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

by Kerry Wilkinson

  I stare at it for a few seconds until the truth that should have been obvious dawns. I’m so tired that everything’s sluggish. The key turns and the door unlocks as I head out to the back garden. I reach up to the overhang above the door, running my hand along an indent between the gutter and the tiles. I hid a key there years ago after locking myself out. It’s not that high off the ground and I don’t have to stretch – but the key has gone.

  Only two people knew about that key: me and Charley.

  Back inside. My spine is tingling.

  ‘Charley?’

  No answer.

  Our bedroom is directly opposite the top of the stairs. I head up to where the door is closed. I’m pretty sure I left it open.

  It has to be, doesn’t it?

  The door creaks inward and I realise I’m holding my breath. The bed was still freshly made, largely because I’ve not slept in it since the wedding. Now the covers are scragged to the side, creased from the shape lying underneath. There’s a mop of messy golden hair on the pillow, a body curled into the sheets.

  My heart is thundering.

  ‘Charley…?’

  Thirty-One

  6 Weeks Ago

  Charley Willis, 28 years old

  It’s hard to take in how beautiful Liam’s girls are. I remember that kick of elation I had when teasing him about his looks back in my old flat after he returned from LA. That sneering, snidey me that feels so long ago. I don’t think I’d say that to him now and, besides, he’s created two of the most stunning children I’ve ever seen.

  Skye and Jasmine are back in their cots side by side and I swear they can understand each other, even though they’re only three months old. Jasmine will babble a series of burps and bubbles and Skye will respond. It’s incredible to see them.

  ‘I don’t know what to say… they’re so gorgeous.’

  And they are. They really are. All parents think their children are beautiful, despite the truth in front of them. It’s the harsh fact of life that nobody ever says they’re looking at an ugly baby because, for the most part, people aren’t total maniacs. Every child is gorgeous in the eye of the beholder.

  Helen looks exhausted, but she’s smiling weakly. I wish I knew her better. It’s not like I have much family.

  ‘They’ll happily mumble away to each other,’ she says.

  A glance to Seth and he knows what I’m thinking. Neither of us have said it out loud yet, as if talking about what we want might somehow curse it.

  No, not curse. Not that word. Something else.

  Either way, we have the wedding first.

  I turn to Liam, but I’m not sure what to make of him. He’s standing in the doorway of his living room, hands in pockets. He’s been watching this whole time, barely saying anything to either Seth or me. I wondered if they might bond over football or something. Blokey stuff. They’ve not really talked.

  When Liam called, I didn’t know his number. I almost didn’t answer, assuming it was a salesperson. He asked if we wanted to meet his twins and all my instincts said no. The prospect of visiting the children weighed heavier.

  We’ve changed, I suppose. Definitely me and probably him. You say and do things when you’re younger because everything in life seems so bloody important. Everyone who says no is out to get you. Anyone who thinks differently to you is out to make your life worse. Then you grow up and realise life is what it is. None of those things matter in the end. You can sit and stew, find conspiracies where there are none, or you can get the hell on with it.

  Like it or not, you can’t choose your family. Liam’s my family. Helen, too. And those beautiful girls.

  I nod at him. ‘You all right?’

  ‘Just watching,’ he replies. Liam glances to his wife, then back to me. ‘Do you want to help me in the kitchen?’

  ‘Sure.’

  I give a small nod to Seth to let him know I’m fine and then follow Liam through the house. It’s gorgeous. I naturally assume Helen chose most of it because it’s really classy – all varnished wood and polished surfaces. Perhaps that’s the bitchy side of me creeping through.

  The kitchen is tough marble worktops, huge built-in oven, gleaming hose taps and a large American-style fridge. All very functional and smart.

  ‘This is lovely,’ I say. ‘All of it. The house, Helen, the girls. You’ve done so well.’

  Liam is resting against one of the countertops, smiling thinly, not really committing.

  ‘Are you all right?’ I ask.

