How I Lost You

by Jenny Blackhurst

  Cassie rises and gestures with her head to Nick; they both smile at me again and leave without a word. Chief Inspector Harrison has promised I can listen to this story alone—he’s heard it after all—but still I’m surprised when he turns to leave too.

  We sit for a minute in silence, neither of us knowing how to start.

  “I lost my daughter,” she says suddenly, surprising me. She doesn’t look me directly in the eye, just concentrates on picking at a piece of skin next to her thumbnail as she speaks. “She was twenty-two when she went missing. She was ill. It never gets any easier, you know? Well, of course you know.” She looks embarrassed.

  “I’d come to accept that she was never coming back. My husband was devastated; he couldn’t understand why our beautiful little girl would just leave us, without so much as a good-bye. But she was an adult, she could do whatever she liked. She wasn’t officially missing, she just didn’t want us knowing where she was.” I can see the hurt in her eyes. What she is telling me, a perfect stranger, is something she has put on a brave face about for years, smiling through her pain when her friends talked about their own children’s triumphs.

  “Go on,” I encourage gently, trying not to sound too eager. It doesn’t seem to help; she looks as though she is in a place I can’t reach, a place filled with pain. After a moment, though, she takes a small breath and continues.

  “After nearly fourteen years of no contact whatsoever, she turned up on our doorstep as though she’d only been away a week. She told us she’d got married and had a baby, but the baby’s daddy had died. She needed our help to look after it. A beautiful three-month-old boy.”

  My heart picks up speed; I can feel its beat now.

  “You must have been overjoyed,” I say, trying not to push her too much. At this, though, she smiles, a wonderful smile that lights up her whole face.

  “I was,” she says. “He’s the most fantastic boy, beautiful and so cheeky. He’s four years old now. You know, of course you do. I just wanted to say it to you face-to-face. To say I’m sorry.”

  I do know, of course. The police told me the minute they found Jennifer Matthews’s four-year-old “son,” living with his grandparents. Tests have been done; the results are on their way.

  “I had no idea there was anything suspicious about the circumstances in which Simon came to live with us,” she says, her voice a monotone, as if she is reading from a court statement. “I had no reason to believe Jenny was lying to us, no reason to believe Simon wasn’t hers. I had no idea.”

  “So you’ve said.” I’m trying my best not to get angry. For a start, any kind of emotion still causes me physical pain; secondly, I really do know what this has cost her.

  “Jenny would leave Simon with us for weekends at first,” she continues. “Then it was long weekends. It got to the point where he was living with us and she would just visit. Eventually even the visits fizzled out. We were lucky to see her once a month.”

  She took my child and then gave him away. She took my child and then gave him away.

  “A month ago, we had a visit from a man, looking for Jennifer. He said his name was Mark and he’d known Jenny at university. Simon was out with my husband, and for some reason, I told the man we hadn’t seen Jenny for years. I don’t know what made me lie; I must have realized then that something was terribly wrong.”

  If it’s possible for blood to actually run cold, I’m certain mine does. Every hair on my arms stands on end and a chill runs through me. Rebecca Matthews doesn’t notice and pushes on, a determined look on her pretty face. Mark had stood within spitting distance of where our son lived; he’d probably been minutes away from meeting the boy we’d lost. If he’d arrived just a short time later he might still be alive. I might have my son in my arms now.

  “What happened next?” I try to keep the hostility from my voice. If this woman leaves, I might never find her again.

  “He said that Jennifer had called him the day before. He needed to speak to her about his wife, that he was worried he’d made a terrible mistake. He seemed so upset, then he ran off.”

  She hadn’t been able to resist speaking to him again. And Jennifer Matthews’s obsession with my husband had cost her her life.

  “When he left, I looked Mark up on the Internet and saw what had happened to you. I’d been so wrapped up in our new grandchild, I’d never seen it in the news, and even if I had, I wouldn’t have put the two together. I’d never heard Jennifer mention Mark. Even still, all that seemed strange was the timing—Jenny had shown up the same evening his little boy, well, you know. But that couldn’t have had anything to do with her.”

  My mind struggles to take all this in, and I have to clamp my teeth together to stop myself from screaming questions at her.

