The Wife’s Secret: A gripping psychological thriller with a heart-stopping twist

by Kerry Wilkinson

Everyone knows who I am.

  It’s enrolment day, not even the official beginning of term, and yet the sideways glances haven’t stopped. People must genuinely think I can’t see them when they lean in close to the person next to them and mutter a couple of words. Some of them point slyly behind their other hand.

  You know who that is, don’t you?

  It’s mainly women who have signed up to the catering management college course but there are a few men and the age range is everything from eighteen or nineteen all the way up to fifty-odd. I thought I’d be one of the oldest, but there are a few of us in our mid-twenties. I knew there was a chance I’d be recognised, but it’s been twelve years since everything happened at the house. It had all gone away, but then, after last year with Martha… I guess it’s all back again.

  We continue to traipse around on the campus tour, but I’ve stopped paying attention. Instead, whenever someone gives me that sideways look who it is glance, I return it with interest. I might not be in my sister’s league, but I did learn a thing or two from her and can more than pull off a ferocious death stare.

  Without exception, everybody peers away quickly when they realise they’ve been rumbled.

  The tour guide is constantly cheery and says something about new refitted kitchens before striding off along a corridor. The group filters in behind him as I drift to the very back. We head, blinking, into the sun and then cross a courtyard. I mooch slower and slower, allowing a gap to develop as we approach the next building.

  Perhaps I should go home? There are probably online courses where I don’t have to actually meet people. It sounds really appealing and yet the whole point of this is that I’ll be able to open my own shop at the end of it. That’s going to mean dealing with people every day. People to buy from and sell to. Some of them might recognise me, too – and what do I say then?

  ‘Hi.’

  I jump slightly as I realise a woman has slowed as well. She’s around my age, all smiles and flustered enthusiasm with a curly blonde bob.

  ‘Er, hi…’

  ‘I’m Alice,’ she says.

  I wonder if I should come up with a fake name – but remember I’ve already enrolled with my actual name. Plus they gave me a sticker. It had ‘Hi, my name is’ printed at the top and then some bloke wrote ‘CHARLEY’ in capital letters underneath. It took him three attempts – and three stickers – to get the spelling correct. I have no idea why I wasn’t allowed to write my own name.

  Alice points to the sticker on my chest. ‘Charley,’ she says.

  ‘Right.’

  ‘I figured I’d say hi,’ she says.

  ‘Hi.’

  I’m hoping she’ll leave me alone, but she’s matching my pace and has that slightly delusional, overly enthusiastic look about her, as if she might start dribbling at any moment.

  ‘Do you fancy a coffee?’ she asks. ‘After this is done, I mean.’

  ‘I don’t really drink coffee.’

  ‘We could go for a pint if you prefer? There’s this pub on the other side of the roundabout on the way in. The food’s not bad there…’

  ‘I don’t really, er…’ I cut myself off before I add the word, ‘eat’, because that’s pushing it a little. I need better excuses for ignoring people.

  Alice slows even further and, for some reason, I find myself doing the same. We stop in the middle of the paved area as the rest of our class amble ahead. ‘Do you want the truth?’ she says. ‘People have been talking about you. One of the old women recognised you and she told everyone who you were. I think it’s the highlight of her week. If she had any idea how to use her phone, she’d be asking for a selfie. Me? I don’t care. Whatever. I like your boots.’

  I look down to my feet and, in fairness, I am wearing my favourite boots. They cost eleven quid from a market stall but are probably the most comfortable things I’ve ever had on my feet. It’s hard to fight back the smile.

  I start to walk after the others and Alice is still at my side. ‘What are they saying about me?’ I ask.

  ‘Y’know, the usual. Willis Curse and all that.’

  ‘Original then?’

  ‘What do you expect? For most of this lot, the most excitement they get is accelerating over a humpback bridge.’

  I laugh and it’s becoming increasingly hard to maintain my stony exterior.

