About the Author
Amanda Brittany lives in Hertfordshire with her husband and two dogs. When she’s not writing, she loves spending time with family, travelling, walking, reading and sunny days. Her debut, Her Last Lie reached the Kindle top 100 in the US and Australia and was a #1 Bestseller in the UK. It has also been optioned for film. Her second psychological thriller Tell The Truth reached the Kindle top 100 in the US & was a #1 Bestseller in the US. All her ebook royalties for Her Last Lie are being donated to Cancer Research UK, in memory of her sister who lost her battle with cancer in July 2017. It has so far raised over £7,500.
Praise for Amanda Brittany
‘Brittany reels readers in with this twisty, clever thriller that will have you second-guessing everything’
Phoebe Morgan, author of The Doll House
‘Brilliant, pacey, and will leave you suspecting everyone is involved!’
Darren O’Sullivan, author of Our Little Secret
‘Totally gripping’
Reader Review
‘I had to keep turning the pages’
Reader Review
‘A lot of twists and turns … it didn’t disappoint’
Reader Review
Also by Amanda Brittany
Her Last Lie
Tell The Truth
Traces of Her
AMANDA BRITTANY
HQ
An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd.
1 London Bridge Street
London SE1 9GF
First published in Great Britain by HQ in 2019
Copyright © Amanda Brittany 2019
Amanda Brittany asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.
Source ISBN: 9780008331184
E-book Edition © October 2019 ISBN: 9780008305406
Version: 2019-09-16
Table of Contents
Cover
About the Author
Praise for Amanda Brittany
Also by Amanda Brittany
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Prologue
Chapter 1: Rose
Chapter 2: Ava
Chapter 3: Rose
Chapter 4: Ava
Chapter 5: Ava
Chapter 6: Rose
Chapter 7: Ava
Chapter 8: You
Chapter 9: Rose
Chapter 10: Ava
Chapter 11: Rose
Chapter 12: Rose
Chapter 13: Rose
Chapter 14: Ava
Chapter 15: You
Chapter 16: Rose
Chapter 17: Ava
Chapter 18: Rose
Chapter 19: Ava
Chapter 20: Rose
Chapter 21: Ava
Chapter 22: You
Chapter 23: Rose
Chapter 24: Ava
Chapter 25: Rose
Chapter 26: Rose
Chapter 27: Rose
Chapter 28: Ava
Chapter 29: Ava
Chapter 30: Ava
Chapter 31: Rose
Chapter 32: Ava
Chapter 33: Rose
Chapter 34: Ava
Chapter 35: You
Chapter 36: Rose
Chapter 37: Rose
Chapter 38: Ava
Chapter 39: Rose
Chapter 40: Ava
Chapter 41: Rose
Chapter 42: Ava
Chapter 43: You
Chapter 44: Rose
Chapter 45: Ava
Chapter 46: Rose
Chapter 47: Rose
Chapter 48: Ava
Chapter 49: You
Chapter 50: Rose
Chapter 51: Rose
Chapter 52: Rose
Chapter 53: Rose
Chapter 54: Ava
Chapter 55: Ava
Chapter 56: Ava
Chapter 57: Rose
Chapter 58: You
Chapter 59: Rose
Chapter 60: Rose
Chapter 61: Ava
Rose
Epilogue
Acknowledgements
Extract
A Letter from Amanda
Dear Reader …
Keep Reading …
About the Publisher
To Liam, Daniel, Luke, Lucy & Janni.
Prologue
2001
She lies on the sand dressed in yellow satin, a ring of sodden flowers clinging to her blonde hair like seaweed. The pendant around her slim neck says ‘Mummy’ – a gift from Willow.
Grasses stir in the howling wind and a mist rolls in from the Celtic Sea, moving over her lifeless body – ghosts waiting to take her hand and lead her away from this lonely place where seagulls cry.
A man will come soon. He walks his border collie at the same time each morning along the same sandy path that edges the sea in Bostagel, and today will be no different.
He will stride with the aid of his stick; grey hair flapping in the wind, calling after his dog. Content with his lot.
Then he will see her body, and her sister’s wedding dress folded neatly on the rocks. The shock will stay with him forever.
He will call the police.
Sirens will pierce the silent air.
The youngest Millar girl is dead. Stabbed repeatedly.
‘Rest in peace, young Millar girls,’ they will say.
Chapter 1
ROSE
Now
‘Willow! Thank God,’ I say, my mobile pressed to my ear. She’s disappeared before. In fact, her ability to take off without explanation is something we’ve learned to live with over the last few years.
‘Rose,’ she says. ‘Rose I’m …’ Her voice is apprehensive, and I imagine her twirling a strand of her long blonde hair around her finger, something she’s done since childhood. ‘I’m sorry I haven’t called before.’
‘Well, you’re calling now. That’s what’s important,’ I say, always aware how fragile she is. ‘And it’s good to hear your voice, Willow.’ It’s only been a month, but I’ve missed her.
I drop down onto the edge of the sofa, my eyes flicking to the photograph above my open fireplace: me at fifteen – lanky, with lifeless hair and acne; Willow, a beautiful child of three sitting on my knee, her expression blank, bewildered. It was the day I met her.