  “I still wasn’t sure. Then I found the photo of Dylan in an old newspaper article online. I should have gone to the police as soon as I knew, but I was so scared of what Jennifer would do, what my husband would do. He loves Simon so much, I couldn’t bear to be the one to betray him like that. Then, when Jennifer died, I just couldn’t go through with what I’d started. He’s our little boy, all we have left of our daughter. I was glad when the police found us.”

  “You sent me the photographs,” I state. Rebecca nods.

  “I didn’t know what to do,” she confesses, wringing her hands. “I expected the police at any minute, but no one came. My husband would kill me if he knew what I’ve done, but I couldn’t just pretend I didn’t know who Simon really was. I’m a mother, Mrs. Webster, and there are some things only a mother can understand. That’s why I had to try and get you to find out yourself. I had no idea what the boys had done to those girls all those years ago.”

  I nod, letting her cry in silence. There will be no happy ending to her story.

  “And the hairbrush and blanket?”

  “Jennifer brought the blanket with her when she first turned up with him. He never went anywhere without it. He only stopped sleeping with it last year.”

  The thought that my son had a little part of me with him all these years fills me with joy. “I saw you. In the café. And outside the library. You came to find me in Ludlow.” It seems like a lifetime ago now. Rebecca nods.

  “I told my husband I’d gone to find Jennifer, to talk her into coming to see Simon. That’s when I posted the photo. Put the article in your bag. To make you question the story you’d been given.”

  “How did you find me?”

  “My father was a detective; some of his colleagues are still alive.”

  “If you’d just come clean, your daughter, my ex-husband, they’d still be alive.” She squeezes her eyes closed, but tears find their way out anyway.

  “Oh God, I know. I’m so sorry.”

  * * *

  I run my hands down the front of my jumper for the third time, removing lint that I know doesn’t exist. Today is to be arguably the most important day of my life and I have never been more nervous.

  “Are you okay?” Josh asks, placing a protective hand on my shoulder. I feel the calm seep through my entire body. I love the effect he has on me, the knowledge that when I’m with him I will be okay. I nod more confidently than I feel.

  “Listen,” he says, turning my face to his. “There’s something I need to tell you.”

  We’re sitting in his car outside the house that might change my entire life and now he has something to tell me? As though he can read my mind he says, “I have to tell you now in case Rebecca mentions it. After all, he’s her nephew.”

  Jack Bratbury. The puppeteer in the sick show that was my husband’s life. I’ve heard very little about him since he disappeared with Rachael. I know the firm folded under the scandal, but not before he’d cleared out all the company accounts. It seems that once again Jack Bratbury has got away scot-free.

  “What about him?” My hands shake at the thought of a man I’ve barely encountered.

  “They got him.” Josh is smiling, he puts his hands on my shoulders. “Th
ey picked him up coming back into the country with a fake passport. Arrogant son of a bitch thought he could return as if nothing had happened.”

  “Why? Why was he coming back?”

  “For Mark’s funeral.”

  The words force the air from my lungs. I’d decided not to go—a huge and difficult decision for me to make, but the right one, I’m sure. I can hardly believe that the man who was responsible for all this, the man who caused the downfall of my perfect existence, the ruination of God knows how many girls and their families, thought he could just walk into Mark’s funeral and act as though he was completely innocent.

  “What’s going to happen to him?” I’m shaking and trying my hardest not to cry.

  “He’s going to go to prison. For a very long time. I promise.” He puts his hands on my shoulders and steadies me. He’s done this more than once in the last few weeks. He has such a calming effect on me, but I’m still wondering what I’m going to do if one of these days he leans forward and kisses me. “Since everything came out about Beth, they’ve had girls coming forward from as far back as 1990, saying they were attacked by him and his friends.”

  Him and his friends. My husband.

  Bracing myself, I ring the doorbell. The thundering of small feet sounds on the stairs and I think for a second that Josh or no Josh, I might just turn and run.

  It’s only been a week since Rebecca’s visit but it has felt like a three-year sentence all over again.

  The plain, ordinary-looking white envelope that had the potential to change my whole life sat on my dad’s kitchen counter for four hours until I finally broke down and called Josh. After an ordeal that almost cost him his life, he’d have been justified in never wanting to see me again.

