I Lie in Wait: A gripping new psychological crime thriller perfect for fans of Ruth Ware!

by Amanda Brittany

  ‘Yes, why?’

  Is she lying? Or perhaps she showed me the wrong photo. But I recall her reaction when I mentioned the coffee – it was as though she’d been caught out. And now a memory invades of her at Drummondale House, tears rolling down her cheeks as she looked at a photograph of a scan of her baby.

  I stare at her. It’s as though I can see into her soul, sense a terrible loss, feel her suffering as though it’s mine. She’s lost her baby.

  But that can’t be right. Her body tells me otherwise.

  ‘Do you want to talk?’ I say. It’s a gamble. If, and only if, she’s lost her baby, she’s pretending she hasn’t – going as far as wearing a fake pregnancy bump – a good one too. She doesn’t want to be found out. ‘I understand.’

  She shoots me a startled look, and I take a deep breath.

  ‘I lost my baby too,’ I say, my voice cracking. ‘I know how painful it is to lose your unborn child.’

  ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’ She’s flushed, and tears fill her eyes.

  Mentioning my baby has left me vulnerable – exposed. Rosamund is the first person I’ve told, and I hadn’t factored in my own need for comfort.

  And what if I’m wrong about Rosamund?

  No. I’m right. I’m sure I’m right.

  I move towards her, but she steps away from me, banging her back on the worktop, spilling her coffee, wincing in pain. Her tears come faster now.

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ I say, my voice cracking, as I realise I’m crying too.

  She takes a tissue from her pocket, and dabs her cheeks. ‘OK,’ she says. ‘You’ve got me, governor,’ she adds in a silly cockney accent that’s at odds with how distressed she is. She raises the white tissue in surrender.

  We make our way into the lounge, and sit silently at opposite ends of the sofa. I’ve unearthed something I’m now struggling to deal with.

  ‘How did you know?’ she says finally.

  ‘The coffee, the scan dated October, but most of all it was when I thought back to you crying at Drummondale House, when you were looking at the scan of your baby. At the time I thought you were crying over Elise, but looking back I recognise that pain.’

  She nods.

  ‘But why lie, Rosamund? Why pretend?’

  ‘I wanted to stay pregnant,’ she says, her voice intense. ‘Is that so awful? I wanted to believe my baby was still inside me.’

  ‘I get that,’ I say, and I do, I really do.

  ‘And I couldn’t bear the thought of telling Neil.’ She leans forward and grabs tissues from a box on the table, presses them against her nose.

  ‘He still believes you’re pregnant?’

  She nods. ‘He’s been working away for the last two months.’ She shakes her head. ‘He’s always away.’

  ‘But you’ll have to tell him sometime.’

  She nods again. ‘Don’t you think I know that?’

  A painful silence falls once more, as all the questions I have lined up in my head feel invasive, unsupportive, wrong.

  ‘Listen, could I have a glass of wine?’

  ‘Of course.’ I wander into the kitchen, grab another glass and the bottle, and return.

  As I pour, she goes on. ‘I fell. Stumbled backwards, hitting my back against the coffee table. That’s how it happened. That’s how I lost him.’

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ I say, sitting down once more.

  ‘Me too.’ She turned watery eyes on me. ‘Does it get any easier?’

  I look down, and run my hand over my stomach. ‘You learn to live with the loss, but it will always be there. It’s grief, after all.’

  She touches my cheek, looks deep into my eyes. ‘You know you have your mum’s caring nature, Amelia. You may not be able to play tennis like Lark, or be academic like Thomas, but you have the best quality of all – kindness and understanding.’

  ‘Thanks,’ I say, feeling myself blush.

  ‘You’ve had far too much loss, Amelia,’ she says, squeezing my hand. ‘I pray you find Lark one day.’

  I force back tears. ‘I hope so too.’ There’s a beat before I add, ‘I thought I saw her earlier.’ I look over at a photo of my sister on the dresser.

  Rosamund looks to where I’m staring, and her eyes widen. ‘Really?’

  ‘Mmm. It wasn’t her, of course. But I sometimes think I see her, you know.’

  She shuffles closer, and rests her hand on my knee. ‘I know exactly what you mean,’ she says. ‘I see Elise all the time.’

