Copyright © 2019 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 2019
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 5367 5
Cover credit: Laura Kate Bradley/Trevillion Images; back cover image © BATMANV/Shutterstock
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Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
About Jenny Blackhurst
Praise for Jenny Blackhurst
About the Book
Dedication
Prologue: Erica
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
Chapter 69
Chapter 70
Chapter 71
Chapter 72
Chapter 73
Chapter 74
Chapter 75
Chapter 76
Chapter 77
Chapter 78
Chapter 79
Chapter 80
Epilogue: Erica
Acknowledgements
About Jenny Blackhurst
Jenny grew up in Shropshire thinking that authors were rock stars and that she needed to get a real job. After being made redundant she decided to write a book, then another, then another and at some point writing became her real job. Someone Is Lying is her fifth book and she is now unemployable in any other field. 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
‘A fabulously addictive read with an amazing twist!’ Sibel Hodge, author of Look Behind You
‘Brilliantly done!’ Gillian McAllister, author of Everything but the Truth
‘A chillingly cautionary tale . . . that will linger in your mind long after you’ve turned the final page’ Lucy Dawson, author of You Sent Me a Letter
‘This novel is genuinely unsettling . . . A nuanced and gripping read’ Catherine Ryan Howard, author of Distress Signals
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*
Praise for The Foster Child :
‘From the get-go The Foster Child twists and turns and creeps you out and has you wanting to scream “Behind you!”’ Weekend Sport
‘An eerie story that will keep you guessing’ Daily Mirror
I absolutely loved it and the ending certainly took me by surprise! Jenny has an incredible talent for taking the reader inside the minds of her characters and for delivering a heart-stopping twist! Kathryn Croft, author of The Girl With No Past
‘Deep, dark and disturbing . . . The Foster Child is a book that will stay with me. I loved it’ Liz Lawler, author of Don’t Wake Up
‘A perfect blend of psychological intrigue and downright creepiness. I was thrilled, chilled, terrified and enthralled. This deserves to be a huge hit’ SJI Holliday, author of Black Wood
‘Completely engrossed, I devoured this in two sittings and couldn’t turn the pages fast enough. An exhilarating read’ Nina Pottell
Praise for The Night She Died :
‘The Night She Died is a gripping and hugely enjoyable book. As their lies weave a trap for the characters, the twists come at a pace that will make your head spin. I was hooked from the start.’ Jane Casey
‘Utterly fabulous. Hooked all the way thr
ough, from one chapter to the next.’ Rebecca Bradley
‘Blackhurst’s excellent writing keeps the tension high right through to the final page’ Rachel Abbott
‘The Night She Died is expertly plotted, utterly captivating and wonderfully dark – I loved it!’ Susi Holiday
‘Hooked from the first page and kept me guessing right up until the end.’ Claire Douglas, Sunday Times Top 10 bestselling author of The Sisters, Local Girl Missing and Last Seen Alive .
‘A fiendishly twisting mystery I finished almost in one sitting. Jenny Blackhurst is the new queen of the psychological thriller.’ Mason Cross
‘The Night She Died is a rollercoaster ride you’ll love.’ Lucy Dawson
‘This talented writer knows a thing or two about her craft.’ Amanda Jennings
‘This book has been read under desks in lecture theatres, on the school run, on trains . . . #obsessed!’ C.R. Myers
About the Book
It’s been a year since Erica Spencer died in a tragic accident at a party, and the community where she lived has moved on with their lives.
Everybody has secrets.
But someone thinks it wasn’t an accident. Someone thinks it was murder.
And some are worth killing for.
And when an anonymous podcast names six local suspects, shockwaves ripple through the neighbourhood. Before the podcast is over, the police will be opening more than one murder enquiry. Because someone is lying . . . But who?
To my gorgeous nephew Nyjah;
your smile is worth a thousand words.
Prologue
Erica
No one had expected the Facebook post, yet just minutes after it appeared everyone had seen it and they all had something to say. That’s the way things were in our community. Good news travels fast, but bad news? Usain Bolt had nothing on scandal in Severn Oaks.
The first post didn’t name names, but in a way, I suppose that was worse. Everyone knew who they were talking about, but those six had to front it out, pretend they had no idea it was them, and wait. Wait for the next episode, wait to see if they would be named as a murder suspect by that pitchy, nasal voice. A suspect in my murder, as it happens. Because although I’d love to say that reports of my death have been greatly exaggerated, the fall was unfortunately the end of the story for me. But for the Severn Oaks Six, as they would later become known, it was only the beginning.
Every story has to have a hero. And that hero has to want something.
Well, this is my story . . . so what do I want?
I want everybody to know the truth.
Because someone is lying.
1
When the alarm sounded at 5:45 a.m. on Monday 20th August, Felicity Goldman counted down from five, heaved herself out of bed and crossed the room to switch it off. Downing the bottle of water she had placed on the dressing table the night before, she popped two vitamins and headed downstairs for her regular twenty-five-minute exercise routine. Exercise done, she showered and dressed; by 6:30 she was ready for meditation and positive thinking. The children’s alarms would go off at seven, and breakfast would be on the kitchen table waiting for them.
Routine was everything to Felicity. She had absorbed all of the books on productivity and personal development she could find, her ‘miracle morning’ taken from the minds of some of the most successful people on the planet, and there was little room for deviation. The children would be fed and teeth brushed by 7:20, dressed and ready to leave the house by 7:50. In the car on the way to school, they would talk about their goals for the day and any impediments they may face, as well as implementing a plan to overcome them. Every morning the same as the last – you could build an empire on a solid routine, and Felicity was the queen of hers. Not that anyone ever noticed.
