PRAISE FOR CAROLINE MITCHELL
‘It is no secret that I love anything this lady writes. I find that her style carries me along beautifully. From the very first moment I felt Rebecca’s tension I did not breathe properly until I read the very last word. As ever I was entranced by the sharp characterisations that convinced me I knew these people personally. This book was thrilling, tense, exciting, dark and twisted in the best possible way. It is only now, the following day, that I am able to breathe normally again.’
—Angela Marsons
‘A dark yet compelling domestic drama that had me hooked straight off. The tension built up and up, the fear and sense of dread layered throughout, and the ending had me breathless. I devoured every page.’
—Mel Sherratt
ALSO BY CAROLINE MITCHELL
DC Jennifer Knight
Don’t Turn Around
Time to Die
The Silent Twin
Detective Ruby Preston Crime Thriller Series
Death Note
Sleep Tight
Murder Game
Individual Works
Paranormal Intruder
Witness
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Text copyright © 2018 by Caroline Mitchell
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
Published by Thomas & Mercer, Seattle
www.apub.com
Amazon, the Amazon logo, and Thomas & Mercer are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.
ISBN-13: 9781503948983 (hardcover)
ISBN-10: 1503948986 (hardcover)
ISBN-13: 9781542046626 (paperback)
ISBN-10: 1542046629 (paperback)
Cover design by Tom Sanderson
First edition
Benjamin.
Love you to the moon and back x
CONTENTS
START READING
PROLOGUE EMMA
CHAPTER ONE EMMA
CHAPTER TWO ALEX
CHAPTER THREE EMMA
CHAPTER FOUR LUKE
CHAPTER FIVE EMMA
CHAPTER SIX EMMA
CHAPTER SEVEN EMMA
CHAPTER EIGHT LUKE
CHAPTER NINE ALEX
CHAPTER TEN EMMA
CHAPTER ELEVEN LUKE
CHAPTER TWELVE EMMA
CHAPTER THIRTEEN EMMA
CHAPTER FOURTEEN LUKE
CHAPTER FIFTEEN EMMA
CHAPTER SIXTEEN ALEX
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN ALEX
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN EMMA
CHAPTER NINETEEN LUKE
CHAPTER TWENTY EMMA
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE EMMA
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO EMMA
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE ALEX
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR LUKE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE ALEX
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX EMMA
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN ALEX
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT EMMA
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE ALEX
CHAPTER THIRTY LUKE
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE EMMA
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO ALEX
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE EMMA
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR EMMA
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE EMMA
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX LUKE
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN ALEX
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT EMMA
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE EMMA
CHAPTER FORTY ALEX
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE EMMA
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO LUKE
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE ALEX
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR EMMA
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE ALEX
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX LUKE
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN EMMA
CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT EMMA
CHAPTER FORTY-NINE EMMA
CHAPTER FIFTY ALEX
CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE EMMA
CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO EMMA
CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE ALEX
CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR ALEX
CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE EMMA
CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX EMMA
CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN EMMA
CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT EMMA
CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE ALEX
CHAPTER SIXTY ALEX
CHAPTER SIXTY-ONE ALEX
CHAPTER SIXTY-TWO EMMA
CHAPTER SIXTY-THREE EMMA
CHAPTER SIXTY-FOUR ALEX
CHAPTER SIXTY-FIVE EMMA
CHAPTER SIXTY-SIX EMMA
CHAPTER SIXTY-SEVEN ALEX
CHAPTER SIXTY-EIGHT EMMA
CHAPTER SIXTY-NINE LUKE
CHAPTER SEVENTY ALEX
CHAPTER SEVENTY-ONE EMMA
CHAPTER SEVENTY-TWO EMMA
CHAPTER SEVENTY-THREE LUKE
CHAPTER SEVENTY-FOUR ALEX
CHAPTER SEVENTY-FIVE EMMA
CHAPTER SEVENTY-SIX EMMA
CHAPTER SEVENTY-SEVEN ALEX
CHAPTER SEVENTY-EIGHT EMMA
CHAPTER SEVENTY-NINE ALEX
CHAPTER EIGHTY EMMA
CHAPTER EIGHTY-ONE EMMA
AUTHOR’S NOTE
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
‘A gentleman is simply a patient wolf’
—Lana Turner
PROLOGUE
EMMA
2013
I am not a bad person, but I’ve done a very bad thing.
