by Susan Lewis
The Girl Who Came Back is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2016 by Susan Lewis Ltd.
All rights reserved.
Published in the United States by Ballantine Books, an imprint of Random House, a division of Penguin Random House LLC, New York.
BALLANTINE and the HOUSE colophon are registered trademarks of Penguin Random House LLC.
Originally published in hardcover in Great Britain by Century, an imprint of Penguin Random House Ltd., in 2016.
LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA
Names: Lewis, Susan, author.
Title: The girl who came back : a novel / Susan Lewis.
Description: New York : Ballantine Books, [2016]
Identifiers: LCCN 2016003931 (print) | LCCN 2016009070 (ebook) | ISBN 9780345549570 (paperback) | ISBN 9780345549587 (ebook)
Subjects: | BISAC: FICTION / Contemporary Women. | FICTION / Sagas. | FICTION / Psychological. | GSAFD: Suspense fiction.
Classification: LCC PR6062.E9546 G57 2016 (print) |
LCC PR6062.E9546 (ebook) |
DDC 823/.914—dc23
LC record available at http://lccn.loc.gov/2016003931
ebook ISBN 9780345549587
randomhousebooks.com
Book design by Virginia Norey, adapted for ebook
Cover design: Susan Schultz
Cover Images: © Hajna Németh/Arcangel Images (woman), © Mark Owen/Arcangel Images
v4.1
ep
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Prologue
Sixteen Years Later
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
Dedication
Acknowledgments
By Susan Lewis
About the Author
It wasn’t right to feel this way.
Not about her own daughter.
The child was only nine, for God’s sake. She was an innocent, a tender young soul still trying to find her way in the world. Except that wasn’t how she seemed, innocent and tender, or how she behaved.
She wasn’t like other children. She didn’t run or skip or play childish games. She didn’t sing or tease or sleep like an angel.
She didn’t look at people, she stared; she didn’t laugh, or when she did the sound was false, jarring, sadly humorless. Olivia had never heard girlish giggles erupting from bubbles of happiness or excitement inside Amelia. Little seemed to amuse her, or even please her, although she was often fascinated by things: insects, small animals, dolls, tools, gadgets, other children’s toys. She always wanted what wasn’t hers, which perhaps didn’t make her so very different from other children; Olivia had come across plenty of kids like that.
Amelia didn’t speak very much either, at least not to her mother.
She chatted away with her father when he made time for her.
She was the apple of his eye, when he remembered she was there.
As far as he was concerned, nothing was too much for his girl, provided it didn’t get in the way of his other commitments.
Olivia felt sure that Amelia was the only human being her husband had ever come close to loving, although she’d thought he loved her once.
That seemed a very long time ago.
She wondered how she’d ended up in this marriage, how she’d allowed herself to become the victim of such an egotistical man with such a dismissive air toward those he considered of little use.
Olivia was never entirely sure how useful she was to him.
In a material sense she wanted for nothing. They lived in a large, imposing house a stone’s throw from Chelsea Bridge. She had her own suite of rooms, a fancy car, a generous allowance, and all the freedoms she could wish for.
She also had a daughter who was healthy and intelligent, meticulously clean and tidy, but who never seemed joyful or carefree. Amelia was sullen and sly.
Yes, really—sullen and sly.
Olivia had never voiced her feelings about Amelia to anyone, least of all to her husband, Anton. Of course he would say the problem, if there was one—and he probably wouldn’t admit that there was—lay entirely with her. She was Amelia’s mother. Therefore, she was the person Amelia spent the most time with (when she wasn’t away at school), so it stood to reason that she was the biggest influence on Amelia’s life.
Amelia was on her third school now, fifth if Olivia counted the two kindergartens she’d attended.
Amelia couldn’t settle. Other children didn’t warm to her, or were afraid of her, or ruthlessly tormented her. Olivia felt sorry for her when she was bullied, and tried to soothe her, but Amelia hated being babied.
What was to become of her?
Would she change as she got older, and start to understand that she needed to be more like others if she wanted to be accepted by them? It was pointless trying to have the conversation with her; she simply got up and walked away. Or she’d tell her mother to shut up, or to leave her alone because she was busy.
Anton’s parents were bewildered by the girl, although most things bewildered them these days.
As for Olivia’s parents, they’d separated many years ago and she hadn’t seen either of them in a very long while. She didn’t even know where they were living now, though she guessed she could find out easily enough if she tried.
She’d felt so painfully alone since marrying Anton, which wasn’t how she’d felt when she was still single. She’d had lots of friends then, a career as a legal secretary, and a great social life, and she’d always been up for something new. Anton had been like that too, dashing and daring, successful, romantic, and always attentive.
So what had changed him?
Maybe his irresistible charm had been an act that he’d simply dropped once he’d made her his wife, seeing no need to go on pleasing her as he had when they first met.
