The Cold Hard Truth: A Gripping Novel About Secrets and Lies

by Amanda Leigh Cowley

  Not really. I give her a quick nod and try to ignore the sound of blood rushing in my ears.

  I trace Harriet’s footsteps across the drive and up the stone steps towards the large wooden door. Instead of knocking, Harriet punches a number into a keypad and then using her free shoulder, pushes it open.

  I lug my case over the threshold and follow Harriet inside. The front door leads straight into a large, airy hallway, and beyond that I can make out an open plan living room and dining area. The decor is contemporary. The walls and furnishings are neutral shades of cream and grey, there are a couple of tasteful pictures on the walls, and a huge vase of flowers bringing a splash of colour to the place.

  As we turn into the living area, I see Rachel. She’s sitting on a sofa which was just out of view from the hallway. She looks up and her lips part as she catches her breath.

  “Here she is,” Harriet announces breezily. I’m not sure which one of us she’s addressing.

  I stop walking and Rachel and I stare at each other awkwardly. She looks tired and a lot older than she did just six months ago. She’s wearing a long cream salon tunic, and her hair is pulled into a messy knot with strands sticking out at odd angles. In her hand is an empty glass.

  Not taking her eyes off me, she carefully places her glass on the coffee table and stands up.

  I frown, feeling the weight of her gaze. “Hello,” I say, desperate to break the silence.

  “My precious Em,” she murmurs. Her eyes have gone all glittery. She walks across the room and stops directly in front of me. The scent of Fleur de Rocaille wraps itself around me, reminding me of my childhood and knocking my guard. “Look at you, all grown up and beautiful.”

  My teeth are pressed together so hard it makes my jaw ache.

  “You look so much like me….” she says, her voice faltering. “When I was your age.”

  I clear my throat. “That’s what you said last time.”

  She smiles briefly and then her face creases as if she’s remembered something. “I’m sorry I didn’t meet you at the airport. I didn’t have a choice. It was a work thing….”

  “It’s fine. Harriet explained.”

  She nods. Then she does something that makes my stomach clench. She takes a deep breath and holds her arms out. “Well, what are you waiting for? Come and give me a big squeeze.”

  I freeze. I can’t do this. I’m not ready for a big show of affection from her.

  My heart thumps wildly as she stands there looking at me, her smile gradually melting as she realises I’m not going to oblige her. Several seconds stretch out between us until she lowers her arms, nods in some kind of acceptance and takes a step back.

  “Uh ... thank you for letting me stay here,” I say, trying to smooth over the awkwardness. “I really appreciate it.”

  She scoffs. “Don’t be ridiculous. I’m glad you’re here, Em. I’m going to take good care of you.”

  Maybe I should say something else nice, but five years of resentment clogs my throat. I’m here because I have nowhere else to go. I’m not here to let her look after me and absolve her guilt from abandoning me.

  “I want you to make yourself right at home, honey. I hope it starts to feel like it soon.”

  “Thank you,” I whisper.

  Her voice rises in pitch. “So, how about me and Harriet give you a guided tour of the house? Then we can sit down and have a good old-fashioned girlie catch-up.”

  I chew the inside of my cheek. All I want to do is find my room and shut the door so I can breathe again. “Actually, if you don’t mind, I’m really tired….”

  She tips her head to one side and frowns.

  “It’s just ... I haven’t slept in over twenty hours,” I say, trying to justify myself. “I could really do with going straight to bed.”

  “Yes, of course.” She smiles; a smile that contradicts the expression in her eyes. “You do whatever you think’s best.”

  Chapter 5

  “Please don’t do this.” I press my hands together, desperately pleading with the faceless stranger who just came crashing into the living room.

  He spins in my direction. Beads of sweat line his temples and his chest heaves with each breath.

  I lock eyes with him. “Please. Don’t. Do. This.” I can barely breathe and it’s a fight to get each word out

  His eyes are red and wild but it’s as if he’s looking right through me.