‘We had no idea if you were OK,’ I say, although there was nothing new there. In fairness, she put a couple of generic updates on Facebook about a week ago. ‘Where are you?’
‘Cornwall.’
‘Cornwall?’
‘I’m staying at a cottage in Bostagel near Newquay …’ She breaks off, and I sense she has more to say, but a silence falls between us.
‘Why didn’t you call or text?’ I ask.
‘Sorry,’ she says. ‘The signal’s erratic down here. And, if I’m honest, I needed to get my head straight before I spoke to any of you about …’ She stops.
&n
bsp; ‘About what, Willow?’ I clear my throat. ‘About what?’
‘It’s … well … the thing is, someone paid for me to stay here until August.’
‘Someone?’
‘I don’t know who, Rose. I got a message on Facebook and—’
‘You just took off?’ I can’t hide the irritation at her naivety. ‘Someone paid for you to stay in Cornwall, and you’ve no idea who?’
‘No, but, hear me out, Rose. There’s so much you don’t know,’ she says in a rush. ‘But I can’t tell you over the phone. You never know who’s listening.’
‘Who would be listening?’ I say. My voice cracks. I love her so much, but she has no self-awareness – no sense of self-preservation. ‘Listen come home. We can talk here.’
‘I can’t. I’m so close.’
‘Close to what?’ My anxiety is rising. ‘Is everything OK?’
‘Yes. I’m fine. Gareth is here.’
‘Who’s Gareth?’
‘He’s been helping me.’ A pause. ‘Please come to Cornwall, Rose. Please. I’ll explain absolutely everything once you’re here.’
A lump rises in my throat, blocking my efforts to say no, and a sudden strangling fear she could be in some sort of danger grabs me. I rise and pace the lounge, raking my fingers through my hair. The sun beating on the windowpane hurts my eyes. I drag the curtains hard across the glass, and the room plunges into a depressive grey haze.
‘Rose?’
‘Yes. I’m still here.’
‘Well? Will you come?’ There’s a tremor in her voice. ‘I need you right now. Please.’
‘Come back home then,’ I try once more, but I know I’m losing.
‘I can’t,’ she says. ‘I just can’t, Rose. And I know I don’t deserve you – that I drive you all crazy. But I can barely sleep at night for all the stuff going on in my head.’
‘I’ve Becky to think of.’
‘Becky,’ she says, a whimsical ring to her voice at the mention of my teenage daughter. ‘Bring her too.’
‘I’m not sure.’
‘Please, Rose,’ she says again. ‘Come. I’m begging you.’ I hear tears in her words and feel myself weakening. She has a childlike quality, often seeming younger than Becky. I’ve felt protective of her from the day I arrived at Darlington House eighteen years ago, when she was all curls and big eyes. She needed me then, and she needs me now.
It’s over five hours from Old Stevenage to Cornwall, but I love driving. It won’t be a problem. And I know I could battle with her for ages, tell her ‘no’ over and over, but, in spite of myself, I will go. It’s impossible to ignore her cry for help – she’s always had that power over me. ‘OK, I’ll come,’ I say.
She sighs with relief. ‘Thanks. You’re amazing, Rose. I’ll explain everything when you get here. There’s so much to tell you.’
‘I can’t come until Saturday, Willow. I don’t break up for the summer until Friday. Will you be OK until then?’
‘Yes. That’s fine … brilliant. I’m so grateful. I can show you the note.’
‘What note?’
There’s a loud knock in the background. ‘I’ve got to go,’ she says, and drags in a breath. ‘I’ll email you my address, and see you at the weekend, yeah? I can’t wait. Love you, Rose.’
The phone goes dead before I can reply.
‘Love you too,’ I whisper, flopping back down on the sofa, and throwing my phone onto the coffee table.
After some moments, my eyes drift to the photo of Willow and me again, and I can almost feel her in my arms, smell the freshness of her golden hair.
*
Dad met Eleanor Winter in the August of 2002 at a conference about the destruction of the rainforest – something they both care about deeply, and bonded over.
I was pleased for Dad, really I was. When Mum died three years before, the weight dropped from his body like a jolly snowman facing the sun. I lost count of the times I caught him crying. He was a shadow of the strong dad who’d brought me up – and all that time I was grieving her loss too.
I liked Eleanor from the off. Softly spoken, tall with bobbed highlighted hair and small grey eyes, she was nothing like my chubby, tiny, fun-loving mum. It was as though Dad had gone out of his way to find Mum’s opposite.
I admit unwanted feelings reached into my head at first – ‘I want my dad to myself’; ‘What would Mum think?’ – that kind of thing. But mainly I was happy for him. At fifteen I was often out with friends, leaving him to wander lonely around our semi in Hitchin – the house I grew up in – feeling guilty I wasn’t there for him 24/7.
That day, the day of the photo, was the first time I’d visited Darlington House in Old Welwyn, an amazing detached house built in the eighteenth century, set in picturesque grounds. I remember it looked even more beautiful that day because of the sprinkling of snow we’d had. I knew it would be a culture shock when we moved in with Eleanor and Willow; that it would never feel like home. But I was prepared to do anything to bring my old dad back.
