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

by Amanda Brittany

  I remember watching my husband drink too much each night – drowning his sadness, he said. I never needed alcohol to drown mine. The thing is, people spiral out of control when they drink too much. There are no exceptions.

  And now, as I enter the conservatory once more, expecting everyone to have gone back to their cottages, Amelia is still here, alone, rocking her chair backwards and forwards, sipping yet more wine as she twiddles her red hair round her fingers.

  ‘You should leave now,’ I say, folding my arms. ‘The dining room closes at nine, and it’s almost ten-thirty.’

  Amelia looks up at me. Shows no sign of moving.

  ‘Finn!’ I call out, and he appears through the door behind me looking flushed. He’s probably been out for a brisk walk; he often goes out in the evening as part of his fitness regime.

  Amelia turns and smiles at him. ‘Finn,’ she says, swinging her arm in the air in an exaggerated wave. ‘How lovely to see you again.’

  ‘Hey, shall I get you back to your cottage?’ he says, walking towards her and, taking hold of her arms, he pulls her to her feet.

  ‘I’m sure the lass can find her own way,’ I say. ‘Just point her towards the door, son.’

  Amelia threads an arm through Finn’s and leans against him. ‘You smell nice,’ she says.

  I grind my teeth, turn, and head back into the main house, slamming the door behind me, disgusted by the young woman’s behaviour.

  Chapter 10

  Present Day

  Amelia

  Snow swirls and twirls from the night sky, and I stick out my tongue. Try to catch flakes.

  ‘Are you a bit of a mummy’s boy, Finn?’ I’m clinging to his arm as he guides me through the snow, brandishing a torch to light our way. I’m regretting the amount of wine I’ve drunk, as I’m at that stage where crap falls from my mouth. I shouldn’t use alcohol to drown out real life, but sometimes it’s just too easy. ‘She’s ever so, ever so, much possessive of you.’

  ‘You think?’ He sounds amused by me.

  ‘Mmm.’ I screw up my nose, and stare up at him. ‘It’s kind of obvious.’

  ‘I guess she’s relied on me over the years. She means well.’ He shrugs and avoids my gaze. ‘Just cares a bit too much, I guess. She’s had a hard time of it over the years. What with …’

  ‘With?’

  ‘Oh nothing,’ he says, and despite my intoxicated state, something tells me not to pry.

  ‘Should we check Elise is OK, do you think?’ I say, as we pass Primrose Cottage where Rosamund and Elise are staying.

  He shakes his head. ‘It’s in darkness. They’re probably asleep by now.’

  ‘But Elise saw a masked face peering in her window, Finn. That’s what she told Rosamund. And remember last time?’

  ‘It’s unlikely anyone peered in at her, Amelia. We’re miles from anywhere, and the weather is awful. Elise probably imagined it.’

  ‘She’s pretty imaginative,’ I agree, recalling her from the last time I was here.

  ‘And it’s quite creepy around here; can play tricks with your mind.’

  I stop and look about me, my eyes falling on a set of footprints heading from Primrose Cottage towards the forest. ‘Oh God, who made those?’ I clench tighter onto Finn’s arm, my heartbeat picking up speed. ‘Someone else is here, Finn. Oh God, Elise was right.’ I sound a bit manic.

  Finn is silent for a while, his eyes on the footprints. It appears that whoever made them walked to Primrose Cottage, and returned the way they came.

  ‘Do you think Rosamund has seen the footprints? Should we tell her?’ I say.

  ‘Tomorrow. Whoever it was has gone now.’

  I shudder, unsure whether it’s from fear or the freezing conditions. ‘But—’

  ‘Amelia!’ It’s Dad, hurrying through the snow towards us in his long winter coat, his arms folded around his body.

  ‘You can head back now,’ I say to Finn, releasing him. ‘My dad will walk me the rest of the way.’

  ‘Oh. Right. OK.’

  ‘Thanks for bringing me this far – you’re very kind.’ I rise onto my toes, and kiss his cold cheek.

  ‘No problem.’ He raises his gloved hand in a wave, before turning and trudging back, his head down.

  Dad and I carry on towards our cottage.

  ‘I was getting worried about you,’ he says. ‘Though I shouldn’t have been. Finn seems a nice guy.’

