Before Her Eyes

by Jack Jordan

  He also felt remorse for hurting Naomi on the beach, which he had never planned to do. When he realised she had been knocked unconscious, he’d dragged her higher up the beach, away from the waves. He’d tried to wake her by slapping her lightly and calling her name, but the sound of sirens on the road along the beachfront had caused him to flee. He’d only found out later that the sirens hadn’t been for them.

  As he walked back through the house, he marvelled at the life he had found for himself and Naomi. He stood at the glass doors overlooking the garden, a smile creeping across his face as he watched Naomi play with Max on the lawn. Hayley Miller’s bones were buried right beneath her feet.

  Naomi would stop obsessing over it all once enough time had passed. She would accept the lie that Blake was to blame, a lie Dane helped to enforce day after day.

  Lying next to Naomi at night, he would take her in his arms as she tossed and turned and dripped with sweat, struggling through nightmares that he himself had spawned. That was the rush he craved. He didn’t need to kill any more.

  He and Naomi weren’t so different. They were both covered in burns and had both taken lives; they were bonded by the blood on their hands and their mutilated skin. They shared something no one else did. She would forget about her need for answers when she settled. She would never know about the women he had killed, or the true identity of the man in the alley that night. It would ruin everything they had built together, and all the hard work he had put into getting her back. That was a rush in itself, wasn’t it? That the woman he loved, the woman he craved, feared a man that she had no idea was right before her eyes.

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  Many thanks to my agent, Sarah Manning of The Bent Agency, for her firm belief in my work and her astounding dedication (she once sent me a string of emails from a canoe). To my editor, Sara O’Keeffe at Atlantic, for nurturing me as a writer and believing in the story I wished to tell, and her editorial assistant, Poppy Mostyn-Owen. To my publicist, Kirsty Doole, for ordering wine at lunch meetings and sending free books when I ask (beg), as well as the wonderful job she does. To Jane Selley, my copy-editor, for spotting where I had forgotten to dot the i’s and cross the t’s, and, occasionally, make sense. Many thanks to Tracy Fenton and the incredibly supportive readers of The Book Club on Facebook – your support means the world.

  I must also thank the wonderful baristas at my local Costa Coffee shops for allowing me to overstay my welcome to meet deadlines, reminding me when I’ve had too much caffeine, and knowing my coffee order off by heart.

  Thanks to my family, for continuing to motivate me when I dare to doubt myself, and for your unconditional love and support: Sandra Jarrad, Pamela Jordan, Gary Barnes, Natalie Gowers and Carl Jarrad (and many more). And to my friends, for allowing me to be antisocial to meet deadlines, but also knowing when to drag me out against my will, especially Abbi Houghton, who has been by my side for over twenty years.

  Lastly, I must give a huge thank you to you – yes, you – for buying this book. Your support is life-changing.