by T. M. Logan
Praise for
‘Smart, intense and with a humdinger of a mid-point twist. I loved it’
GILLIAN MCALLISTER
‘Taut, tense and compelling. Thriller writing at its finest’
SIMON LELIC
‘T.M. Logan’s best yet. Unsettling and so, so entertaining. The perfect thriller’
CAZ FREAR
‘A tense and gripping thriller’
B.A. PARIS
‘Assured, compelling, and hypnotically readable – with a twist at the end I guarantee you won’t see coming’
LEE CHILD
‘A compelling, twisty page-turner, and that’s the truth’
JAMES SWALLOW
‘Outstanding and very well-written . . . so gripping I genuinely found it hard to put down’
K.L. SLATER
‘A terrific page-turner, didn’t see that twist! A thoroughly enjoyable thriller’
MEL SHERRATT
‘Another blistering page-turner from psych-thriller god
T.M. Logan’
CHRIS WHITAKER
‘Even the cleverest second-guesser is unlikely to arrive at the truth until it’s much, much too late’
THE TIMES
Contents
Tuesday
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Wednesday
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Thursday
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
Friday
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
Saturday
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
Sunday
Chapter 62
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
Three Months Later
Chapter 69
Acknowledgements
Letter from Author
About the Author
T.M. Logan’s Readers’ Club
More from T.M. Logan . . .
Copyright
For my agent, Camilla Bolton,
who trusted in me from the beginning
No man chooses evil because it is evil; he only mistakes it for happiness, the good he seeks.
—Mary Wollstonecraft
Bad luck.
That was all it came down to, in the end.
One piece of bad luck that threatened to destroy everything.
He had been so careful. So many precautions, hardly anything left to chance. So much thought and planning and preparation. It was true what they said, though: you can’t control everything.
But he wasn’t about to let one piece of bad luck dictate his future.
It was time to put it behind him.
Permanently.
TUESDAY
1
A shape, white and black and grey.
The curve of the spine, the forehead, the tiny snub nose, the perfect feet with toes curled. A shape that holds the promise of new life.
I stare at the grainy image, thumb frozen on the screen of my phone, emotion clogging my throat. The ecstatic caption beneath it written by a woman I have never met, full of optimism and joy and the excitement of approaching motherhood.
So . . . Richard and I have news! Junior has settled in nicely and is on his way. So pleased to be able to tell everyone! Excited!!! #12WeekScan #ultrasound #instamum #instababy #babylove
The knowledge settles like a rock in my stomach. She’s having my ex-husband’s baby. Richard has finally got what he wanted, what we both wanted, craved, more than anything.
I feel winded, dizzy, as if I’ve been kicked in the chest, all the air knocked out of me for the second time in a matter of hours. First this morning’s news, and now this.
I lay the phone face down on the table, biting down the ache, the longing, the wanting. I stare out of the train window, the Buckinghamshire countryside racing past in a blur of fields and hedgerows. Crops harvested and stalks cut low to the ground, the earth ploughed brown, tendrils of smoke from a distant bonfire curling up into the grey autumn sky. The gentle rock and sway of the train, the vibration rising up through the flat soles of my shoes. The train is taking me back to London, back to my little newbuild house, back to . . .
To what, exactly? An empty home that will be exactly as I left it this morning. Silent and cold. Half the wardrobes newly emptied and half the books and DVDs newly absent; the framed prints and the big corner armchair gone too. Richard left me with most of the furniture at least, that was something. And all of our photo albums; evidently the past is something he wants to leave behind. But somehow I can’t do the same. I’m stuck here, stuck in my own past, unable to move on. A prisoner of my own biology. Maybe my time really is up. This is it.
I settle back into my seat, the pockmarked blue material worn smooth by the years, and try to concentrate instead on the low hum of the engine, on the indistinct phone chatter behind me; a group of football fans singing at the other end of the carriage, their voices loud with alcohol.
A young woman makes her way slowly down the aisle, scanning the seats, a pink-clad baby tucked into the crook of her arm. I turn away, avoiding eye contact, looking out of the window again with a silent prayer that she will find somewhere else to sit down. Babies, babies, everywhere I look. It’s a mid-afternoon train, too early for commuters, plenty of spare seats further down this carriage or in the next. Please find somewhere else, anywhere, so I don’t have to look at your baby all the way to London. I sense the woman pass by, walking slowly down the carriage, and let out a guilty sigh of relief.
The rest of the day stretches out in front of me, blank and empty. The rest of the week. Work. Commute. Home. A few glasses of wine, a few shots of vodka. Pulling the duvet up over my head so I don’t have to think about anything. Sleeping alone in the big double bed. Next week, next month, next year. More of the same, looking for a reason to continue beyond the unthinking imperative to keep putting one foot in front of the other. Keep going. Keep going. Keep going. I feel empty, spent, hollowed out by a hunger that can never be sated. How can it be possible to hope and pray so hard, for so long, and end up with nothing?