  ‘They’re going to repossess it,’ he says, holding a hand up to indicate the house. ‘All of it. We’re nine months behind. Helen doesn’t know.’

  I stare at him but his features don’t move. He’s looking at me blankly. Not his sister, just… nothing.

  All I can think of is the two beautiful children in the other room. ‘Oh, God…’

  ‘I invested in this company,’ he says. ‘We’d buy a load of luxury cars and then hire them out for the day. People would get to drive a Ferrari or whatever. It was guaranteed money.’

  I find myself rubbing my eyes, unable to believe we’re here again.

  ‘It’s all Uncle David’s fault,’ he adds. ‘If he hadn’t been such an arse about the house, we could’ve sold that years ago and split the money. That’s what Mum and Dad wanted.’

  ‘You got a million quid fifteen years ago.’

  He shrugs. ‘That’s nothing, is it? Loads of people are millionaires nowadays. You can barely get by.’

  ‘Liam! People get by on a lot less than that all the time. Do you even know what minimum wage is?’

  I know he doesn’t. He scowls at me as if I’ve slapped him in the face. It’s pure hatred.

  ‘How much have you got left?’ he asks.

  ‘I’m not giving you money.’

  ‘You got a million, too.’

  ‘So what? I’m going to have my own family to think of.’

  He’s nodding along, teeth bared, jabbing a hand towards the living room. The cosy family picture is long gone. ‘It’s not me you’re punishing,’ he snarls, ‘it’s those girls in there.’

  It takes me a moment to process what he’s said, let alone the spite and venom with which he spoke.

  ‘Oh, you really are a piece of work,’ I reply. There’s a part of me that’s always been able to channel Martha. ‘That’s why you got in touch, wasn’t it? Nothing to do with meeting Helen or the girls. Not about making up. It’s all about money. It always is.’

  ‘C’mon, Charlotte—’

  ‘That’s not my name!’

  ‘Whatever. Can’t you help me out? We’re brother and sister.’

  ‘Even if I wanted to help you out, I don’t have any of Mum and Dad’s money left. I kept some to put together the shop and that’s it. I gave the rest away.’

  Liam boggles at me. ‘You what?’

  ‘I put some in an account for Dillon and Daisy and I gave the rest to Uncle David’s kids, like he always wanted. I didn’t care when I was thirteen and I don’t care now. I always felt bad for them. If he hadn’t acted like such a dickhead with the solicitors, Martha would’ve helped him out years ago. The only reason she didn’t is because they were as stubborn as each other.’

  Liam can barely get the words out: ‘You gave all your money to Uncle David after everything he put us through?’

  ‘Not all of it. I told you – I spent some on the shop. I gave quite a bit to charity. I never wanted it. I tried to tell people.’

  Liam is so stunned that he staggers to the side, using the hose-like tap to support himself. ‘You didn’t want the money?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  We stare at each other and it’s hard to believe we share any genes at all. I don’t understand him and he sure as hell doesn’t understand me.

  ‘This is about Martha, isn’t it?’ he says out of nowhere.

  It’s my turn to be shocked. ‘What?’

  ‘You always loved her more than
me, didn’t you? It was always you two against me.’

  ‘She was there for me, Liam. She took me in after everything that happened. She went through all the paperwork to become my legal guardian. We had all these social worker visits because they were convinced she was some wild child. She had to wee in pots to prove she wasn’t a crackhead.’

  ‘What about me?’

  ‘You went to Hollywood for four years. We got one postcard. When you got back, you came over, asked for money, and then disappeared again. You only ever get in contact when you want something. When I was a kid, Martha was the one who would visit Mum and Dad’s and would sit and play with me. I barely saw you. I didn’t know you. She was my sister, you were someone who turned up every now and then with your hand out.’

  Liam is boiling. I remember how angry Uncle David used to get, but Liam is worse. His face is red, teeth grinding together, fists balled.

  ‘I really need your help,’ he says, although it doesn’t sound like much of a plea.