  *

  ‘It makes no sense. Why would Finn kill Maddie?’ I say to Rosamund, combing my fingers through my hair, a half-drunk glass of wine cradled in my mitts. I hadn’t meant to stray back onto the subject, but drinking on an empty stomach has loosened my tongue, and I’m now flopped in a relaxed state, my legs curled up under me on the sofa, twittering on. ‘And you know what else? I keep thinking about the Monopoly counter.’ I lean forward and splash more wine into both our glasses, knowing I’m being an idiot.

  ‘Monopoly counter? What Monopoly counter?’

  ‘The top hat.’ I curl my legs back under me. ‘Maddie picked it up when she left your cottage the night she died.’

  ‘Did she? Whatever for?’ She leans back in the chair, and takes a gulp of wine.

  ‘Oh, I’m sure it’s nothing. It’s just she was holding it when Dad brought her back to the cottage, as though it meant something to her. It was from the game you and Elise were playing before she went missing.’

  ‘Sounds like something and nothing,’ she says. She knocks back the last of her wine. ‘Anyway,’ she says rising to her feet. ‘I should probably make a move. It’s getting late.’ She pauses. ‘You won’t say anything to anyone about the baby?’ she says. ‘Not until I can find the right moment to tell Neil. He’s in Scotland, hoping he’ll find something that will lead to Elise, so I can’t tell him until the weekend.’

  ‘But you will tell him?’

  ‘Of course, I just dread it, that’s all. This news on top of Elise’s disappearance will break him.’

  She turns and heads for her coat. And as she slips slender arms into the sleeves, she adds, ‘There’s going to be an appeal soon. I just can’t see what good it will do, but I guess the police know best, and Neil is desperate.’

  ‘It will keep Elise in the public’s mind,’ I say.

  ‘Well it didn’t do any good in the search for Lark and Jackson, did it?’

  I feel her comment like a slap.

  ‘And all the publicity there’s been around Elise makes me feel violated, as though everyone’s staring and gossiping.’

  ‘It won’t go on forever, Rosamund,’ I say. ‘Make the most of the press while you can.’

  But I understand how she feels. The national papers have connected Lark and Elise’s disappearances. Put their photos together on the front page. Two pretty blonde teenagers disappearing without trace sold papers. And there was a feature on Jackson’s past almost identical to one that had appeared when he and Lark disappeared. It told of how he left home at eighteen, went to live in America right up until his parents’ death three years ago. Told of how he’d moved in with my mum. How he’d split up her marriage. But this time they’d tracked down an old girlfriend over in the US, who’d talked freely about how he’d used her, slept with other women, and left her broken-hearted.

  I wasn’t surprised they described Jackson as a womaniser, though I was unsure of the relevance. And the media had simply joined the dots between Lark and Elise, and made a wiggly line.

  After pulling on her boots, Rosamund leans in and kisses my cheek. ‘Take care, Amelia,’ she says, and with a waft of expensive perfume, she’s gone.

  Chapter 44

  Present Day

  Amelia

  ‘Let me treat you to your cut and blow-dry, or whatever you young women do to your hair these days.’ Dad grabs his wallet and hands me a wad of ten-pound notes.

  ‘You don’t need to do this, Dad.’ I’m not even sure I
want to go into Berwick. I look dreadful, and feel more than a bit dodgy after drinking too much last night. Quite frankly, having my hair cut really doesn’t feature highly on my life plan right now.

  ‘Take the money, Amelia,’ Dad says. ‘Do whatever you want with it. Buy some new clothes, perhaps. A bit of retail therapy might do you good. Do it for me, love. I’m worried about you.’

  ‘I’m worried about you too, Dad,’ I say.

  ‘Then go into town, treat yourself, and that will make me feel much better.’ He smiles. ‘Tell you what, let’s meet for lunch at Molly’s Café after my museum stint.’ He walks away, leaving the money on the table, and grabs his coat from the hook by the door. ‘I’d quite enjoy a heart-to-heart with my beautiful daughter.’

  *

  I retrieve my old bike from the garage, dust off the cobwebs and pump up the tyres, and begin my ride into town, careful to miss any icy patches as I go. It’s a bright chilly day, and the sight of open fields stretching for miles either side of me, and a clear blue sky, is uplifting. By the time I lock up my bike outside the Berwick Advertiser, my head has cleared and endorphins waken from what feels like a hundred-year sleep.

