‘Aren’t I?’
‘Please. I don’t want to lose you again. I’ll be here for you. Please. Let’s get Jackson to hospital.’
A tear rolls down her face. ‘Do you miss Mum, Amelia?’ she whispers.
‘All the time.’
‘I was at the crematorium. I was there. I said goodbye to her.’ Tears stream down her face, and I reach for her hand. She lets me take it.
‘I know. I felt you there,’ I say. ‘Please let me get my phone,’ I go on, stepping forward and reaching for it. She doesn’t stop me.
‘I love Jackson. I love him so much it makes my insides ache,’ she says. ‘Why did he hurt me? Why did he break my heart?’ She drops the needle to the floor and climbs onto the bed next to him. His lips are dry – his breathing raspy, but he’s hanging on. She puts her arm around him, curls her body into him, like she’s joined, growing there. ‘I love you,’ she whispers and closes her eyes.
I pick up the phone, but before I can dial, I hear sirens.
The police are on their way.
Epilogue
Three months later
Amelia
I’ve officially moved back in with Dad and Thomas, unable to face returning to London. After everything that happened, I need the security of my childhood home. And it’s worked out well for Thomas too, as I’ve been caring for him, being there as he improves day by day. He can feel his legs now, and he’s building up his muscles. It’s a miracle – when everyone thought he would be in a wheelchair forever.
He’s confided in me many times how much he misses Maddie, and he’s talked about the woman he loves in America who he insists he doesn’t stalk on Twitter. He hasn’t contacted her, but says he will. One day.
I’m still coming to terms with everything. Attempting to move my life back into the normal zone, whatever that is. It isn’t easy, as I’m battling through a mixture of insomnia, and traumatic dreams, whilst grieving for everyone we’ve lost – including the part of Lark we hopefully haven’t lost forever.
My cat jumps onto my lap, startling me from my thoughts. ‘Hello, Bella, my little furry ball of love,’ I say as she nibbles my chin. She’s a bit overweight from staying in London with the girl with the pink hair, but I’m working on cutting down her diet. It isn’t easy, as Misty, who never stops purring, is rather thin. He’s a stray that Jackson fed regularly when he went to the caravan in Laurel Wood – he’d even put in a cat flap for him, so he could get warm on cold nights. We’ve adopted him officially, as once the trial is over Jackson intends to return to the US.
I’m still reeling in shock at what Lark was capable of, and wonder now, if I’d had my eyes fully open on our first visit to Drummondale House if I’d seen how close to the edge she was. If I’d studied more closely the looks that passed between her and Jackson, would I have seen how besotted she was? But instead I was blinded by my own sadness.
Now Lark is going through a traumatic court case for the kidnapping and attempted murder of Jackson – but I’ll be there for her, always. She told me only yesterday, how she would sit in the caravan and listen to Maddie’s vlogs. She’d found out when Mum died that way. I try to understand how desperate she must have been to take Jackson. She’d fallen so deeply for him, and he’d messed with her young mind, fooling her into thinking he loved her.
Dad has fully recovered from his injury. He’s shaved off his moustache, and his dyed black hair has almost grown out. He has more threads of grey than before, but looks like my dad again. He’s rehearsing an Agatha Christie Miss Marple production with the Berwick-upon-Tweed Players. He says it’s the only way he can keep sane – losing himself in a role – pretending to be someone else. Ironically, he’s playing the murderer.
I guess we all have our methods of survival. Mine was alcohol. But I’m battling with my addiction, getting by without booze and feeling better for it.
Rosamund is awaiting trial. The prosecution are pushing for diminished responsibility. The distressing, emotional way she lost her baby when she was pushed against the coffee table, followed by the shock of killing Elise, left her in a delusional, psychotic state. Is it wrong that I feel sorry for her? Perhaps I understand more than some how traumatic it is to lose your unborn baby.
*
The doorbell rings. ‘That’ll be Finn and Julia,’ I call to Dad and Thomas, who are in the kitchen preparing dinner. I rise, and fling open the door.