  My gaze travels down to his hand, to the knife I know he is holding. He’s gripping it so hard his knuckles have turned white.

  My mouth is dry. I force a swallow and look back to his face. “Put the knife down.” My voice is shaking. “Please.”

  He tilts his head and narrows his eyes, like he doesn’t fully understand what I’m saying. Then his eyes slide down to the knife and he growls like an animal. He wraps his other hand around the handle and raises the knife in the air, a look of determination on his face.

  “No, no, no….”

  A bright light shines behind my eyelids, jolting me awake. I raise a hand to shield my eyes, and desperately try to get my bearings.

  “Hey, hey.” The mattress goes down as someone sits on the bed. “You’re safe. You’re completely safe.”

  Harriet.

  I sit up, my breathing laboured as adrenaline courses through my system.

  The door opens wider and Rachel comes rushing in, still tying the sash on her silky dressing gown.

  “Were you having a nightmare, honey?”

  I nod.

  she finishes tying the knot and leans over the bed, raising an arm to drape around my shoulders. I shift back; an automatic reflex, and pull the sheet tighter around me.

  Hurt flashes in her mascara-smudged eyes. She straightens and her fingers find the knot she just made, pulling it tighter as she clears her throat. “Is there anything I can do for you, Emily?”

  “No, I’m fine.” I raise a hand to brush damp hair from my face. “I get bad dreams all the time. Ever since … it … happened. Please don’t make a fuss.”

  Harriet reaches out to touch my arm, but her hand freezes midway. “Oh, Em....” she breathes. When I realise what she’s looking at my stomach tightens. Her eyes are glued to my arm. She grabs hold of my wrist and pulls it towards her, twisting it to get a better view.

  I follow her gaze to the red scar screaming out from my pale skin; my constant reminder of that day. I hate people seeing my scar. Apart from the hospital staff, Rachel is the only person to have seen it, and that was only because she was there when the nurse was dressing the wound.

  Harriet’s eyes are wide as they flick from my arm to my face. “I didn’t realise....” she says. “I-I had no idea it was that bad.”

  She releases the pressure on my wrist and I quickly snatch my arm back and tuck it under the sheet.

  She’s staring at me with tears pooled in her eyes and I can’t think of anything to say to change the subject.

  “Was it painful?” she asks.

  “A bit. It’s fine now. Just … ugly.”

  She presses her lips together and shakes her head. “Don’t say that.”

  “It’s terrible what that monster did,” Rachel snaps. “I can’t believe they haven’t caught him yet. If I ever get my hands on him….”

  I pull the sheet all the way up to my neck and silently will the pair of them to leave.

  Instead, Rachel sits on the bed next to Harriet. “Nobody is going to hurt you here,” she sounds out each word slowly, as if I should take great comfort from them. “I won’t let them.”

  I manage a tight smile.

  She runs a palm along my sheet, in a ‘tucking in’ type manner, and we all sit in uncomfortable silence for a few moments. Then she clears her throat and stands up. “So … can I get you a drink, Emily? Maybe something to eat?”

  I shake my head. “No, no. I’m fine. Really.”

  “Right then.” Her fingers find the knot again. “You know I’m here for you, honey. Any time you need me. Day or
night....”

  I want to laugh. Any time, day or night? She couldn’t even pick me up from the airport.

  “I don’t need you,” I say, and my words hang awkwardly in the air. I almost feel guilty when I see her wounded expression. Almost.

  She closes her eyes for a moment and when she opens them again she takes a deep breath. “Okay,” she says softly. “I guess I’ll see you in the morning then.” With that, she backs out of the room.

  I stare at the empty doorway trying to make sense of my feelings. From the corner of my eye I see Harriet frowning at me. I turn to her and raise a defiant eyebrow.

  She shakes her head, walks over to the door and peers into the corridor before pushing it shut. Then she turns to face me and sighs. “Em, why do you have to be so hard on her?”

  “I don’t think I’m being that hard on her….”

  “Come on. From where I’m standing it looks like you’re going out of your way to make her feel bad.”

