Copyright © 2018 Jenny Blackhurst
The right of Jenny Blackhurst to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
Apart from any use permitted under UK copyright law, this publication may only be reproduced, stored, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means, with prior permission in writing of the publishers or, in the case of reprographic production, in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency.
First published as an Ebook by Headline Publishing Group in 2018
All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Cataloguing in Publication Data is available from the British Library
eISBN: 978 1 4722 5371 2
[cover credit to follow]
HEADLINE PUBLISHING GROUP
An Hachette UK Company
Carmelite House
50 Victoria Embankment
London EC4Y 0DZ
www.headline.co.uk
www.hachette.co.uk
Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
About Jenny Blackhurst
Praise for Jenny Blackhurst
About the Book
Dedication
Acknowledgements
Prologue
1. Rebecca: The night of the wedding
2. Rebecca
3. Rebecca
One month later
4. Rebecca
5. Evie
6. Rebecca
7. Rebecca
8. Evie
9. Rebecca
10. Evie
11. Rebecca
12. Evie
13. Rebecca
14. Evie
15. Rebecca
16. Rebecca
17. Evie
18. Rebecca
19. Evie
20. Rebecca
21. Rebecca
22. Evie
23. Rebecca
24. Evie
25. Rebecca
26. Evie
27. Rebecca
28. Evie
29. Richard
30. Evie
31. Evie
32. Rebecca
33. Evie
34. Rebecca
35. Evie
36. Rebecca
37. Evie
38. Rebecca
39. Evie
40. Richard
41. Evie
42. Rebecca
43. Evie
44. Rebecca
45. Evie
46. Evie
47. Rebecca
48. Evie
49. Rebecca
50. Evie
51. Rebecca
52. Evie
53. Rebecca
54. Evie
55. Rebecca
56. Evie
57. Rebecca
58. Evie
59. Rebecca
60. Evie
61. Rebecca
62. Evie
63. Evie
64. Rebecca
65. Evie
66. Rebecca
67. Evie
68. Rebecca
69. Evie
Four months before the wedding
70. Evie
71. Evie
72. Evie
73. Evie
74. Evie
75. Evie
76. Evie
77. Evie
78. James
79. Evie
Now
80. Rebecca
81. Rebecca
82. Rebecca
83. Rebecca
84. Rebecca
85. Rebecca
86. Rebecca
The night of the wedding
87. Rebecca
88. Rebecca
89. Rebecca
90. Rebecca
91. Rebecca
92. Rebecca
93. Rebecca
Now
94. Rebecca
The night of the wedding
95. Evie
Now
96. Rebecca
97. Rebecca
98. Rebecca
Eight months after the wedding
99. Richard
100. Rebecca
Epilogue: Nine months after the wedding
Now
Evie
About Jenny Blackhurst
Jenny Blackhurst was born in Shropshire 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 natural progression. The Night She Died is her fourth novel. Follow her on Twitter @JennyBlackhurst.
Praise for Before I Let You In:
‘An unnerving psychological thriller with a stonking final twist’ Sunday Mirror
‘Compelling, disturbing and thoroughly enjoyable’ Sharon Bolton, author of Little Black Lies
‘I loved it. Jenny is an evil genius’ Lisa Hall, author of Between You and Me
‘An outstanding and original thriller with . . . an explosive conclusion’ B A Paris, author of Behind Closed Doors
‘[A] captivating, twisty and satisfying tale . . . I can’t wait to see what Blackhurst comes up with next’ S.J.I. Holliday, author of The Damsel Fly
‘Gripping and relatable. I loved it’ Helen Fitzgerald, author of The Cry
‘A gripping clever book. I loved it and didn’t want it to end’ Claire Douglas, author of Local Girl Missing
‘Such a clever twist, I really enjoyed it’ Claire McGowan, author of Blood Tide
‘A superb thriller. Compelling and thoroughly gripping. Highly recommended’ Luca Veste, author of Dead Gone
‘Brilliant. A dark psychological thriller that will have you looking suspiciously at your own friends’ Mason Cross, author of The Killing Season
‘A fantastic, twisted story’ Adam Hamdy, author of Pendulum
Praise for How I Lost You:
‘Utterly gripping – brilliant debut!’ Clare Mackintosh, author of I Let You Go
‘As twisted as a mountain road, Blackhurst’s fast-moving and unputdownable debut will keep you glued to your seat’ Alex Marwood
‘Amazing read that I couldn’t put down, gripping storyline, brilliant debut’ Helen M Jones, Amazon, 5*
‘Loved this book! Once I got started I couldn’t put it down desperate to know the next twist or turn’ E Webster, Amazon, 5*
‘This is the best book that I’ve read in a long time . . . I was completely hooked’ Tried and Tested, Amazon, 5*
‘Haunting, moving and wonderful! A gripping interpretation of post-natal emotions and the roller coaster that follows’ Sarah Morris, Amazon, 5*
About the Book
The addictive new psychological thriller from Jenny Blackhurst, the #1 eBook-bestselling author of How I Lost You. Full of dark drama and unexpected twists, this will suit fans of Friend Request, Close to Home and The Guilty Wife
On her own wedding night, beautiful and complicated Evie White leaps off a cliff to her death.