  Instead he turned up on my dad’s doorstep and sat with me in silence until I was ready to open it. Then he held me close while I sobbed into his arms. I don’t know what will happen to us after this is over; all I know is that I’m not ready for him to leave my life.

  The Matthewses put up no fight during mediation while social services decided the best way to reunite me with my son. All Rebecca asked was that they be allowed to stay involved in Simon’s life. Given that their daughter kidnapped my son and killed my ex-husband, among other people, her request was denied, but I’ve fought as hard as I can and promised they will have regular contact with their “grandson.” They have done nothing wrong and my son loves them; it wouldn’t be fair to him to push them away. I can’t say I’ll be as amenable to his paternal grandparents. The CPS are still deciding whether Margaret and Richard will be charged with obstructing the course of justice in Beth’s murder and I don’t know yet how I’m going to deal with them.

  Today I’m going to meet my son for the first time in four years. We all agreed it would be best for him to be in his own home, and that we’ll take it as slowly as he needs. When Rebecca opens the front door, I see that our social services advisor, Michelle, is already there.

  “Hi.” Rebecca gives me a quick hug and leads me into the living room, where Michelle is waiting with Christopher Matthews. I introduce Josh; Michelle smiles and greets us both and Christopher offers a curt nod. He might not be putting up a fuss but this is breaking his heart. After hearing the news about his nephew, I can only imagine what this family is going through today.

  “Okay, Susan, are you ready?” Michelle asks me kindly. I’m not. I don’t think, however long I had to prepare for this moment, anything would ever make me ready. Still I nod. Michelle looks at Rebecca, then goes out into the hallway and I hear her speaking in a low voice to a child. My child.

  The door opens. I hold my breath as a beautiful little boy appears in the doorway, looking down at his feet. Rebecca gives him a small nod and smiles at him encouragingly. The little boy takes a few steps into the room and looks up at me and Josh.

  “Hiya,” he says brightly. A lump forms in my throat. I don’t know if I can trust myself to speak, but I force out the words.

  “Hello.” I smile down at the little boy I brought into the world, the little boy I held in my arms and rocked to sleep when he cried. “My name’s Susan. What’s your name?”

  “Simon,” he says, proudly holding up a toy truck for us both to see. “Do you like my truck?”

  “It’s perfect,” I reply, fresh tears forming in my eyes. “It’s just absolutely perfect.”

  About the Author

  JENNY BLACKHURST was raised in Shropshire, England, where she still lives with her husband and children. Growing up, she spent hours reading and talking about crime novels—writing her own seemed like a natural progression. Inspired by the emotions she felt around her own son’s birth, How I Lost You is Jenny’s thrilling debut crime novel.

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  "An astounding and original thriller with a complex relationship between three women at its heart and an explosive conclusion." —B. A. Paris, New York Times bestselling author of Behind Closed Doors

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  This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and events are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2014 by Jenny Blackhurst

  Originally published in Great Britain in 2015 by Headline Publishing Group

  Published by arrangement with Jenny Blackhurst Books Limited

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever. For information, address Atria Books Subsidiary Rights Department, 1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020.

  First Emily Bestler Books/Atria Paperback edition October 2017

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  Interior design by Michelle Marchese

  Cover design by Ervin Serrano

  Cover photograph by Plainpicture/Reilika Landen

  Author photo courtesy of author

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Names: Blackhurst, Jenny, author.

  Title: How I lost you : a novel / Jenny Blackhurst.

  Description: First Emily Bestler Books/Atria paperback edition. | New York :

   Emily Bestler Books/Atria, 2017. | Description based on print version

   record and CIP data provided by publisher; resource not viewed.

  Identifiers: LCCN 2017012730 (print) | LCCN 2017018951 (ebook) | ISBN

   9781501168833 (Ebook) | ISBN 9781501168826 (softcover)

  Subje
cts: LCSH: Mothers and sons—Fiction. | Psychological fiction. | BISAC:

  FICTION / Thrillers. | FICTION / Psychological. | FICTION / General. |

   GSAFD: Suspense fiction.

  Classification: LCC PR6102.L3349 (ebook) | LCC PR6102.L3349 H69 2017 (print) |

   DDC 823/.92—dc23

  LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2017012730

  ISBN 978-1-5011-6882-6

  ISBN 978-1-5011-6883-3 (ebook)