A sense of unreality washes over me, cushioning the consequences of my act.
I am a murderer. My soul is damned to hell.
My thoughts are speared by a seagull’s cry as it glides across the dusky sky. It is mournful in its bidding, and I stand over the ditch, my knuckles white, gripping the shovel in my right hand. A trickle of sweat rolls down the curve of my back, cooled by the twilight breeze. From the bottom of the ditch Luke stares with empty eyes, the soil beneath his head absorbing his blood. My lips part to accommodate my heavy breath while my lungs drive the panicked rise and fall of my chest. Is he truly dead? Did I really kill him? Legs shaking, I cling to the shovel – the only thing keeping me standing in this desolate field. The breeze plays with my hair, blowing dark strands into my eyes and lips. I draw them back behind my ear as I struggle for clarity. Just how long have I been standing here? The cogs of my brain whirr, trying to snap back the pieces of the complex edifice that has toppled all around me. My gaze falls to the shovel where his blood still stains the blade. You need to clean that off, a voice inside me whispers. But first, hide the body.
My thoughts are cloaked in darkness as self-preservation kicks in. My husband will be wondering where I am. He might even come looking for me. I should check Luke’s pulse, call for an ambulance. Deep down, I know it’s too late for that now. The ditch is lined with freshly shed leaves from the trees that border the field: a suitable resting place, if only for tonight.
Pressing my boot against metal, I slice the shovel into the earth. I draw up a wedge of soil, pausing only for a second before flinging it on to his face. As the dirt hits his parted lips, my stomach rolls over, the gravity of the situation hitting me with the force of a punch. I fall to my knees and vomit noisily into a patch of dandelions. Digging my fingers into the earth, I try to ground myself, coughing and spitting until my throat has cleared. I dare not look at Luke’s body as I stand and brush the soil from my jeans. Picking up my shovel, I fling dirt into the ditch until my biceps ache. My armpits are damp with sweat; the skin on my face burning with effort. Opposing thoughts circle my
brain, like vultures ready to pick over the carcass of my actions. I have committed a mortal sin. Hot tears of regret trail down my face. A thought resurfaces, telling me that I had no choice.
Forcing myself to focus, I survey the shallow grave. I can still see flashes of skin. His nose, his brow. Patches of white shirt are visible beneath the soil, and the tips of his leather shoes peep upwards. I stifle a sob. I need to finish this, but my arms are weak and the shovel feels like it is made of lead. Darkness is closing in yet the sky is devoid of cloud, awaiting the infiltration of stars that will burn brightly long after I am dead and gone. Dropping my gaze to the ground, I try to assemble my thoughts. I will come back tomorrow and finish the job properly. For now, I need to get home. I drag across some fallen branches from a recent gale, throwing them over the ditch until it appears undisturbed. Not that anyone will see it. The only witnesses are the curlews and seagulls flying overhead. I rub my hands against the back of my trousers before tying my shovel to my quad bike. ‘Tomorrow,’ I whisper, repeating my vow to return. ‘I’ll come back tomorrow and bury him properly.’ The breeze snatches my words, as if disbelieving my sincerity. Inhaling deeply, I force my shaking breath back to normality. The land will keep my secret for now. I mount my quad bike, my eyes on the gravel path home. Revving the throttle, I push everything that has happened deep into the recesses of my mind.