  I shrug. “Well if I am, I’m not doing it on purpose. I just ... I can’t take all this motherly affection she’s laying on. She feels like a stranger to me.” And so do you, actually. “Can’t you see this is all a bit weird for me?”

  She stares at me, unflinching. Then her shoulders drop. “Yes … I see that. But you have to understand where she’s coming from.... She never stopped loving you, Em. I know she won’t win any mother-of-the-year awards but she does love you and she’s been really worried about you.”

  I force my voice to stay level. “Harriet, it took something pretty major for her to remember I even existed.”

  “That’s not true.” Her gaze pierces into me. “You have no idea how much she’s missed you since we left the UK. It damn near broke her heart.”

  I look away and inhale deeply. Don’t say anything. Don’t say anything.

  “Anyway, all I’m asking is that you cut her a bit of slack. These last few years haven’t been easy for her. She has demons of her own to deal with.”

  If we discuss this any further it’s not going to end well. I chew the inside of my cheek and lean across to snatch my phone up from the bedside table. The display’s telling me it’s four-thirty in the morning ... lunchtime back home.

  The door clicks and when I look up I see Harriet has left the room.

  Good.

  I put my phone down and try to erase her words from my mind. She has no right to judge me. She wasn’t the one who got left behind.

  My head is thumping. I raise my hands and massage my temples. I need to do something to occupy my mind and release some of this stress or I’ll go crazy.

  I look around at my surroundings. I didn’t have time to take it in properly last night. All I had time for was a quick shower before falling into the king-size bed.

  This bedroom is huge; much bigger than my room back in London which could only accommodate a single bed, a small closet and a set of drawers which doubled as a desk.

  To my left is a huge closet complete with mirror sliding doors. To the right is a large window with white venetian blinds, currently closed, and in front of that is a fussy-looking dressing table dominated by a triple mirror. Ugh, there are way too many mirrors in here. Opposite the bed is a glossy white chest of drawers with a TV on top, and to the right of that is a door leading to the attached bathroom I used last night.

  I hop down from the bed, sinking my toes into the deep-pile carpet before pulling the sheets into place and plumping up the pillows. Then I pad over to the giant closet. Sliding open the door, I see it’s been sectioned into different compartments; hanging area, shoe rack, deep shelves, shallow shelves, shelves upon shelves. I raise my eyebrows. My clothes will struggle to fill a tenth of this space.

  I haul my battered suitcase up onto the bed, line up the numbers and pop open the lock.

  I lift my towel off the top and uncover a delicate silver photo frame. I’m relieved to see the glass has remained intact. I take out the frame and trace the outline of the person beneath; Dad smiles out at me from behind the glass. In the photo he has dark, wavy hair, a wide grin and a slim, athletic build. Completely unrecognisable from the man I lived with for the last few years. Sitting on his shoulders, arms firmly wrapped around the top of his head is me at around six-years-old. This is my favourite photo of us, taken when he was carefree and happy.

  I press the frame into my chest, crossing one arm over the other and wonder, like I’ve wondered a million times before, if Dad knew the person who killed him. I know he fought back. Detective Inspector Frank Martin told me cuts were found on Dad’s palms and the underside of his arms which proves he put up a fight. I wonder if the hood slipped off the attacker at any point and Dad saw his face properly. Then I think maybe his attacker didn’t bother putting the hood up in the first place because they had no intention of leaving Dad alive.

  The police seem to have hit an impasse with the murder investigation. DI Martin told me that because my father suffered twenty-seven separate knife wounds and I only had the one, the attacker had no intention of killing me - he was just facilitating his escape. Because of this, they believe my father was targeted and it wasn’t a random attack.

  DI Martin then told me my dad led a ‘small life.’ I hated him for saying that. Dad may not have done much in the last few years but before he got ill he led a very full life. He worked hard, played hard and was a brilliant ‘hands-on’ father.