  I stroll along the snow-free pavements of Marygate, heading for the salon I used to go to in my teens. Yes, I definitely feel lighter. Perhaps Dad was right: I needed to get out, do something for me.

  It’s almost eleven when I push open the door of the salon. Sandy, the owner, who’s in her fifties, and sports short white hair and trendy red-framed glasses raises her hand. ‘Amelia,’ she calls. ‘I thought I saw your name in the appointment book. How lovely to see you.’ She doesn’t wait for a reply, goes on talking to her customer, whilst tonging the man’s blond tresses.

  ‘Take a seat,’ a young girl with a ready smile says, and I remove my jacket, and sit down next to the window. ‘Would you like some tea or coffee while you wait?’ The girl takes my jacket and hangs it on a hook near the door, ‘Sandy shouldn’t be long.’

  ‘I’m OK, but thank you.’

  I take out my phone, and thumb through Facebook, then Instagram, though I’m barely taking in the posts, my mind far away. I’m finding the smell of hairspray, and perculating coffee; the sound of dryers humming, calming – normal; and the sun warming my face through the glass, comforting.

  A sudden thump on the window shatters my peace, and my heart goes into overdrive. I’m clearly not as relaxed as I thought!

  ‘Hey, Mum,’ calls the young girl, waving at a woman in her forties who has pressed her nose against the window.

  Oh God, my heartbeat won’t slow down and a fizz of anxiety pumps through my veins. I need to get out of here.

  ‘Right, what can we do for you today, Amelia?’ It’s Sandy, now beside me brandishing a comb and a pair of scissors, and I realise it’s too late to escape.

  ‘Just a trim, please,’ I say, my voice squeaky.

  *

  ‘I was so sorry to hear about your mum,’ Sandy says, once the young girl has washed my hair. ‘And your sister too. Terrible. Terrible.’ She shakes her head. ‘I don’t know how you’re coping.’

  I’m not.

  I should have known Sandy would mention them; but it’s too late. I’m here now, trapped beneath a hairdressing cape, frozen. Thank God she doesn’t know about the murders, Elise’s disappearance.

  ‘And I read about the murders too,’ she goes on. ‘What a nightmare.’

  ‘It’s been a difficult time,’ I say.

  She sighs deeply, and takes hold of my shoulders, her eyes meeting mine in the mirror. ‘I can imagine,’ she says, her voice syrupy smooth.

  I want to tell her to stop. Stop or I’ll cry. I want to tell her this isn’t what I came here for – that I came here to forget.

  As she combs through my wet hair, I take a deep breath, and let it out slowly, counting backwards in my head. But something’s taken over. Something I can’t control.

  ‘Listen, I’m not feeling too well,’ I say, pulling the towel from around my neck, and fumbling to untie the cape. I rise, the cape and towel falling to the floor, and race across the salon. I grab my jacket from the hook by the door. ‘I’m so sorry, Sandy. I’ve got to go.’

  I rush out into the cool air, and hurry down the road, where I lean against a wall some distance away, unable to catch my breath.

  ‘Are you all right, dear?’ It’s an elderly woman, with a cute Yorkshire terrier tucked under her arm. It stares at me with brown velvet eyes, much like its owner’s. ‘You don’t look well.’

  I gather my wits. ‘I’m fine, thank you. Honestly. It’s been a long day, that’s all, and it’s not even lunchtime.’ I try to laugh, and she chuckles.

  ‘Well as long as you’re all right, dear,’ she says, and goes on her way.

  I look at my watch. I’m not meeting Dad for an hour. It’s not enough time to cycle home and come back, so I wander into Boots.

  Feeling a little disorientated, my heart thumping far too fast, I meander up and down the aisles, breathing in the perfumes, scanning the shelves, buying nothing.

  Managing to lose almost an hour in the store without getting accused of loitering, I finally step back out onto the pavement with a few minutes to kill before I meet Dad. I go to move away from the store when I see Julia – her long, patterned skirt flapping her ankles, her phone pinned to her ear.

  I look about me, remembering Rosamund saying Finn was staying with her. But it seems she’s alone.

  She takes quick steps down the other side of the road. Then, as though seeming to sense me here, glances my way. I duck back into the shop doorway. I don’t want to talk to her – fear what she might say.