CHAPTER ONE
EMMA
2017
Red-nosed and laughing, Jamie ran towards me, his red wellington boots making a thunk-thunk noise as he scattered the fallen autumn leaves. My husband had a propensity for buying Jamie bigger sized clothes than he needed, saying he would ‘grow into them’. I made a mental note to take our son for a proper fitting. Shaking a tissue from my pocket, I wiped the dribble from his nose.
‘Swing me, Mummy!’ he squealed, his impossibly blue eyes bright with an excitement that only a child could feel. At almost three and a half years of age, his senses had not yet been dulled by the world. Getting down on one knee, I tightened his blue duffel coat and fixed his gloves before allowing him to run towards the bucket swings. A veil of fog hung over the landscape, leaving the small children’s playground too gloomy a prospect for the mothers and their children who frequented it in the summer. I had been coming here since my childhood. I was not going to stop now. The fresh air would serve as a sedative later on, giving me time to catch up with my work. I watched him run towards the swings, his little body wiggling from side to side as layers of clothing hampered his movements.
I jolted in response to the hand that touched the curve of my back. ‘Oh! You gave me a fright,’ I gasped, clutching my husband by the arm.
‘And you’re very jumpy,’ he said, his kind face settling my nerves. ‘I finished work early; thought I’d give you a lift home rather than have you walking in the fog.’
I kissed him on the cheek, his smooth skin a novelty. I had been sorry to see his beard go, but the onset of a few grey hairs had been the death knell for his facial hair. In his tailored suit and rich wool-blend coat, he looked every inch the businessman. He was not the only one who made an effort when it came to clothes. I put my contacts in second-hand designer wear to good use, sourcing the vintage style that had appealed to me since my late teens – a look which had caught my husband’s eye when we first met.
‘Just five more minutes,’ I said, turning back to look at Jamie, who was grunting as he tried to hoist his leg into the bucket swing.
‘Daddy!’ Jamie squealed, and I watched as Alex swung him around before plopping him into the seat and giving him a hefty push. He was a strong and capable father but, all the same, I found myself biting my lip as my over-protective streak kicked in. Catching my worried glare, Alex brought the swing to a steady pace, despite Jamie’s cries to go higher.
‘I’ve got some good news,’ Alex said, giving me a furtive sideways glance. It was enough to tell me that his perception of good news might be different from mine.
‘You’ve not gone and bought that car, have you? Diesel engines are pollutants on wheels,’ I said, my eyes following Jamie as he swung back and forth. Alex could pick his moments, waiting until I was distracted with our son before dropping any bombshells. He knew I would never argue in front of him.
‘Give over,’ Alex said, ‘as if I’d dare.’ His Leeds accent filtered through his words. He masked it in the office, changing the rhythm and tone to mimic his upper-class clients. I liked that he could be himself with me. ‘No, it’s about work . . .’
I took a sharp intake of breath. The fog was coming down so thick that I could taste it on my tongue.
Alex flashed me a smile. ‘I’ve been offered the promotion . . .’
‘In Leeds.’ I finished his sentence, trying hard to hide my reluctance because I could not offer a reason as to why we could not go. At least not one I could disclose.
‘Yes,’ he said, giving Jamie one last push. ‘They’ve given me the job.’
Opening my arms, I took him in an embrace, but inside my heart was dropping like a stone. ‘Well done, love. I know how much this means to you.’
‘Not just me.’ He drew away, his dark eyes searching mine. ‘To all of us. Living in Leeds is going to be a whole fresh start. You can branch out with your business, and we can enrol Jamie in a private school.’
‘Push, Daddy, puuuuussh,’ Jamie squealed, kicking out with his feet to gain momentum.
I fixed the smile that had slid from my face. My reluctance to move had been a bone of contention between us for what felt like a lifetime; all because I was not strong enough to face up to my past. ‘Our house could take for ever to sell,’ I said, clinging on to the hope that our departure would be delayed.
‘That’s my second bit of good news,’ Alex said. ‘I’ve got someone interested in the property.’
I should have known. My husband managed the Colchester branch of the estate agency that he worked for. Although he sold mainly up-market properties, they sometimes had enquiries from buyers with less cash to spare.