Dad put down the camera, and Willow shuffled from my knee, and trotted towards her Duplo scattered over the carpet near the French windows. She dropped down onto her bottom, her curls bouncing.
‘That’s a smashing picture of you two girls,’ Dad said, looking at the camera screen and smiling. ‘Take one of me and Eleanor, will you, Rose?’ he went on, handing me the camera. I felt awkward. Forced into another world I’d rather not be in. But still I rose and did as he asked.
As they leaned into each other, his arm around her waist, I knew they were in love. Dad had been through hell, and Eleanor was recently widowed; they deserved a second chance at happiness. I had to support them.
They headed into the kitchen to prepare lunch, and I padded over to Willow, and knelt next to her on the floor. ‘What are you building?’ I asked.
She looked up at me, her blue eyes seeming too big for her face. She’d lost her father six months before, and looked so fragile, as though she might break. She didn’t answer, and I found myself playing with her curls, twirling them around my fingers. ‘You’re so pretty,’ I said.
She looked up at me. ‘Uncle Peter lets me stand on his shoes when we dance.’ Her lips turned upwards.
‘Does he?’ I said, realising I knew nothing about Eleanor’s family. ‘That’s nice.’
‘Mummy’s gone now,’ she said. ‘Uncle Peter’s gone too.’
I glanced over my shoulder, to where laughter leaked from the kitchen. ‘Mummy’s here, she’s making lunch, sweetie,’ I said, stroking a wayward curl from her cheek.
‘No.’ She picked up two yellow bricks and stared at me through watery eyes. ‘Mummy’s an angel,’ she went on, clicking the bricks together.
Chapter 2
AVA
1996
‘You can’t come with us, Ava.’ Gail laughed, and her two friends, all three dressed in skimpy tops and shorts, joined in. ‘Get the bus home.’ With a flick of her blonde ponytail, Gail linked arms with her friends, and in perfect step they made their way through the tourists towards the arcades, the sun beaming down on them.
‘Mum said …’ Ava began, but her sister was out of earshot. And what was the point, anyway? Gail never listened to her.
Mum always said they should meet up after school each day and catch the bus together. And they used to. They used to chat about their school day, as the bus weaved its way towards Bostagel. But their two-year age gap seemed to have grown bigger lately. Since Gail turned sixteen she hadn’t wanted Ava hanging on like a dead leaf on a beautiful oak.
Ava made her way into Kathy’s Café, the aroma of freshly cooked chips bombarding her senses. She couldn’t afford food, so grabbed a drink from the fridge and paid for it.
From a window seat she people-watched. To her, Newquay was just a nearby seaside town – to holidaymakers jostling on the pavement in their sun hats and beachwear, faces scorched from the sun, it was clearly magical.
She cracked open the can of cola and po
ured the fizzy liquid into a glass, her mind drifting back to Gail. She would start studying for her A-levels in September, and there was no doubting she would sail through them. She’d always been clever, and popular too. Mum’s favourite.
‘Is she your sister?’ The Welsh male voice came from the table behind her. She glanced over her shoulder to see a boy of about sixteen. His light brown hair was parted in the middle, hanging like curtains about his pale face, as he played on his Game Boy.
‘Who?’ she asked, but she guessed he meant Gail. Had he watched them from the window?
He didn’t look up from his screen, his thumbs moving fast over the controls. ‘The girl who dumped you.’
‘She didn’t dump me.’
‘If you say so.’
But the boy was right, Gail had dumped her – she was always dumping her. Ava turned back to the window and sipped her drink, aware of the boy’s chair scraping across the floor. He was suddenly beside her, tall and thin, shoving the Game Boy into his jacket pocket. ‘She’s beautiful, your sister,’ he said, thumping down on the chair next to her. ‘My mate fancies her.’
‘Everyone does.’
‘Are you jealous?’
Ava shook her head, avoiding eye contact.
‘You’re pretty too, you know. She just makes more effort. How old are you?’
‘Fourteen.’
‘I bet you’re sick of living in her shadow.’
She felt herself flush. She always did when boys talked to her. ‘That’s complete bollocks.’ She gulped back the rest of her drink, slammed the glass on the table, and rose to her feet. ‘You don’t even know me. Move.’ She thumped his arm. ‘I need to catch my bus.’ She squeezed past him and grabbed her rucksack.
‘What’s your name?’ he said.
She tugged at the hem of her school skirt, as she flung open the café door, the heat of the day warming her face. ‘None of your business,’ she said.
‘Well, I’m Maxen. And if you want my advice, don’t let your sister ruin your life,’ he called after her. ‘Don’t give her that power. Once she has it, you’ll never escape.’
*
A bus drew up at the shelter and Ava jumped onto it. It was empty, apart from an old lady talking to a cat in a crate. ‘We’re nearly there, sweetie,’ she was saying to the mewing feline, her voice too loud as if the cat was deaf. ‘We’ll soon be home.’
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