‘Hey,’ Finn says, brandishing a bottle of wine I know I won’t touch.
‘Hey,’ I say, hugging them both.
We’ve become good friends – survivors of a terrible tragedy. I’ve been searching desperately for some good to come out of the terrors we’ve been through, and believe in Finn and Julia.
But whether they stay in our lives or not, my repair must come from inside of me. ‘To thine own self be true,’ Mr Shakespeare would have said, and I’m determined I will be.
I’m determined I won’t let everything that’s happened destroy us.
Gripped by Amelia’s story in I Lie in Wait? Don’t miss Her Last Lie, another heart-stopping thriller from Amanda Brittany. Available now!
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Acknowledgements
Firstly, I would like to thank my wonderful editor Belinda Toor who has been absolutely amazing. I’m so grateful for all her support in making I Lie in Wait the best it possibly can be.
Thank you to everyone at HQ; with huge thanks especially to Anna Sikorska for another fantastic cover design, to my excellent copy editor Helena Newton, to Abigail Fenton and to Christopher Sturtivant.
Thank you to my fabulous agent Kate Nash and her brilliant team, as well as her writers for their support since I joined the agency.
Sending big thanks, as always, to my lovely friends Karen Clarke, Joanne Duncan and Diane Jeffrey for their endless support and feedback. Writing can be a lonely business at times, so to have such supportive writer friends is wonderful.
I’ve been so lucky to have such support on Facebook, Twitter, and Instagram from so many friends, readers, and writers – huge thanks to every single one of them. I couldn’t have got this far without them, and wish I had space to name everyone, but I hope you know who you are.
I’m so grateful to all my lovely readers, and to the blogging community for all their support and brilliant reviews – it means so much. Thank you.
I would like to thank too Sally Maskell and Kate Nussey, who provided the names for Julia Collis and Detective Inspector Kate Beynon in I Lie in Wait, after winning a competition I ran on my Facebook page. Sally’s choice was in memory of her sister, Jane Collis. Thank you to everyone who took part in the competition, and donated to my Her Last Lie fundraising page.
Thank you so much to my family and friends for listening to me go on about writing, and for being there for me. Again, you know who you are. I love you all.
Special thanks to my daughter-in-law, Lucy, who once again bravely read an early draft of my novel, and to my sons Liam, Daniel and Luke who tirelessly support me, and to Janni and Amy for cheering me on. Thanks to my mum who still tells everyone she meets that her daughter is a writer, and to Cheryl and my dad who my acknowledgements would never be complete without.
And last but never least a special thank you to Kev who has supported me since I started on my crazy writing journey. I’m dedicating this book to you.
Keep reading for an excerpt from Her Last Lie …
Prologue
Saturday, 23 July
NSW Newsroom Online
Serial killer Carl Jeffery convicted of triple hostel killings, granted appeal.
Six years ago, the so-called Hostel Killer, Carl Jeffery, now thirty-one, was found guilty of the murders of Sophie Stuart, nineteen, Bronwyn Br
ay, eighteen, and Clare Simpson, twenty-six. He got three life sentences.
Now his younger sister, Darleen Jeffery, hopes to get him acquitted.
Mr Jeffery was accused of targeting women travelling alone in Australia. He would gain their trust, and when the women ended their relationship with Jeffery, he would tap on their window in the dead of night, wearing a green beanie hat and scarf to disguise his appearance, striking fear. He later killed them.
The main prosecuting evidence came from his intended fourth victim, Isla Johnson from the UK, who survived his attack and identified him as her assailant. She suffered physical and psychological injuries. Following Mr Jeffery’s trial, she returned to England where she now lives with boyfriend Jack Green.
During his trial, Jeffery broke down when questioned about his mother, who left the family home when he was eleven, leaving him and Darleen to live with their abusive father, who died three months before the first murder.