  ‘It would have been murder if he’d died, Amelia. I saw the blood on you when you arrived at the farmhouse that night. It was his blood, wasn’t it?’

  She slows her pace, and shuffles her brightly patterned bag further onto her shoulder, before picking up speed once more.

  I exhale a sigh of relief as she disappears from view, and I head for Molly’s Café.

  Through the window I spot Dad already settled at the back, a mug of tea in front of him.

  ‘Amelia,’ he says, as I enter to a waft of tempting smells. He pats the seat beside him. ‘Come and sit down, love.’

  A young chap approaches and I order some coffee. He thrusts a menu into my hands, and disappears.

  ‘What do you fancy?’ Dad says.

  ‘Give me a sec,’ I say, shuffling out of my jacket, before sitting down.

  ‘Your hair looks nice.’

  ‘No it doesn’t. I didn’t have it done.’

  ‘Well I’ve always liked it when you don’t drag out your natural curls.’

  I smile, and we look at the menus. ‘I think I’ll go for the prawn salad sandwich in granary,’ I say.

  Dad’s eyes flit across the choices. ‘It’s amazing news about Thomas, isn’t it?’ he says. ‘I’m trying not to get my hopes up, but yes, definitely something to keep us buoyant in a sea that’s intent on dragging us under.’

  ‘Very poetic.’ I smile at him.

  ‘I try my best.’

  ‘And yes, it’s great news. We certainly need it.’

  ‘We do indeed.’

  ‘I saw Rosamund yesterday, Dad.’ I avoided telling him last night and this morning, but to not mention her visit now feels deceitful. ‘She came round when you were at the cinema.’ I pause for a moment. ‘Someone left a mask on her doorstep.’

  ‘Well she needs to tell the police, not you.’ Something shifts in his eyes, and he shakes his head. ‘That bloody woman.’

  ‘I know you don’t like her but—’

  ‘I think I’ll have poached egg on toast.’ He puts down his menu.

  ‘Dad?’

  ‘She’s a thoroughly dislikeable woman.’

  ‘Mum liked her.’

  ‘Mum didn’t know her. Not really.’

  ‘And you did?’

  ‘Are you ready to order?’ The young man is back with my coffee. He put
s it down in front of me, as I reel off our order in a monotone.

  Once he’s gone, I continue. ‘I know she let Mum down but she’s sorry, Dad. Why do you hate her so much?’

  ‘Not hate, Amelia. Hate is too strong a word. Let’s leave it, shall we?’

  ‘But you promised me a heart-to-heart.’

  ‘Not about bloody Rosamund Green.’

  I lean forward. There’s something else. I know it. ‘Dad?’

  ‘OK, if you really want to know.’ He breathes in a sigh. ‘She made a pass at me, a very long time ago.’

  ‘Rosamund?’

  ‘Don’t sound so surprised. Your dad wasn’t always a dusty historian.’

  I smile, remembering how Mum described him that way.

  ‘As I say, it was a long time ago, when your mum worked in Rosamund’s flower shop. There was a party.’ A long pause fills the air, and the sounds of chatter and clanking cutlery fill my senses. ‘She flirted with me during the evening, but your mum couldn’t see it, kept telling me how friendly she was. That she hoped I liked her. And then—’

  ‘You turned her down, I hope.’

  ‘Of course – what do you take me for?’ He looks hurt, as though he can’t believe I would think otherwise. ‘But she didn’t like being turned down. Was used to getting her own way, a product of parents who spoilt her rotten, apparently. And of course she was – and still is – a beautiful woman. Anyway, it was after that party that she sold the shop, and never contacted your mother again. Until—’

  ‘Mum left you for Jackson?’

  He nods. Takes a gulp of his tea.

  ‘So she got in touch with Mum because you’d broken up?’

  ‘It seemed that way.’

  ‘Why didn’t you tell Mum when she made the pass?’

  ‘At the time, I thought it would make things worse. Your mum was already low from losing her job and her supposed friend. Later, when I realised Rosamund was back in touch, I didn’t think your mum would believe me. Our relationship was fragile by then; I didn’t want to damage it beyond repair.’

  ‘It was a long time ago, Dad.’

  Our food arrives, but I’ve lost my appetite. I glance out of the window, onto the street. ‘Do you ever think you see Lark, Dad?’