She had no idea if he ever had affairs, but she hoped he did; they would provide her with a solid excuse to leave when the time was right.
Was the time right?
Not while Amelia was still so young.
So you see, I’m not such a bad person. I really do care about my daughter. I want what’s best for her. I’ll never turn my back on her. I’m determined to find a way through to her heart.
In the meantime, Anton could ridicule and humiliate, neglect, and even beat her, but only until Amelia was able to make her own way in the world. That was when Olivia would go and never come back.
Looking around for Amelia now, she found her staring at her from an upper deck of their cruiser. The breeze was ruffling her mousy hair; the sun was burning her freckled cheeks.
“Have you used sunblock?” she called out.
Amelia held up a tube, presumably to show that she had.
“Are you going to swim?” Olivia asked.
“Only if you do.”
Olivia’s heart twisted around her conscience. “You know I can’t.”
“Why not?”
“Because I’ve never learned.”
“That’s just stupid.”
“Yes, it is.” Olivia didn’t admit that she was afraid of the wate
r; if she did, Amelia would ask why, and Olivia could never find a good enough answer to that. Or not one that would satisfy Amelia.
“Where’s Daddy?” Amelia demanded.
“Inside, sleeping. Or working.”
Amelia turned away, and a few minutes later she was on the deck beside her mother. “I want you to swim,” she told her bluntly.
“One of these days I’ll learn,” Olivia promised.
“I want you to do it now.”
“It doesn’t happen just like that. I need someone to teach me.”
“I can teach you.”
“OK, but not here. We’re too far from the shore, and I’ll need to be able to touch the bottom in case I panic.” She smiled, hoping that Amelia might too, but she didn’t.
“Are you afraid of drowning?” Amelia asked.
“Of course. It would be a horrible way to die.”
Amelia seemed to think about that, then, suddenly pulling back her arms, she gave her mother an almighty shove, sending her over the rail into the sea.
Olivia was too startled to scream. Her hands and legs flailed desperately in the water. “Amelia,” she tried to gulp. “Throw…throw me…the lifebelt.”
Amelia only watched her.
“Amelia! Please!”
Amelia turned away and went to sit at the table where she’d left the book she was reading.
Fifteen or so minutes later her father appeared from below.
“Hello, sweetie,” he yawned, ruffling her hair. “Are you OK?”
Amelia nodded.
He looked around, taking in the fresh sea air, calm waters and distant shore. “Where’s your mother?” he asked.
Amelia shrugged and carried on reading.
“Hello, Jules. How are you?”
Jules Bright didn’t answer. These days she wasn’t used to unexpected visitors ringing the doorbell; if they did, it was usually someone to read one of the meters, or young hopefuls collecting for a worthy cause. She was always polite to the former and gave generously to the latter, but friendly though she was, she never invited anyone in if she could help it. In truth, she didn’t think anyone wanted to come in. Not because they were scared of her, or any nonsense like that; she was sure they just didn’t want to get caught in conversation with her. No one ever knew what to say. She had to admit that she didn’t either.
There had been a time when every day was filled with people seeking her out for one reason or another. Sometimes simply for a good laugh, or maybe sympathy for some troubles, the sharing of secrets, breaking of confidences, gleeful horror over the latest scandal…Her door had always been open. Not this one; she’d lived somewhere else back then, when her world had been full of people, music, rowdy applause, the clinking of glasses, and cheers for whichever team they were supporting that day.
So who was this woman at the door of the home she had now, tall, dark-haired, with aqua-green eyes that tilted at the corners toward a subtle but quite arresting beauty? Her smile was making Jules want to smile, although there was something hesitant about it, as though she was worried about intruding, or perhaps she didn’t really have anything to smile about.
Jules knew she should recognize her. The certainty of it was climbing all over her memory trying to find the right images to rouse from the shadows, but so far unsuccessfully.
Then out of nowhere it came to her that this woman used to wear black-rimmed glasses and her hair was usually severely scraped back, as though she’d been trying to hide her beauty, or at least downplay it. No glasses today, and a glossy abundance of curls tumbled around her collar and slender face.
Suddenly the mental Googling hit the right link and Jules’s heartbeat slowed as her smile both formed and drained.
She liked this woman a lot; there was a time when she’d felt she was the only person she could trust. She just hadn’t imagined, once it was all over, that she’d ever see her again. Or not here, knocking on this door.
“It’s Andee,” the woman told her. “Andee Lawrence.”
Jules nodded. The name had come back in the instant it was being said. Detective Constable Andrea Lawrence—but please call me Andee. Hadn’t she been promoted since Jules had known her? Jules was sure she had, and was now stationed locally, in Kesterly.
Why was she here?
“How are you?” Jules asked quietly.
“I’m fine. And you?”