I was a fool.
‘Hi,’ a woman’s voice says. ‘Is anyone sitting here?’
The young mother is back, hovering next to the set of four seats where I’m sitting alone.
; ‘No,’ I say. ‘There’s no one.’
‘Thanks.’ Swinging her rucksack into the window seat, she lowers herself gently opposite me. She’s in her mid-twenties, wearing a rust-coloured jacket and blue jeans, blonde hair falling to her shoulders. She’s pretty, even beautiful, in that way young mothers always seemed to me. She points down the carriage, where the football fans are still going with their half-shouted songs. ‘Had to move to get away from those lads. They’re passing around the Jack Daniels.’
She moves carefully so as not to jostle the baby in her arm, a tiny thing dressed in a pale pink cardigan and pink shoes with little rainbows on them. Tufts of blonde hair peek out from beneath a pink bow over the top of her head. Her eyes are ocean-blue against perfect white, with long lashes and just the tiniest hint of blonde eyebrows. They lock onto me and a smile spreads instantly across her chubby face, her pink dummy almost falling out, a big gummy grin that dimples her cheeks and lights up her face. Despite myself, despite everything, I feel my own lips curving into a smile in return – but it’s been so long that it feels strange, almost unnatural.
‘She’s absolutely beautiful,’ I say. And it isn’t just one of those things you say to a new mother, the polite response when their baby is presented to you. It’s true enough that all babies are beautiful in their own way, to their own parents especially. But this one is unbearably, impossibly cute.
‘She likes you,’ the young mother says with a shy grin.
‘She’s very smiley, isn’t she?’ I say, unable to take my eyes off the baby. ‘So sweet.’
The woman’s phone rings on the seat beside her. She checks the screen and silences it.
‘How old are yours?’ she says.
My smile falters. No matter how many times I’m asked about my own family, I never quite get the answer right. It always sounds like an apology or a defence.
‘Me and my husband, I mean ex-husband, we couldn’t . . .’ I tear my eyes away from the baby in her arms. ‘We wanted kids, but it never quite worked out for us.’
‘Oh.’ The young woman colours slightly. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—’
‘It’s fine,’ I say. ‘Really. I’m godmother to my friend Tara’s children. She has three boys.’
‘This little one doesn’t have a godmother yet.’
‘What’s her name?’
‘Mia. She’s three months and one week old, today. And I’m Kathryn,’ she adds, with an embarrassed smile. ‘Hi.’
Her phone rings again and she silences it without answering. Looking closer, she’s young to have a baby, not much older than twenty, nearly half my own age. I’m old enough to be her mother, I realise with a familiar pinch of sadness. She wears no wedding ring, and her ears are pierced twice – low and high – with unfussy studs in each. She looks like she might be more at home out clubbing than looking after a baby.
But there is something else too, a pulse of unease that she’s keeping just beneath the surface.
Her phone beeps with a message, and as she reaches for it the sleeve of her jacket rides up, revealing purple-black skin above her wrist, a line of ugly bruises spreading up towards her elbow.
She sees me looking and hurriedly pushes the sleeve back down again. I give her a sympathetic smile.
‘I’m Ellen,’ I say. Lowering my voice, I add, ‘Is everything . . . OK?’
‘Yeah.’ She tucks a strand of blonde hair behind her ear. ‘Actually, I don’t suppose you’d be able to hold her for a minute while I get myself sorted out, would you?’
Yes. No. I would love to hold her. More than anything. Please don’t ask me to.
‘Of course,’ I say, sitting forward in my seat.
Kathryn half stands, leaning over the grey plastic table between us, handing the baby to me. It feels awkward at first and for a moment I think I might drop the baby or she might wriggle free, but she seems quite content to lie back, nestled into the crook of my elbow. She’s not heavy, just a warm, solid presence, wonderfully and joyfully alive in my arms, her big blue eyes gazing up, her lips curling into a smile. Babies love faces, that was what all the books said. They were hardwired to respond to eye contact and smiles, their own eyes focusing to that first distance between mother and child. The distance between us now. How is it possible to feel a loss for something I’ve never had and probably never will have?
‘You’re a natural,’ Kathryn says, then immediately puts a hand to her mouth. ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean . . . That was a stupid thing to say.’
I shake my head, unable to take my eyes off the baby.
‘No need to apologise.’
Mia reaches out, the tips of her little fingers brushing my cheek with the lightest of touches, tiny points of warmth on my skin. She makes a happy gurgle of delight as I lean a little closer, allowing her fingers to touch my chin, my jawline. I reach over with my right hand and Mia’s fingers wrap around my index finger, a tiny clamp, as gentle as a feather. She has the smallest, most exquisite fingernails. I blow a raspberry onto her fingertips and she giggles, a hearty chuckle that warms my heart.