What drove her to commit this terrible act? It’s left to her best friend and her husband to unravel the sinister mystery.
Following a twisted trail of clues leading to Evie’s darkest secrets, they begin to realize they never knew the real Evie at all ...
To my beautiful boys Connor and Finlay, without whom this book would have been finished in half the time. I love you so much in the whole wide world.
Acknowledgements
Thanks (again and always) to my wonderful agent, Laetitia Rutherford, who has been my constant champion in my publishing journey and kept me sane – without you I would have lost my mind long ago. Also to Me
gan and everyone else at Watson Little and The Marsh Agency who work tirelessly to get my books into the hands of readers all over the world.
To all of the gang at Headline, my lovely editor Kate Stephenson, Ella Gordon, Jenni Leech, Jo Liddiard and Jen Doyle in particular who always make me feel like part of the Headline family. I feel very lucky to be working with you all. Thanks also to Siobhan for allowing me to judge my books by their gorgeous covers.
Books are nothing without readers, so thanks will always go to the fabulous readers and bloggers who tirelessly promote my books. There are too many of you to mention by name but I am grateful to every single one of you.
And lastly, but never least, to my friends, fellow crime writers, family and particularly my husband Ash who always knows when a deadline is approaching by my mood and hasn’t divorced me yet. Thanks love.
Prologue
She stands on the edge of the cliff, long blonde hair fluttering behind her in the light breeze. Her feet under her floor-length gown are bare and grubby, and the grass beneath them is damp, but she doesn’t feel the cold. Gazing out across the dark, still water she is at peace. Evelyn doesn’t need to look down to know that the sea laps against jagged rocks at the foot of the cliff, she isn’t afraid of them. She has stood before this sea many times before. The waves know her name, know her story.
She lifts a hand to remove the veil from her face, the diamond tiara which once belonged to her mother, and her mother before that, falls to the floor without a sound. There is no noise up here, none except the whispering of the sea and that of her own breathing, slow and gentle.
Two figures are watching from the twilight shadows across the cliffs. They are further away than she would have liked, but the night is clear enough for them to make out her tall supple form, her fitted wedding gown. Close enough to identify her to her husband, too far to react when they realise her intentions. For now, for the next few seconds, she is a newlywed, taking time away from the intensity of her wedding day, escaping the music and the wine, the constant flow of congratulatory jokes about married life. They are lovers, enjoying their balmy evening stroll, imagining that one day their friends will gather to hear their vows, offer their congratulations to the bride, commiserations to the groom. As the woman lets go of her veil and watches it flutter towards the cliff edge she steps forward, confident and unhesitant, and hurls herself into the darkness. A few moments ago they were just lovers. Now they are witnesses.
1
Rebecca
The night of the wedding
The remaining wedding guests gather on the lawn, sobered by shock, stunned into silence by their grief. A woman, Evelyn’s Great Aunt Beth, sobs quietly into a handkerchief handed to her by her husband, a slip of a man, weak-chested and weak-willed. Only three hours ago he had frowned and nodded in all the right places while Beth had complained about everything from the ‘bohemian’ ceremony, music, décor and the ‘downright hippy’ friends Evelyn had made herself. How her late niece, Evelyn’s mother, would be turning in her still-fresh grave to see her friends and family associating with such classlessness. Now silence prevails as it seems her daughter will be joining her.
My heart thuds as I stand outside the hotel door, listening to muted voices interspersed with furious outbursts. Richard.
I brace myself to go in, but falter as Richard begins to shout again, screaming that he should be out searching, that his wife would not have done this to him. This is my cue – I know that as Evie’s best friend and maid of honour I have my part to play – but suddenly I don’t want to open that door. I don’t want to see the look on Richard’s face or watch his heart breaking.
Footsteps the other side of the door shock me into action and I slam my fist against it.
‘Richard!’ It opens almost immediately, and behind it stands one of the police officers I’d seen lead Richard away twenty minutes before. The longest twenty minutes of my life. ‘I need to speak to Richard.’
‘I’m sorry,’ he begins, but a voice from inside cuts him off.
‘Let her in,’ Richard says, and the sigh of resignation tells me what I need to know. ‘She’s Evie’s best friend, she deserves to hear this.’
The police officer steps to one side and I barrel past him into the small hotel room, with its whitewashed walls and near-perfect view of the cliffs. The same cliffs Richard Bradley’s wife has just thrown herself from.
‘Richard!’ I hurl myself at him, grasping his forearms. ‘Where’s Evie? They’re saying downstairs that she jumped off the cliff, but that’s crazy. Where is she?’
When he doesn’t speak I shake him, but he still can’t say the words. One of the police officers, the woman, looks as though she wants to cry as she steps forward and places a hand on my arm and gently but firmly guides me away.