  The problem is, because Dad led this so-called ‘small life,’ the police can’t find any person with a motive for killing him. So, to sum up; someone intended to kill my father, but no one had any motive for wanting him dead. DI Martin said the other possibility is a case of mistaken identity.

  Like I said, they’ve hit an impasse.

  I carry the frame over to the dressing table in front of the window and set it down in pride of place. Then I go back to the suitcase, grab handfuls of underwear and stuff them into the unit by the bed. All the other clothes, which I’d neatly folded back in my London bedroom, are crumpled. I shake them out and slide them onto hangers, telling myself I’ll get round to ironing them later.

  After unpacking, I wander back to the window and tug on the blind cord. The sun has just popped over the horizon and everything looks different in the early morning light. Rachel’s front garden is beyond neat; a manicured lawn with razor sharp edges, flower beds with exotic plants and ornamental grasses, and along the front border, several miniature palm trees. Not a leaf or a blade of grass out of place. Beyond the palm trees I can see the road, and then the beach stretching out towards the ocean.

  The carpet on the stairs is soft as I tiptoe down them and walk into the large kitchen area. Off to the side is a sunroom, spanning the entire width of the house with a rattan sofa and armchair facing the ocean. I pad through and stand there for a moment, feeling the warmth of the sun through the glass and admiring the beauty of the ocean.

  The need to drink something refreshing draws me back into the kitchen. I pull open the super-size fridge and spot a carton of orange juice. I quietly open and close cupboard doors until I find a glass and then splash some of the juice into one. I drink it down in one continuous guzzle. It’s so cold it hurts my teeth, but I’m too thirsty to care. I refill the glass and drink all that too.

  Wiping my mouth with the back of my hand I look around for something to eat. There’s a packet of chocolate chip cookies nestled among the packets of pasta and rice. I feel guilty opening them, but I’m starving so I make a mental note to go to the grocery store later and replace them.

  I take the packet of cookies and go to head out the kitchen, but a note tucked under the coffee machine catches my eye. It’s folded in half with my name written across the front. I slide it out, take it through to the sunroom and sit down to read.

  Darling Emily, you will never know how happy I am that you agreed to come here. I know things are awkward between us and I take full responsibility for that. I also know it will take time for you to learn to trust me again. But I need you to know
that I never stopped loving you or thinking about you since the day I left London. I wish things had turned out different and I’m not proud of how I handled the situation at the time, or in the years that followed. Believe me when I say I will do everything in my power to make you trust me again. But for now, my priority is giving you the time and space you need to heal. The only good thing to come out of all this is that it gives me a second chance to be a mother to you. I have no intention of failing you twice. All my love, always, Mom xx

  I place my elbow on the armrest and lean my head on my hand, letting her words sink in. Then I screw the note into a tight ball and launch it as far as I can.

  Suddenly, the house feels too small and I have to get out.

  Chapter 6

  I open my underwear drawer and rummage through the bras and knickers until I find my pale blue bikini crumpled at the bottom. I lift it out, step into the bottoms and try not to dwell on how they hang from my hips. I’m not sure how much weight I’ve lost over the last six months, but I know I can’t afford to lose any more. I pull the top half on back-to-front, fasten the clasp and then twist it around, pulling the halter-neck strap over my head. Then I whip on a long-sleeve cream t-shirt over the top and make sure the cuffs pull all the way down to my wrists, before finishing off with a pair of khaki board shorts.

  Grabbing my beach bag, I stuff in a towel, sun cream and the book I bought at the airport. Then I grab my flip-flops and sunglasses, write a quick note to let Harriet and Rachel know I’ve gone out and slip through the front door.

  The sound of waves crashing onto the shore instantly lifts my spirits. The morning sun has climbed higher, its reflection dancing in the ocean and bouncing off the wet sand so the grains look like tiny flecks of gold. It warms my skin as I step across the road and onto the beach.

  I walk until I can’t see Rachel’s house anymore and then I dump my bag on the sand next to a group of rocks, slide off my flip-flops and run down to the water’s edge.