‘Nice to meet you, Mia.’ I smile down at her. ‘My name’s Ellen.’
Kathryn has pulled the white rucksack onto her lap. She has a pen in her hand and is busy digging through the contents, rearranging the bottles and nappies packed inside. As she zips it closed, her iPhone starts ringing again, vibrating against the plastic tabletop. The screen displays a man’s face, thirtyish, dark ginger hair, stubble, a kink in the bridge of his nose as though at some point it has been broken. The name below the image is Dominic.
‘Sounds like he’s keen to get hold of you,’ I say.
‘I’d better answer.’ She nods distractedly, glancing again at the phone’s display. ‘Would you be all right with Mia just while I take this call? It’s . . . urgent.’
‘Sure. Go ahead, we’ll be fine for a minute.’
‘I’ll just be down there.’ She gestures over her shoulder, down the carriage. ‘I’ll be back.’
I look up again and I swear I see tears glistening in her eyes.
‘Kathryn, are you sure you’re all right?’
‘Yeah,’ she says, getting up out of her seat. ‘Thank you. I won’t be long.’
She reaches out and touches her fingertips gently to the crown of the baby’s head, as if reluctant to leave her even for a moment. Then she takes her phone down the aisle, towards the end of the carriage, mobile clamped to her ear.
Mia gazes up at me and yawns, blue eyes blinking shut for a moment. I rock her gently from side to side, her wonderful weight in the crook of my arm, the unfamiliar smile returning to my lips. My heart fills my chest, a powerful rush like the strongest drug, a tide of emotion I haven’t felt in so long that I’ve wondered whether it even still exists inside me.
I allow myself to imagine – just for a moment – what it would be like if this little one was mine. If I was returning from the hospital with a baby in my arms, instead of a prognosis even bleaker than the last time. To finally use the little box bedroom for what it had been intended for, saved for: a nursery. Instead of a quiet, empty corner of the house left in stasis like a shrine to a life unfulfilled, to something that will never be. I’ve imagined this for so long, dreamed of it, of night feeds and cuddles and tiny fingers, walks in the park and first words and bedtime stories. All the little things that parents take for granted. I lean closer to Mia’s forehead, breathing in that indefinable soft-sweet baby scent of pure, clean skin and talcum powder and new life. Wondering if Kathryn knows how lucky she is.
There’s a shift in the train’s momentum, its speed easing as it begins to decelerate into the next station, the last stop before Marylebone. Open countryside has been replaced by busy little villages and roads, church steeples and barn conversions, commuter land on the way into north-west London. I look up to see if Kathryn’s on her way back, but she’s still hidden from my view in the vestibule connecting the two carriages. How long has she been gone now? Two minutes? Three?
The next stop slides into view. Seer Green & Jordans, a little two-platform country station with a footbridge and a small wood-panelled waiting room, a handful of people waiting to board. Kathryn has not reappeared. The train wheezes to a stop in a shudder of brakes, three long beeps as the carriage doors slide open and a few passengers step down onto the platform. I raise myself carefully out of my seat and look around, checking the other way down the carriage in case Kathryn has somehow slipped past while I’ve been busy with Mia. But I can only see the football fans, all in identical red and white-striped shirts, with close-cropped hair and long legs sticking out into the aisle. The seats across from me are occupied by a small red-faced man in a pinstriped suit, who has managed to spread out his briefcase, laptop, newspaper and raincoat across five of the six seats, as well as the little table. He has not looked over at me once.
‘Excuse me,’ I say to him. ‘I don’t suppose you saw the woman sitting here? Did she come past us just now?’
The man glances up, gives a single irritated shake of his head, and goes back to his laptop. I’m about to stand up, to walk down the carriage in search of her, when movement outside catches my eye. A figure hurrying past, right by my window. A blonde woman in a rust-coloured jacket.
Kathryn is walking away down the platform.
2
It takes a second to process what I’m seeing, to make sense of what my eyes are telling me. Is Kathryn suddenly ill? Confused? Is it a prank? Has someone taken her jacket, walked off the train wearing it?
No.
It’s her. Blonde hair swishing from side to side as she marches down the platform, hands thrust deep into the pockets of her jacket, head down as if she doesn’t want to make eye contact with anyone. I lean over to rap on the window as she passes, the glass cold against my knuckles, the move made awkward by the baby on my left side.
‘Hey!’ I shout, sensing other passengers turning towards me. ‘Kathryn! Hey!’
She looks up and our eyes meet for just a second, long enough for me to see the expression on her face, to notice the tears on her cheeks. She mouths a single word. Sorry. Then drops her gaze and hurries on, wiping her eyes and striding down the platform towards the barriers.