  ‘Get that look off your face, Dad. He’s not my type.’ It’s a lie. I like him. But a relationship, or even a brief fling, is the furthest thing from my thoughts right now, especially when a possessive mother looms large. I open my mouth to tell him about the footprints, but he speaks first.

  ‘Odd that Rosamund is here, don’t you think?’

  I nod. ‘She says she needs closure, Dad. Wants us all to forgive her for not being there for Mum.’

  ‘Oh, I see. Well she won’t be getting any forgiveness from me, that’s for sure.’

  I glance over my shoulder at the footprints, and back at Dad. He looks brighter than he did earlier. Any mention of anything odd will bring him tumbling down, and his thoughts will be back with Lark. I need to give him at least the rest of the evening off. I’ll tell him in the morning.

  *

  I rise at six, and pad towards the bedroom window. My head thuds, my mouth is dry, and regrets fill my head at the things I said to Finn last night.

  I pull back the curtains. It’s still dark outside, but the lights on Rosamund’s porch are on, haloing Elise crouched with her back to me in front of a rather splendid-looking snowman. She’s clearly still a fan of pink; the hat she’s wearing is the same one she wore on the beach a year ago, but the pink jacket is paler – more grown-up – and her fair hair is longer, several inches peeking out of the bottom of her woolly hat. As she rises and pushes a carrot into the snowman’s head, I see she’s taller, no longer a child but a young woman.

  Unbidden memories flood my head of playing in the snow with Mum and Dad when I was a child, and my throat closes round them. I turn from the window, and shiver. It’s not cold in the cottage. The central heating is on and, if anything, it’s too warm. It’s the simple thought of being here again – where Lark disappeared – where we were all last together.

  I close the curtains again. I need water – lots of water – and head downstairs, where I gulp back a tumbler full, and flick on the kettle. I hear Dad’s footfalls on the stairs, and make him some coffee, and myself some tea, and leave the kitchen.

  He’s sitting on the sofa, and I place the steaming mug on the table in front of him. ‘Thanks, love,’ he says, as I kiss his head.

  I perch on the edge of the armchair, cradling my mug of tea. ‘Rosamund and Elise have built a great snowman,’ I say, before taking a sip.

  He smiles. ‘You used to love the snow,’ he says. ‘Lark not so much. She used to cry if her hands got too cold.’ I hear a crack in his voice. ‘And Thomas used to throw snowballs at me when I came home from work.’

  I laugh. ‘I remember,’ I say, recalling the small boy who would run like the wind when Dad chased him.

  ‘Do you think we should head for home today?’ I say, blowing the steam from my drink.

  ‘I’ve been wondering that myself.’ He picks up his coffee.

  ‘There’s nothing here, Dad. We’re chasing shadows.’

  He nods. ‘But I’m not sure how the roads will be this morning. It’s been snowing through the night.’ He picks up the remote control and flicks on the TV. ‘Let’s see what’s happening in this area, shall we?’

  We wait a while for the local weather forecast, before a chirpy young woman tells us the local roads are blocked until they can get a snowplough out. We’re stuck here, and my heart sinks.

  ‘Maybe it’s fate.’ Dad flicks off the TV, and puts the remotes on the table. ‘Maybe we are meant to be here. Maybe the fact we can’t leave means we will discover something.’

  I can’t find the words I want to say, without e
xtinguishing his hopes further, so I stay silent, biting the inside of my mouth and tasting blood. A crushing foreboding settles on my shoulders.

  What if it was a stranger who took Lark?

  What if it wasn’t Jackson, after all?

  What if whoever took Lark is back, or never left?

  What if they made the footprints in the snow last night? Looked in the window at Elise, while wearing a mask?

  Dad picks up his Kindle, and I rise, slip on my padded jacket, bobble hat and boots, and take my tea onto the snowy porch at the front of the cottage.

  A milky sun is rising, casting a bright light over a shimmering sheet of untouched snow. The footprints we saw on our way home last night have gone – due to last night’s snowfall – though it’s not falling now.

  I’m lost in thought, my nose and fingertips tingling as I sip my tea, when I hear someone call my name.

  It’s Finn, wearing winter running gear and a beanie hat and scarf. He isn’t exactly running, more stomping through the snow. ‘Morning,’ I call back, raising my hand, hoping he won’t hate me for the way I behaved the night before. ‘Not the best conditions for a run.’