  ‘I don’t have any money, Liam. I run a sandwich shop. How much do you think we make?’

  ‘Your fella then.’

  ‘He’s a vet. It’s not that much money for patching up dogs and cats. He doesn’t own the practice – he works there. He’s still in debt from his training.’

  Liam is nodding again, pacing back and forth, seething. I take a step towards the door and the safety of the living room, but I’m terrified for Liam’s poor kids, not to mention Helen. I don’t particularly want to leave them while he’s like this, but, beyond that, what are they going to do when the house is repossessed?

  Liam stops pacing, looks me dead in the eye, and then he says the words he can’t possibly say: ‘I know about Mum and Dad.’

  Part Two

  Genesis

  Thirty-Two

  Now

  Seth

  Charley rolls over in the bed and opens her eyes.

  It’s her.

  It’s really her.

  There’s a moment in which I wonder if I’m dreaming it. If my mind is playing tricks from the lack of sleep and food.

  But it’s not.

  She’s back.

  Charley wriggles against the tightness of the covers, trying to move into a sitting position. Her hair is a dirty, tangled nest; her left eye dark and blackened, cheek swollen.

  It’s still her, though.

  I sit on the bed and Charley lunges for me, wrapping her arms around my back and squeezing. Neither of us say anything, but her chest starts to bob as she sobs into my shoulder. All I can do is hug her back. I want to grab her, hold her, not let her go, but she’s such a mess that I don’t want to hurt her any further.

  We stay like that for a long time. She hugs me and I hug her. Neither of us say anything.

  Eventually, she levers herself away and dabs her eyes with the bedclothes. She wipes away something from my cheek and it’s only then I realise that I’ve been crying too. She winces as she touches her left eye.

  ‘Are you okay?’ I whisper.

  ‘I’m done crying now,’ she replies. Her voice is husky and low, one eye raw and red, the other scarred black and purple.

  I don’t know where to start. Where was she? Why? How is she back? What happened to her eye? Everything blurs into one.

  ‘Do you want a cup of tea?’ I ask instead.

  She nods, rubs my arm – and I notice she’s still wearing her wedding ring. ‘I really do.’

  Charley is wearing her pyjamas, fleecy and warm. She slips on a pair of slippers and rounds the bed. I let her lead the way downstairs, not wanting to take my eyes from her in case the mirage disappears in front of me. She reaches back and takes my hand and she’s real.

  She ends up making the tea herself. I watch as she fills the kettle and turns it on, then grabs a pair of teabags. Two sugars into my mug, none in hers, bottle of milk on the side ready to rumble. Wait.

  She’s real.

  We sit on the same stools where Mason and I sat earlier.

  ‘We’re going to have to call the police,’ I say. ‘They’re still looking for you.’

  She nods and I’m unsure if that means she already knows. Surely she does?

  ‘Not right now,’ she croaks, resting a hand on my knee.

  Her nose is slightly squashed, possibly from whatever has blackened her eye. She rests her head on my shoulder and I wish I was brave enough to ask the questions. If I was only now meeting her, I’m sure I would – but there’s something about her I can’t describe. It’s not how she looks; it isn’t the physical injuries. It’s something behind her eyes. A glassy emptiness. I know that if I ask now she won’t answer. She needs time.

  The kettle flicks off and she lifts herself up. Hot water in each mug, splash of milk in both and we’re done.

  ‘I’ve been out with Mason today,’ I say.

  Her eyebrow flickers. ‘Oh.’

  ‘We went to your parents’ house. He says he goes there sometimes when he’s thinking of Martha. I didn’t know it was a building site. I thought there’d be a house.’

  Charley stares through me and I can’t figure out if she knew the house was gone. She must have done.

  ‘I always hoped you’d spend more time with Mason,’ she says.

  ‘We agreed we would. He’s busy with the kids, so doesn’t get a lot of free time. We’ll try to work things out, though.’

  ‘That’s nice.’

  She sips her tea, loops her fingers through the mug and she’s still real.