Darleen, who penned the bestseller My Brother is Innocent, has campaigned for her sibling’s release for almost six years. She claims her brother’s DNA was found on Bronwyn Bray’s body because they had been in a relationship, and that this wasn’t taken into account fully at the trial. She also insists the court should re-examine Isla’s statements of what happened the night of her brother’s arrest, suggesting there is no proof that he started the ‘bloodbath’ that unfolded that night.
Canberra’s High Court granted permission today for an appeal, agreeing there are sufficient grounds for further consideration of the case. The hearing will take place on 30 September.
Leaving court today, Darleen, wearing a two-piece royal-blue skirt suit, told reporters, ‘I’m over the moon. I believe we have a sound case, and I can’t wait for my brother to be released.’
We contacted Isla Johnson in her hometown of Letchworth Garden City, England. She told us she wouldn’t be attending the hearing. ‘They have my original statements, and I’ve no more to offer,’ she said.
PART 1
Chapter 1
Tuesday, 26 July
It was hot.
Not the kind of heat you bask in on a Majorcan beach. No tickle of a warm breeze caressing your cheek. This was clammy, and had crept out of nowhere mid-afternoon, long after Isla had travelled into London in long sleeves and leggings, her camera over her shoulder, her notepad in hand.
Now Isla was crushed against a bosomy woman reading a freebie newspaper, on a packed, motionless train waiting to leave King’s Cross. The air was heavy with stale body odour and – what was that? – fish? She looked towards the door. Should she wait for the next train?
She took two long, deep breaths in an attempt to relieve the fuzzy feeling in her chest. She rarely let her angst out of its box anymore – proud of how far she’d come. But there were times when the buried-alive anxiety banged on the lid of that box, desperate to be freed. It had been worse since she’d received the letter about the appeal. Carl Jeffery had crawled back under her skin.
She’d hidden the letter, knowing if she told Jack and her family they would worry about her. She didn’t want that. She’d spent too much time as a victim. The one everyone worried about. She was stronger now. The woman she’d once been was in touching distance. She couldn’t let the appeal ruin that.
She ran a finger over the rubber band on her wrist, and pinged it three times. Snap. Snap. Snap. It helped her focus – a weapon against unease.
‘Hey, sit,’ said a lad in his teens, leaping to his feet and smiling. Had he picked up on her breathing technique – those restless, twitching feelings?
I’m twenty-nine, not ninety, she almost said. But the truth was she was relieved. She had been on her feet all day taking pictures around Tower Bridge for an article she was working on, and that horrid heat was basting the backs of her knees, the curves of her elbows, making them sweat.
‘Thanks,’ she said, and thumped down in the vacated seat, realising instantly why the bloke had moved. A fish-sandwich muncher was sitting right next to her.
Her phone rang in her canvas bag, and she pulled it out to see Jack’s face beaming from the screen.
‘Hey, you,’ she said, pinning the phone to her ear.
‘You OK?’
‘Yeah, just delayed. Train’s rammed.’ It jolted forward and headed on its way. ‘Ooh, we’re moving, thank the Lord. Should be home in about an hour.’
‘Great. I’m cooking teriyaki chicken. Mary Berry style.’
She laughed, scooping her hair behind her ears. ‘Lovely. I’ll pick up wine.’
The line went dead as the train rumbled through a tunnel, and Isla slipped her phone in her bag, and took out her camera. She flicked through her photos. She would add one or two to Facebook later, and mention her long day in London.
Your life is so perfect, Millie had written on Isla’s status a few months back, when she’d updated that she and Jack were back from France and she was closer to finishing her book. It had been an odd thing for Millie to say. Her sister knew Isla’s history better than anyone. How could she think Isla’s life was perfect, when she’d seen her at her most desperate? Felt the cruel slap of Isla’s anger?
Eyes closed, Isla drifted into thoughts of Canada. She was going for a month. Alone. Canada. The place she would have gone to after Australia if life hadn’t forced a sharp change of direction. Going abroad without Jack wouldn’t be easy. But then he couldn’t keep carrying her. She had to face it alone. And it would be the perfect escape from the pending appeal.