Jules shrugged. No one expected her to be fine, so she often didn’t bother to pretend.
“May I come in?” Andee asked gently.
Jules stood aside to let her pass, not quite able to summon a stronger voice yet, if she was even looking for one. She was too stunned—and anxious, and curious; she might even be slightly afraid.
There was nothing to be afraid of, she reminded herself as she led the way into a spacious open-plan kitchen area at the back of the house she now called home. It was a modern three-bed detached, on a street named the Risings, which was shaped like a banjo with two rows of semis lining the neck and fingerboard of the road in, and five individual properties forming the head around a central green. Her house was at twelve o’clock on the green. To continue with the banjo simile, overhead British Telecom and power cables formed some random strings, though there was nothing musical about them. Where the instrument’s tailpiece would have been, however, was a quaint iron footbridge nestling among trees and crossing the stream that ran its tuneful way through Jules’s back garden.
She caught Andee Lawrence casting a subtle look around the room and wondered what she might be making of this modest new abode with its shiny black and white kitchen, natural pine dining table for six, and faux-marble fireplace with gas fire and lava logs. It was a fraction of the size of Jules’s previous home, had none of the period features, and could boast nothing more than a postage stamp of a garden. However, Jules was comfortable here; it was an easy home to take care of, since bits didn’t randomly fall off the ceiling the way they had in the previous place, pipes didn’t burst, jackdaw nests didn’t clog up the chimneys, and there was no whimsical ghost floating about in the wee small hours.
How she missed that ghost, and sometimes wondered if the ghost missed her too, mischievous little minx that she’d been. She had other people to tease now, although Jules didn’t think she bothered.
Had she ever told Andee about the ghost?
She doubted it; they’d had other things to talk about at the time.
“Can I get you some tea?” she offered, going to the kettle. “I have all sorts.”
“How about peppermint?” Andee suggested, unfastening the smart cream leather jacket that had clearly cost her quite a bit, and draping it over the back of a dining chair.
Jules owned classy, expensive clothes too, but she hardly ever wore them now. She had no place to go that called for them. Not that she’d let herself go; she really didn’t want to do that, though there were times when she felt so drained, so lacking in purpose, even life, that it surely could only have been habit that drove her to make herself up in the morning and do the necessary to keep the gray from her hair. Despite what she felt, others would describe her as an attractive woman, tall, a little too slim, with the kind of boyish frame that meant clothes usually looked good on her. Her fine, straight hair was raven dark, and sometimes fell loosely around her shoulders, or was scrunched up in a knot at the back of her head. Not so long ago she’d had the liveliest brown eyes, with spiky dark lashes and such a readiness for compassion or humor that she almost always seemed to be empathizing or laughing or simply taking an interest in whatever was happening in that moment. Her eyes were different now—the same color, just a sadder, more cautious version of what they used to be. As for her age, since she’d been blessed with the kind of complexion that made her seem much younger than her years, she still looked under forty in spite of all she’d been through.
Once, her spirit, her joie de vivre, had seemed as inextinguishable as a joke candle, an inner flame that just wouldn’t stop burning…
/> Until one day it did.
“You’re looking well,” Andee commented, leaning back in her chair.
“Thank you,” Jules replied, in her faint but unmistakable West Country burr. “Out of interest, how did you find me?”
“I went to the pub.”
Of course; it would have been the easiest way. “Are you still with the police? You didn’t use your rank just now.”
“I quit, about a year ago.”
The answer surprised Jules, although she wasn’t quite sure why.
“I never really felt cut out for it,” Andee admitted. “I mean, I always took it seriously and gave it my best, but I…Let’s just say I reached a point where I felt I needed a change.”
“You mean you needed to get away from the ugly side of life?”
Andee didn’t deny it. Why would she when, in Jules’s opinion, no one in their right mind would want to spend their days confronting the hatred, violence, and evil that seemed so large a part of today’s world? Not that this town had an especially high crime rate; in fact, it was one of the reasons people moved here, to get away from unwholesome inner cities. Although it had to be said that Kesterly-on-Sea could boast some terrible stories of its own. Now Jules came to think of it, the last time she’d heard news of Andee was about a year ago when a teenage girl had gone missing from a caravan park over at Paradise Cove. Detective Sergeant Andee Lawrence had led the search. So she had been promoted since the time Jules had known her, and apparently she had moved to Kesterly.
Though the missing girl had been found, the circumstances would have been hard for Andee, Jules realized, for Andee’s sister had vanished when she was in her teens and had never been traced.
Imagine that, never knowing what had happened to someone you loved.
Could it be worse than knowing? That clearly depended on what there was to know.
So it was over two years since Jules and Andee had last met, though Jules couldn’t quite remember where they’d been on that occasion, how they’d ended up saying goodbye. However, she had a clear recollection of their first meeting, at the Crown Court in the center of Kesterly.