  ‘Emily’s been great,’ I add. ‘She filled up the fridge and cooked a load of spaghetti. She’s been texting every couple of hours to make sure I’m eating properly.’

  It’s not quite a smile, but Charley nods along. ‘How did the pictures come out?’

  ‘From the wedding?’

  A nod.

  ‘I’ve only seen a few. They looked great. I think she did a good job.’

  ‘Something for her portfolio…’

  There’s a break. I’ve been driving the conversation but have no clue where to go from here. My wife has been missing for four days and we’re talking about my sister’s photography portfolio.

  ‘How’s your mum?’

  I blink back into the kitchen. ‘Sorry?’

  ‘Your mum,’ Charley says. ‘How is she?’

  ‘Oh… I don’t know. I’ve not seen her since Sunday. Emily says she’s been confused; she keeps thinking it was her wedding to my dad. She gets upset when he’s not around.’

  Charley rubs my elbow. ‘Oh, Seth…’

  ‘She said she saw you.’

  The hand disappears.

  ‘Who did?’

  ‘Mum. She says she saw you in the corridor when she was on the way to the toilet. She reckoned you were by the French windows and that you told her to tell me you loved me.’

  Charley turns away, staring through the window, much like Mason did a few hours ago.

  ‘Right…’

  That’s all she says. Not a confirmation, not a denial. There’s a part of me that is furious, that wants to jump up and demand a reason. We got married – and then she disappeared. She at least owes me an explanation.

  But then I see her black eye, the swollen cheekbone; the empty, broken stare… and I’m not angry at all.

  ‘Alice was worried about you,’ I say. ‘She came over with your things. She reopened the shop this morning. She says trade was up, but I don’t know if that’s a good thing. Probably rubberneckers wanting to get a look at the place.’

  Another sad bob of the head.

  ‘I met Liam, too.’

  Up until now, everything I’ve said has been met with a stoic nothingness, but at the mention of her brother’s name Charley spins to face me. Tea sloshes over her mug onto the floor. ‘My brother?’

  ‘Right. He called me.’

  She stares, seemingly unable to take it in. Her eyebrows are twitching. ‘He called you? On the phone?’

  ‘On Monday morning. It was in the paper what
had happened and he asked to meet in a service station. Em waited here in case you came back and I went to meet him.’

  ‘You met?’

  ‘Outside a Burger King.’

  ‘What did he say?’

  ‘He put me in touch with this publicist. She set up this public appeal interview thing. I don’t know if you saw it, but it was on TV last night.’

  Charley gives no indication at all that she knows what I’m talking about. Her mouth is open, her stare distant.

  ‘Did I do something wrong?’ I ask.

  It takes her a moment, as if we’re on some sort of time zone delay, but her attention flickers back to me.

  ‘I think we should call the police now,’ she says.

  The Rebirth of Britain’s Golden Couple

  By Samantha Bailey

  (Archived 28 years ago)

  Annie Willis hasn’t stopped grinning since she welcomed me into her house. Millions know her as a ‘lifestyle guru’, the woman who brought yoga to breakfast television. Plenty more know her as the author of numerous bestselling books, but, for now, for the first time in nine years, she has another role to play: mother to a newborn.

  ‘You forget how exhausting it is,’ she tells me with a weary smile, bobbing a cocooned ball of swaddling on her shoulder. I can see a few wisps of blonde hair, but that’s all.

  ‘It’s like you go through everything one time – or twice if you’re me – and then it all falls out of your mind,’ Annie adds. ‘You remember the good stuff – the weekend trips, teaching your kids how to read, that sort of thing. You block out all the lack of sleep and the hours you spend worrying.’

  The Willis house is exactly as one might expect. Less Is More sold half a million copies as Annie gave Britons advice on how to declutter their lives – and that is something she lives up to herself. The hallway has perfect lines of varnished wood, a pair of elegant lamps and a vintage telephone sitting on an antique dresser. That’s it. No need for fancy touches or over-the-top showing off. After all, less is more.