No, the thing that defined Felicity to the rest of the women in Severn Oaks was not a something at all, but the lack of a something. A husband. With her long blonde hair, athletic figure – she could be seen running the estate every day, twice some days – and fresh face, you would be forgiven for thinking that Felicity would be the luckiest in love, with a dashingly attractive husband who showered her with gifts and screwed her on every available surface in their four-bedroomed detached, but you’d be wrong. Felicity was very much single, and as long as she’d lived in Severn Oaks had been a mystery to the other women. None of them knew what had happened to Mollie and Amalie’s father. No one except Erica, of course.
After dropping the kids at Little Owls at precisely 8 a.m. – something none of the other mothers saw, as they herded their offspring through the school gates at ten to nine – Felicity would stop at the Starbucks just outside the entrance to Severn Oaks and order a flat white before returning to her home office, which was located at the back of the house and therefore not visible from any angle.
The 20th of August started no differently than any other Monday; despite it being the middle of the summer holidays, Mollie and Amalie went to holiday club, and Felicity kept to her routine. As she walked the twins into Little Owls, she was greeted with a warm smile from Jemma, the lead co-ordinator. ‘Morning, Miss Goldman,’ she gushed, oblivious to the eye roll Felicity gave her at being referred to as ‘Miss’. She’d filled in every form and replied to every email as ‘Ms’, corrected the over-enthusiastic teenager once a week for the three years the twins had been attending holiday club, and still, she was Miss Goldman . ‘Will you be at the community picnic later?’
‘Wouldn’t miss it.’ Felicity smiled, glancing at her smartwatch. She had only four minutes to complete drop-off before she would have to sacrifice her flat white – and if there was one thing she hated, it was a break from routine. Jemma gave her a conspiratorial smile – assuming, of course, that Felicity would have forgotten all about the picnic and that her morning would now consist of a last-minute dash to Waitrose for her promised contribution of cupcakes. Jemma had no way of knowing that Felicity’s perfect home-made cupcakes had been baked the evening before, cooled for sixty minutes and iced with a steady and creative hand.
‘And all set for the trip?’
All set was an exaggeration. Felicity had been waiting for the girls’ trip since the moment she’d agreed to go along to help out. Her business meant the world to her, but only half as much as her children. She’d worked herself into the ground for the last four years, missing so many vital moments in the twins’ lives, always telling herself that she was doing it for them. She’d ignored the fact that what they wanted was for her to be just like the other mums who arrived an hour early to get front-row seats for their school plays and didn’t run in at the last minute and stand at the back. Mollie and Amalie had teamed up to beg her to come along on their class trip and she’d moved heaven and earth to make sure that day was free in her diary – pure, unadulterated mum time – and now she was looking forward to it more than they were.
‘Very much so. The girls can’t wait until Mummy comes to holiday club for the day, can you? Come on, kisses!’ She kissed each twin twice, fixed the bow in Amalie’s hair and was out of the door by 8:05 a.m. on the dot.
‘Flat white to take out. I threw in a muffin – a treat for our regulars.’
The barista smiled, pleased with himself for remembering the order she made literally every day, this time with a blueberry muffin next to it.
‘Thank you.’ Felicity smiled. It hadn’t escaped her notice how cute he was, or how he always gave her special attention, making conversation; once she thought he’d even winked at her.
‘No problem. You live in Severn Oaks, right?’
‘How do you know that?’
‘I have a friend who lives there. Tristan Patterson?’
Felicity frowned. ‘Patterson? Wait, yeah, I know his mum, Janet? He drives a yellow car?’
‘Yeah, that’s him.’
‘Right, well, I don’t know Tristan but his mum is lovely.’
There was an awkward pause while Felicity tried to figure out where he was going with this conve
rsation. Was he going to ask her out? That could be awkward.
‘Well, you’re probably in a rush. Have a nice day.’
Felicity let out a relieved breath and tossed the muffin in the bin outside as she left.
2
The community picnic was a staple at Severndale Primary. It had been running so long that, had Erica not reminded them every year that it was her idea, they might have forgotten completely. She’d always hoped that if anything tragic should happen to her, they would continue her legacy – in her name, of course – and surprisingly it had been Karla Kaplan who had brought up the issue at the first PTA meeting after her death.
‘I think we should have a tribute to Erica,’ she’d announced, to much murmuring of agreement.
Amazing how generous a guilty conscience will make you.
Severndale Primary was the school of choice for parents who wanted their children to have a decent education without the cost of going private. People assumed that those who lived in Severn Oaks – the gated community within Severndale Parish – could afford private education and were ‘slumming it’ for political reasons, but in truth the only ones with an extra twenty-five grand to spare were Karla and Marcus, and their children were never going to be sent to private school – not with their ‘brand’ being famous for being so down-to-earth. That was the reason Karla – Cheshire’s answer to Martha Stewart – had told everyone who would listen that she’d turned down Real Housewives of Cheshire twice; that and the fact that they might have found out that she orders takeout every other night and throws beans on toast at her children the other evenings. Hardly Earth Mother, you might conclude.
Miranda Davenport swung her white Kia Sportage into the space marked ‘taxis and buses only’ and engaged the handbrake. Technically, she knew she wasn’t supposed to leave the car here, but she always showed up after the school bus had gone so she didn’t see any harm. And there weren’t going to be any buses in the school holidays, so today was definitely fine. The on-street parking was always rammed, and if she parked up at the community centre she’d be forced into conversation with one of the other mums. Eurgh. No one really minded her being there – or they’d never told her not to park there, at any rate.
Someone Is Lying Page 1