  ‘So why are you here?’ Alice adds. ‘I didn’t get the grades to go to uni and then got sick of doing agency work. My dad lent me a bit of money and here I am.’

  It’s a big moment, because the question she’s asked, whether she meant it or not, is so personal. If I open myself up, then that’s it. It could be on the internet within an hour.

  ‘I promised my sister I’d stop arseing around,’ I say, figuring I have to trust someone sooner or later.

  ‘Oh…’

  It’s obvious Alice knows who that is. Everyone saw the stories – that’s why people recognise me, after all.

  ‘Do you think we should catch up with the others?’ she adds.

  ‘Not really.’ I motion towards the campus café on the far side of the forecourt. ‘We can go for a coffee if you want.’

  Alice smirks and I know then that I like her. ‘I thought you didn’t drink coffee?’

  Twenty-Eight

  Now

  Seth

  I’ve seen photos of what the Willis house used to be. It wasn’t quite a mansion, but it was a grand detached property with towering pillars at the front. It was classy but in a dated way, a monument to the seventies. I don’t know if Charley’s parents had it built for them, or if they bought it as it was, but everyone knows it now as the Willis house.

  I suppose that’s how I’d always pictured it if ever I thought about it, but it’s nothing like that at all. It’s a big hole in the ground, part building site, part tip. The pit is probably five metres deep or more. Three times my height. There are intermittent pools of murky water dotted along the bottom, with thick concrete pillars lined with twisty metal placed even deeper into the foundations. A crane sits in the centre, entombed and abandoned in the mud, and there’s a crusty cement mixer on its side in the corner. Long planks of wood have been dumped at various spots and there’s a spade sticking out from the ground next to the crane.

  As for the house itself… there is no house. The whole area is one large patch of dirt.

  Mason and I stand on the edge, peering down towards the site below.

  ‘What happened?’ I ask.

  ‘The house was supposed to be sold with everything split three ways between Liam, Martha and Charley,’ Mason says. ‘Their uncle said he had a claim to it, though, and it ended up being batted back and forth by solicitors for a decade or so. It went on and on. After what happened to Martha…’ He tails off for a moment, breathes deeply and then forces himself on. ‘After that, it was sold as land for development. The house itself was apparently quite run-down – which is understandable as it was empty for eleven years. Once all the solicitors were paid, there was basically no money left.’

  ‘Charley got a cheque for a couple of thousand pounds. I don’t think she ever cashed it.’

  ‘Same here. Didn’t feel right.’

  Despite the state of the site, it is being used. A crow swoops down to one of the pools of water and drinks from it.

  ‘They were going to build luxury flats,’ Mason says. ‘I have no idea why they’d do that out in the middle of nowhere. I saw the plans once but didn’t pay much attention. The letter was addressed to Martha, but she was gone by then. The developer ran out of money and I don’t know what’s happening now. It’s been like this for about six months.’

  It really is a mess.

  A second crow joins the first and then they get into a squawking match until the original one swoops away.

  If it wasn’t for the gates at the front of the crumbling driveway, nobody would know this hole was here.

  ‘Charley gets a letter now and again,’ I say. ‘I think it’s from the solicitor who
sold this place, but she doesn’t bother with it. I always thought she wanted to forget this place entirely.’

  ‘Can’t blame her…’

  It was all before I met her but that is about as true a statement as can be. From hiding upstairs as her parents were murdered below, through to her sister dying in the fire that scorched this place to the ground, it’s no surprise Charley wanted to pretend this house never existed.

  ‘Do you think you’ll ever know what happened with Martha?’

  I’ve said the words before thinking them through.

  Mason turns to look at me and I swear I’ve never seen a person so close to tears without actually crying. His bottom lip is trembling and his eyes are so wide that I can see more white than any other colour. Before I can take anything back, he’s speaking.

