the trunk, I closed it afterward, just in case. I was being paranoid, I knew. Tom wouldn’t be here just yet. I had more than an hour to go.
When everything was in my car, I rearranged the shed so that it didn’t look as though the bags had been there and quickly swept the tiled floor, in case there were tracks in the dust. Then I moved my car. There was space for a couple of vehicles on our driveway, but one had to park behind the other and it could be a nuisance trying to get out in the morning. Long ago I’d gotten used to Tom’s having priority. Now when I parked back on the road outside our house, I noted the irony that by doing something that he’d told me to do, I was able to easily escape.
Back in the house, I put the shed key on the hook by the back door, and stilled it with my hand. I didn’t want anything to give me away.
The kitchen was clean and tidy. It was a large room with French doors that looked out onto the garden. The patio was a sun-trap and a riot of color with all the flowering plants I’d put into pots and hanging baskets. When we first moved in, this room and the garden had been my pride and joy. Back then I’d had fantasies of long lazy Sunday lunches with children running around on the lawn afterward, of Saturday-night dinners with friends, of late weekend breakfasts reading the newspapers in our dressing gowns and planning our day. Things hadn’t exactly worked out like that.
Gradually, insidiously, the kitchen had become the only room in the house that was truly mine. Even my books had been relegated
to the spare room. But here I could do what I wanted, decorate it however I liked. Over the years, though, cooking changed from a pleasure to a chore, something I really enjoyed only when Josh, my teenage stepson, came to stay.
Standing in the kitchen for what might be the last time, I panicked and for one mad moment I wondered whether I should cook something for Tom’s dinner. He probably would have eaten it, too. Of course, I didn’t. It would be too weird. What would I cook, anyway? An everyday dish to remind him what he wouldn’t have again? Something special for a momentous occasion?
What I should have been cooking was written on a notepad on the fridge door. Every week Tom put together a list of meals. Tonight’s was Thai curry. My hands were damp with stress as I opened the fridge door and saw all the ingredients there, waiting. That curry hadn’t a chance of being made now. There was plenty of food, though; it wasn’t as though he’d starve, and the wine rack held dozens of bottles. There would be fewer tomorrow morning, I knew.
I walked from room to room, running through my mental checklist, double-checking I’d taken everything I needed. It was as though I was leaving a holiday home, a place I’d always known I would leave one day. Though I’d lived here for nearly twelve years, now I could see how little space I’d taken up.
On the mantelpiece in the living room was a recent photo of Josh; his expression made it clear he hadn’t wanted his dad to photograph him. Another was of the three of us, taken at Disney World on our first holiday together when Josh was seven. I’d been with Tom for two years then. Josh was beaming at the camera in this earlier photo and I looked happy, too. Well, I was, then. I reached out to touch it. My face in the photo was unlined, free from worry. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d felt like that. A couple of days before, when Tom was in the shower, I photographed the recent photo, then zoomed in on Josh’s face in the earlier one and clicked. I planned to get copies printed as soon as I could.
I looked around for my iPad. It had been my thirty-sixth birthday a few months before and Tom had bought it as a surprise. It was a newer version than his, though, and he used it more than I did. I remembered he’d charged it up the night before; he must have taken it on the train to London with him. It didn’t matter. He could have it. My pulse quickened. None of this mattered now.