With a squeal of brakes, the train pulled in to Finsbury Park, and fish-sandwich man grunted, far too close to Isla’s ear, that it was his stop. She moved so he could pass, and shuffled into the window seat.
Through the glass, she watched overheated people pour onto the platform, and her eyes drifted from a woman with a crying, red-faced toddler, to a teenage boy slathering sun cream onto his bare shoulders.
‘Isla?’ Someone had sat down next to her, his aftershave too strong.
She turned, her chest tightening, squeezing as though it might crush her heart. ‘Trevor,’ she stuttered, suddenly desperate to get up and rush through the door before it hissed shut. But it did just that – sucking closed in front of her eyes, suffocating her, preventing any escape from her past.
‘I thought it was you,’ he said, as the train pulled away. He was still handsome and athletic. Gone were his blond curls, replaced by cropped hair that suited him. He was wearing an expensive-looking suit, a tie loose in the neck, his tanned face glowing in the heat.
Her heartbeat quickened. It always did when anything out of the ordinary happened, and seeing Trevor for the first time in years made her feel off-kilter. The man she’d hurt at university was sitting right next to her, his face creased into a pleasant smile, as though he’d forgotten how things had ended between them.
‘You haven’t changed,’ he said. ‘Still as beautiful as ever.’ He threw her a playful wink, before his blue eyes latched on to hers. ‘I can’t believe it’s been eight years. How are you?’ She’d forgotten how soft his voice was, the slight hint of Scotland in his accent. He’d always been good to talk to. Always had time for everyone at university. But the chemistry had never been there – for her anyway – and they’d wanted different things from their lives.
‘I’m good – you?’ she said, as her heart slowed to an even beat.
He nodded, and a difficult silence fell between them. This was more like it. This was how things had been left – awkward and embarrassing. An urge to apologise took over. But it was far too late to say sorry for how she’d treated him. Wasn’t it?
‘I’ve often thought about you,’ he said, and she tugged her eyes away from his. ‘You know, wondering what you’re up to. I heard what happened in Australia.’
‘I prefer not to talk about it.’ It came out sharp and defensive.
‘Well, no, I can see why you wouldn’t want to. Must have been awful for you. I’m so sorry.’
Quickly, Isla changed the
subject, and they found themselves bouncing back and forth memories of university days, avoiding how it had ended.
‘You’re truly remarkable,’ Trevor said eventually. ‘You know, coming back from what you went through.’
After another silence, where she stared at her hands, she said, ‘It was hard for a time … a really long time, in fact.’ She hadn’t spoken about it for so long, and could hear her voice cracking.
‘But you’re OK now?’ He sounded so genuine, his eyes searching her face.
She shrugged. ‘His sister …’
Would it be OK to talk to Trevor about the appeal? Tell him about Darleen Jeffery? Ask him what kind of woman fights their brother’s innocence, when it’s so obvious he’s a monster? There was a huge part of Isla that desperately needed to talk. Say the words she couldn’t say to Jack or her family for fear they would think she was taking a step back. Vocalise the fears that hovered under the surface. The desire to tell someone about the Facebook message she’d received from Darleen Jeffery several months ago was overwhelming. ‘I need to discuss the truth, Isla,’ it had said.
‘His sister fought for an appeal and won,’ she went on, wishing immediately that she’d said nothing.
‘Jesus.’ He looked so concerned, his eyes wide and fully on her. ‘When is it?’
‘The end of September.’ The words caught in her throat.
‘Are you going?’
She shook her head. She’d contacted the Director of Public Prosecutions. Told them she wouldn’t be attending, that she didn’t want to know the outcome. Being in a courtroom with him again would be like resting her head on a block, Carl Jeffery controlling the blade.
‘I can’t face it,’ she said, her voice a whisper.
‘I don’t blame you.’ He shook his head. ‘It’s sickening that he killed three women. Unbelievable.’
I Lie in Wait: A gripping new psychological crime thriller perfect for fans of Ruth Ware! Page 24