  He laughs. ‘You’re right about that, but if I don’t stick to my routine, I’ll give up.’ He glances over his shoulder at the snowman near Rosamund’s cottage. ‘They’ve done a great job, haven’t they?’ He sounds a little out of breath.

  I smile. ‘They really have. Oh to be young.’

  ‘Hey, we’re still young.’ He laughs and picks up speed. ‘See you at breakfast?’

  ‘Yes, we’ll be over soon.’

  ‘Great!’ He heads away with another wave, and I take a deep breath and go back inside.

  ‘Are you ready to eat, Dad?’

  ‘Sure,’ he says, rising and climbing the stairs. ‘I’ll have a quick shower first, then we can head over.’

  *

  We pass the snowman on our way to the conservatory, and I notice Rosamund standing in the window in her dressing gown, holding a mug. She lifts her hand in a wave, and I return the gesture. Within seconds she’s gone from the window, and appears at the front door.

  ‘Morning,’ she calls. ‘Can you tell Ruth we won’t want breakfast this morning. Elise has gone back to bed – she was up at the crack of dawn building our new snowman friend here.’ She smiles. ‘And I’m feeling a bit groggy after the stressful journey here.’

  ‘OK, we’ll perhaps see you later,’ I call back as we continue to trudge through the snow, trying so hard to forgive her.

  Dad makes a grumbling sound. ‘I don’t know why you give her the time of day, Amelia. That woman—’

  ‘I’m not keen on her myself,’ I cut in. ‘But she is sorry – wants our forgiveness.’

  ‘Yes, well, she won’t get mine.’

  ‘I know. You said.’ I’m frustrated by his lack of understanding. ‘I just feel you should give her a chance, that’s all.’

  ‘Pot. Kettle,’ he says.

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘Well, you’ve never given Maddie a chance. Never tried to forgive her.’

  ‘That’s different,’ I say, though I’m not sure it is.

  I glance back over my shoulder as Rosamund calls after us, ‘Second thoughts, a cooked breakfast does sound rather tempting. I’ll be right over.’ She steps back inside her cottage and closes the door behind her.

  ‘Robert!’ It’s Maddie, waving from her cottage doorway, dressed in her ski suit. ‘Can we borrow your muscles again, please? Thomas is starving.’

  *

  ‘Did you hear about the footprints?’ Ruth says, topping up Dad’s tea.

  ‘Footprints?’ everyone says but me.

  ‘Bit odd really,’ she goes on, her hand on the side of the teapot as though her skin is made of copper. ‘Finn said they seemed to come from the woods and then go back again.’

  ‘That’s weird,’ Dad says.

  ‘Aye, it is strange,’ Ruth agrees, eyes searching the ceiling. ‘I can’t think who it could have been. The roads are blocked for miles.’

  ‘But what if someone’s been here all along?’ Maddie says, her voice cracking under her words. ‘Arrived before us. What if they came before the snow?’

  ‘What size prints were they?’ Thomas dips a piece of toast into his egg, and as the yellow trickles down the shell, he shoves the toast into his mouth.

  ‘Finn said they were made by large feet.’ Ruth turns to me. ‘What do you think, Amelia? You saw them, didn’t you?’

  All eyes are on me, and Dad’s forehead furrows. ‘You saw them, Amelia? You never said.’

  ‘I didn’t want to worry you.’ It sounds pathetic now I think about it. ‘I was going to mention it this morning. I think we should tell Rosamund.’

  ‘Tell Rosamund what?’ She’s standing in the doorway, looking stunning in her orange coat, her wavy blonde hair spilling from her fur hat.

  ‘We were talking about the footprints,’ Ruth says. ‘Tea, coffee?’

  ‘Tea please, I’ve gone off coffee since I fell pregnant.’ She sits down next to Dad, and he shuffles his chair away. ‘What footprints?’ she asks.

  ‘There were footprints in the snow last night,’ Ruth says. ‘Whoever made them walked from the woods to your cottage.’

  ‘Oh God,’ Rosamund says, peeling off her gloves. ‘Maybe Elise did see someone hanging about.’

  ‘Elise saw someone?’ Dad says. ‘Nobody tells me anything.’

  Rosamund shudders and nods. ‘Well she said she did. Said he was wearing a mask, and was looking in at her through the window of our cottage. But she makes things up. Always has done.’

  ‘It seems odd though, don’t you think?’ I say. ‘Especially after last time.’