He hoisted Jamie up from the swing and spoke over his shoulder as he gave him a squeeze. ‘They say it comes in threes; we should buy a lottery ticket on the way home.’
With Jamie in his left arm, he threw his right one over my shoulder and the two of us walked to the car. I should have felt safe, protected by his strength, but my mind was racing as news of the move sank in. I strapped Jamie into his car seat, my stomach clenching from the sudden sense of dread. I could not hide from the past any longer. It was time to go back there. To face what I had done.
CHAPTER TWO
ALEX
2017
‘Beautiful, isn’t it?’ Sweeping a hand across the brooding landscape, I stood at the open back door. My words belied my thoughts. I could not wait to get out of this godforsaken place. I smiled sweetly at Mark and Kirsty, the young couple viewing our home. Not that it had felt like home to me. Despite Emma placing my name on the deeds, I had felt like an intruder from the day I moved in. It was quaint enough, with its weatherboard exterior and red roof tiles, but the interior needed a serious cash injection, and was a poor comparison to the show homes in which I spent my working day. It was hardly any wonder I was too embarrassed to invite my colleagues round.
Giving our viewers the full treatment, I glossed over the house’s flaws using the words ‘rustic’, ‘quaint’ and ‘charming’. ‘You can put your stamp on it,’ I said. ‘Plenty of room for your personalities to shine through.’ Their nodding heads told me that the tour of our three-bedroom cottage had gone down well. I glanced at my watch, a pang of guilt making itself known. It was the first time I had gone behind my wife’s back. I wanted to tell her about the viewing, but she had sabotaged my efforts to move too many times before. Not that she’d ever admit that. I loved Emma with all my heart: clever, talented and perpetually enigmatic Emma. Life had never been dull in her company. The puzzling thing was that, deep down, I knew she wanted to move. Perhaps it was the guilt of leaving her fam
ily home that was holding her back. Then again, her father had died years ago. Whatever the excuse, this place had dug its claws firmly into her and refused to release her. But this time I was ready, and had an answer for every excuse. The viewing couple would not be the first artists drawn to Mersea Island. Mark raved about the network of creeks and boardwalks that crisscrossed the marshes, while his wife delighted in the shapes, textures and colours of the nearby beach. I nodded in all the right places, attempting to share their enthusiasm. It was all a lie. Where they saw striking abandoned boats on the foreshore, I saw rotting wooden skeletons jutting out of the slime. As they spoke of the Strood, they came up with romantic notions of the island’s history. It was something I was all too happy to capitalise on.
‘You can still see evidence of the Roman occupation dotted all over Mersea,’ I said, having brushed up on the island’s history the night before. ‘The ancient causeway connecting the island is the only way on and off.’ The Strood was something of which I was all too aware. I hated the sense of being trapped as the tide cut us off from the outside world. ‘My father-in-law used to be an archaeologist. He had some fascinating stories. If you’re interested, the Mersea Museum is on the west side of the island.’
‘You don’t find it a nuisance, being cut off by the tide?’ Mark said.
I shook my head. ‘The locals call it the “causy”. It’s what makes the island unique. As long as you’re up to speed on the tide times then you should be OK.’ Perhaps it was because I was a city boy, but settling in Mersea Island was never an option for me. God knows I had tried. It was Emma’s idea that we move in to look after Bob, her father, before emphysema claimed his life. I could not stand by and watch him be placed in a nursing home, so I agreed. However, there was nothing to keep us here any more.
I led them round to the kitchen and opened the back door. ‘The gravel drive is wide enough to accommodate several cars if you’re holding an event.’ I pointed beyond the log store and the numerous fruit trees dotted around our half-acre plot. ‘See that gate behind those trees? There’s a further four-acre paddock that comes with the house. You can’t see it from here, but there’s a wooden bench built into the big oak tree down the end. It would really extend your garden if you took down the back gate and opened the whole lot up.’
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