  ‘I don’t know why she was here,’ he says. ‘It was a normal day. Daisy was only a year old, so it was a full-time job looking after her and then Dillon was three, so he was busy charging around, pulling things over and generally trying to hurt himself. We used to take one child each. Everything was fine and she said she had to go out and get a few things done. We both used to do that. If we needed bread or something, we’d go get it just to have an hour away from everything. It was one of those things you don’t really say out loud but we both knew what was going on. I used to mooch around Asda for forty-five minutes, or sit in the car park by myself. You’d get a bit of peace and then it’d be back to trying to stop Dillon eating dirt.’

  He chuckles to himself, gives that same bloody kids, huh? Be grateful it’s not you-look from the wedding reception.

  ‘Anyway, she said she had to nip out for a bit and it was fine. It was the code we never talked about out loud. I figured she wanted a break. Then she didn’t come home. The next thing anyone knows, this place was on fire. They found her inside after it had been put out. Her car was on the driveway.’ He points off towards the spot where his people carrier is now stopped.

  ‘But the house was abandoned at the time?’ I ask.

  ‘Right. I have no idea why she’d be here. The only thing was her phone records. Someone called her not long before she left the house, but it was one of those disposable mobiles. Could’ve been anyone.’

  ‘I never knew that.’

  He shrugs. ‘It was mentioned at the inquest. It’s one of those things where it might have been nothing. Probably was. Wrong number, or whatever. They only spoke for sixteen seconds, so it’s not like Martha had a proper conversation with whoever it was. Then people started saying she burnt this place down. That it was suicide because of what happened to her parents. Then it was all about a family curse, or a curse on this house. By the time the inquest said open verdict, nobody really cared.’

  Mason coughs, squeezes his nose and bows his head.

  ‘There’s no way she committed suicide,’ he adds. ‘Something happened here four years ago and something happened here fifteen years ago.’

  It’s pathetic, but I don’t know what to say or do. I end up patting him on the shoulder as if he’s a sickly child. I don’t know enough to constructively add anything, but all I can think of is what Liam told me at the service station.

  ‘It’s the Willis women. They think differently to you and me. They do weird things.’

  Whatever others think of him, it’s hard to deny he’s got a point…and, if that’s the case, what does it mean for Charley?

  Twenty-Nine

  2 Years Ago

  Charley Willis, 26 years old

  Alice drums her palms on the counter next to the till to create a drum roll. She counts me down: ‘Five-four-three-two-one! Go!’

  I flip the sign from Closed to Open and then unlock the door, swinging it inwards with a jingle and wedging it ajar.

  Martha’s is officially open for business!

  ‘Is there anyone there?’ Alice asks.

  I move onto the front step and peer both ways along the street. There’s a kid sitting on the nearby wall picking his nose, but that’s it. Cars are creeping past on the way to the main junction that will take them out of town, but nobody is looking anywhere other than the road. I step back into the shop and shrug.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Oh…’ Alice’s shoulders slump slightly. I know precisely how she feels.

  ‘It’s only seven o’clock,’ I say cheerily.

  ‘I thought someone might come in for breakfast on the way to work…’

  ‘They still might.’

  It was an early morning of coming in to bake cakes, make sandwiches and boil down some soup. Things are still cooking in the kitchen. It’s not like we expected a queue for our first morning, but one person would have been nice. We’ve had signs up for weeks, plus there was a notice in the paper at the weekend.

  ‘I’ll get those cupcakes out of the oven,’ Alice says. She forces a smile but isn’t too good at hiding how disheartened she is.

  Everything is gleaming in the café, from the whooshing espresso machine to the display cabinet that’s filled with potential lunches for people. The floor is so clean, people could eat off it – not that we were taught that on the catering course. We have a dozen tables scattered around the small space anyway.

  Mum and Dad’s money, I think as I gaze around the shop, before blinking the thought away.