‘My name is Detective Michelle Green, this is Detective Thomas.’
First-name Michelle’s voice is slow and kind, Detective Thomas just stands there looking brooding. He is tall and broad, olive skin and dark hair. He looks like a TV cop – but so far it’s a non-speaking part. Every now and then he gives me an appraising look, one that makes me feel guilty, like I’m doing something wrong for being here. He’s just watching, waiting. What for?
‘We’ve had reports of a woman fitting Evelyn’s description seen entering the water around forty minutes ago. Have you seen Mrs Bradley in the last hour?’
I picture my best friend the last time I saw her, forty-five minutes ago. She is walking towards the edge of the marquee when she turns back. She seeks me out, and as our eyes meet she gives me a reassuring smile. She doesn’t look afraid, as I am, she is unflinching and unhesitant. She turns away and disappears into the darkness and for a split second I want to run after her, grab her and not let go. But my feet don’t move, and the moment is gone. She is gone.
‘No,’ I say. ‘I haven’t seen her.’
I’ve sobbed until my eyes are raw and tight, real tears that take me by surprise. That’s it then, a voice in my mind says. She’s gone. You’re on your own. And the thought is almost too much to bear.
Richard is still talking to the police, and I get the impression they are keeping him here so he won’t go to the clifftop, so he won’t do anything stupid. I am staring out of the window at where torches are panning the area, and where the white lights of the search and rescue helicopter light up the sky.
‘They have a helicopter,’ I say, and my voice sounds as though it belongs to someone else. I wish it did, then those lights would be seeking out someone else’s best friend in the darkness.
‘Which is only just arriving. It’s been nearly a fucking hour,’ Richard blasts. He walks to the window then immediately back, chewing at the loose skin on his top lip – an annoying habit that pops up when he’s anxious. ‘She’ll be freezing. And why are they concentrating on below the cliffs? She could have swum halfway back to London by now.’
Because they aren’t looking for a woman swimming. I don’t want to say the words, and neither do the police, Richard has to come to the obvious conclusion himself. That tonight his wife, my best friend, jumped into the sea to die. And I’m the only person who knows why.
2
Rebecca
I remember the first time I met Evie White, although I had no idea then of the darkness she would bring into my life. I was eighteen years old and head over heels in love with a bass guitarist called Steve, who was, of course, a complete idiot, and who I genuinely believed would be my ticket into social acceptance at the University of London. I’d been there almost a year and managed to amass a grand total of three friends: Sandra, an overweight History student whose idea of a wild night out was a Nando’s after debate society; Christopher – not Chris, never Chris – who turned bright red when anyone talked to him and had only become my friend when he’d been forced to work with me in the café; and Sunny, a Chinese exchange student who I had bonded with over our mutual appreciation of Twilight. This was not how I had pictured my first year – the ye
ar where I was supposed to shake off my geeky senior school persona and walk head high among my people.
Steve and I met on a business course. I was there because I thought that I was destined to be the next Karren Brady; he was there because his dad had told him if he wanted to continue to be funded he’d better get himself a bloody degree. I think Steve realised pretty quickly that there was no way he was going to pass the course on his own (so maybe not a total idiot), and his best chance lay with the plain, shy, but not totally unfortunate-looking female sitting at the back of the room on her own. Me. I’d had no idea what to do with myself when he sat down next to me and whispered, ‘Hi.’
‘Hi me?’
Even his smile was lazy and feckless. His eyes were barely visible under his mop of sandy brown curls, which he pushed from his face every few minutes.
‘Yeah, hi you. You wanna buddy up for this project?’
I groaned. ‘You mean, do I want to do the project for both of us?’
To his credit, his expression remained unchanged. It wasn’t until later I’d realise he only had that one docile expression.
‘I’m hurt.’
‘Come on. What’s in this for me?’
‘Okay fine,’ hair push. ‘I happened to notice that you have managed to do every single project on your own so far. No one meets you from class and the only person I’ve seen you with in the Union is that fat chick.’
I opened my mouth to defend Sandra but he didn’t give me the chance.
‘So, I figured, I get to pass a project with a decent mark for once, and you get to hang around with someone who doesn’t smell like they ran a marathon when they just went to get a Coke.’
‘That’s really mean.’
He smiled then, a killer shot-to-the-heart smile, and I knew there was no way I was saying no.
‘Do we have a deal?’
‘Fine, deal.’
A week later we were sleeping together. Two weeks later he referred to me as his ‘girlfriend’ at a party in front of his friends. Okay, so he was drunk and stoned but as far as I was concerned it still counted. In two weeks, my evenings had gone from reading about other people’s lives to actually living mine. Steve’s apartment was rarely ever empty, there was always someone over for a few drinks, the band practising until all hours in the morning, or people just dossing over after a night in the city. It was great fun but at some point it became a bit too much for a straight-laced A-grade business student like me.
The Night She Died Page 1