  ‘I’ll talk to her again about it when she wakes up. Anyway, I didn’t notice any footprints this morning.’ She raises a perfect eyebrow.

  ‘Well we saw them last night, Rosamund.’ I bite into a croissant and chew. Crumbs fall onto the table. ‘It’s snowed since then. Covered them over.’

  She shudders again. ‘Don’t, please, you’re giving me the creeps.’

  Ruth hands her a mug of tea. ‘Get that down you, lass. It’ll make you feel better.’

  After taking several sips, Rosamund puts the mug on the table. ‘Anyway, we’re going to head for home today,’ she says. ‘I shouldn’t have come. I’m not sure what I was thinking.’ She’s talking too fast, and her hands are trembling. ‘The weather’s getting worse, more snow expected later with winds of up to seventy miles per hour.’

  ‘I think you may be out of luck, Rosamund,’ Dad says, as though he’s getting pleasure from his words. ‘All the roads are blocked around here.’

  ‘But we desperately need to get back to the comfort of our own home.’

  Ruth rests her hand on Rosamund’s shoulder. ‘Don’t you worry. I’m cooking a nice beef Wellington later.’

  Finn appears from the back of the house. ‘What you lads and lassies need is a bit of fun,’ he says. ‘There’s a hill on the other side of the ruin—’

  Ruth spins round to look at him, her eyes wide. ‘Vine Hill?’

  ‘And I’ve got a couple of sledges,’ Finn goes on as though his mother hasn’t spoken. ‘Does anyone fancy a bit of tobogganing?’

  Ruth storms from the room, and within seconds Dad’s on his feet.

  ‘Not for me,’ he says. ‘I’m not here to have fun.’ He heads out of the conservatory without a word, but I can’t bring myself to call him back.

  I think how odd his words sounded. From the moment Mum became ill, having fun or enjoying ourselves felt wrong somehow – that if I should laugh or feel happy, then I was being disloyal to her, to Lark, then to my lost baby. Yet at this moment, a part of me wants to whizz down a snowy slope on a sledge and yell and squeal and laugh at the top of my voice.

  ‘I’m up for it,’ Thomas says. His spinal injury affects his motor skills in his legs, though his sensory functions have always been OK. But I’m still concerned.

>   ‘Do you think you should, Thomas? Dad won’t be happy.’

  He glares my way. ‘Life is pretty crap right now, Amelia. I’m going down that slope whether you and Dad like it or not.’ He narrows his eyes. ‘Who’s going to ride with me?’

  ‘Me!’ says Maddie, and I control an urge to thump her. ‘Let’s do it!’

  ‘Great!’ Finn says, his cheeks glowing.

  Rosamund takes another sip of her drink, and shakes her head. ‘I’m not quite sure how you can all get so excited, after just saying we may have a prowler about, and we’re stranded in this awful place. No offence meant, Finn.’

  My mind swirls with all the bad things that have happened, and it’s as though I’m punching them to the back of my mind. ‘Count me in,’ I say, desperately needing to feel the freezing wind on my face – in my hair.

  *

  It’s snowing again, and the wind is getting up, whipping the snow off the ground so it whirls and twirls in the air, stinging my cheeks.

  Finn is ahead of us on his quad bike, Thomas on the back of it, clinging to him. Maddie is pulling one sledge and I’m pulling the other. They’re old, handmade out of wood, sturdy.

  ‘Almost there,’ calls Finn, over his shoulder, as we make our way past the ruins, his words muffled by the wind.

  Drummondale House looks like a scene from a Dickens novel, snow lying inches thick on every crumbling window-ledge, every decaying doorway – and my stomach knots, and grief floods my veins. What am I thinking being out here, about to sled down a hill in abandonment?

  It’s getting difficult to walk, my boots sinking deeper and deeper with every step I make. I can barely see in front of me for the falling snow. I glance back, but the view is no clearer. I’m glad we’re with Finn – he knows this place so well.

  ‘We’re here,’ he calls, cutting the power on his bike, and climbing off. He lifts Thomas off, and lowers him onto the snow.

  ‘Cool,’ Thomas says, flopping backwards, making the wings of a snow-angel with his arms. And for the first time in a long time, I urge his legs to work. I stare at him for a moment, and it’s as he pulls himself to a sitting position I think I see his foot move. I look straight at his face, but his eyes are on Maddie who is jumping up and down as though trying to warm her feet, her scarf blowing in the wind.