  I take my frog apron from the hook and tie it around myself and then head back to the front step, hoping a friendly face might be able to persuade a person or two inside. Cars continue to creep past, all potential customers on their way to work. Surely somebody needs to buy lunch… or pop in for breakfast…?

  Nobody even bothers to turn to look.

  Seven becomes quarter past, then half past. Alice pokes her head out from the kitchen intermittently, looking steadily more disappointed each time.

  Quarter to eight, then eight. An entire hour and not one customer. People do go by. There’s a woman with a pram, kids on the way to school, a couple of men running to catch the bus. Nobody gives the shop a second glance.

  Eight fifteen, half eight. Nobody. Alice spends a bit of time in the doorway and then returns to the kitchen, saying unconvincingly that business will pick up later. ‘Word of mouth,’ she says. I’m not sure she believes it herself.

  Our first customer arrives at three minutes past nine. It’s a man wearing loose jeans and a long-sleeved T-shirt. Nothing too special, and he trips over the step on his way in. He tries to right himself and then bumbles into one of the chairs before managing to catch himself on a table. By the time he’s done all that, he’s twisted a full one-eighty and is facing the door again. For a moment, I wonder if he’s going to leave. I’ve not even seen his face, but that might be for the best to save his own embarrassment, given he’s managed to nearly fall over twice in barely a second.

  Then he turns and blinks up at the menu on the wall above me. He scratches his head and then looks to me, a crooked smile on his face.

  ‘Whoops,’ he says.

  There’s no particular reason for it to be funny and it’s probably the stress of the past two hours, but I find myself laughing.

  ‘What’s the soup of the day?’ he asks.

  ‘I don’t think I can serve you that,’ I reply.

  His eyes crinkle. ‘Why?’

  ‘You’d probably spill it on yourself. I don’t want to get sued.’

  He grins wide and laughs to himself. ‘Good point,’ he says. ‘How about a cake instead?’ He nods at the display cabinet and goes all googly-eyed, like a mother with a newborn.

  ‘What’s your name?’ I ask.

  He peers up, looks at me properly for the first time. ‘Seth,’ he says. ‘What’s yours?’

  Thirty

  Now

  Seth

  It’s a little after four by the time Mason drops me outside the house. We spent a long time at the Willis house, not really saying much. The Willis women undoubtedly leave questions in their wake. Who actually killed Annie and Paul? The person was never found. Why was Martha at th
e house, how did it catch fire and why was she inside?

  And Charley.

  Why did she disappear after our marriage ceremony and where is she?

  It’s not a lot to hang onto the slimmest silver lining of them all, but I do feel closer to Mason after the day. We’ve each married into whatever’s going on with this family; we each have the same questions.

  ‘We should do this again,’ he says as he pulls on the handbrake. I suppose he means spending time together, not visiting the house.

  ‘Whenever you want,’ I reply. ‘Text or call. You can bring the kids if you can’t get a sitter, or I’ll come to you…?’

  He nods appreciatively and offers his hand. We shake and then I get out of the car. It’s odd, nothing has really changed, and yet I feel better. A problem shared and all that. He pulls away and then I realise I’m exposed on the street. The neighbourhood watch tyrants ready to spring outside and ask what’s going on. Before anyone can notice, I hurry along the path and let myself into the house.

  I realise the missed call count hasn’t increased through the entire afternoon I’ve been with Mason. That twenty-five-minute average will definitely be on the way down. Less and less stalkery as the day wears on.

  Into the kitchen and the living room… except something isn’t right.

  In the centre of the draining board is a single upturned glass, with spotty drizzles of water peppering the sink.

  It can’t be mine; Mason and I were drinking tea.

  ‘Hello?’ I shiver as my voice echoes around the house. No answer.

  I have my own keys and Charley’s were among her things that Alice returned. Nobody else has a key for our house. I rush into the living room, but there are no broken windows. None in the kitchen either.

  The back door has a key in it.

  Not mine.

  Not Charley’s.