‘A brilliant premise, perfectly executed. A genuine page-turner – it kept me guessing right until the end’ Chris Hammer, bestselling author of Scrublands

Praise for She Lies in Wait

‘A novel that literally makes you hold your breath then gasp out loud’ Val McDermid

‘What a marvel! A corkscrew-twisty, knife-sharp thriller … Prepare to be haunted’ A. J. Finn, bestselling author of Woman in the Window

‘An engaging tale of lust, rivalry and murder’ Sunday Times

‘A stunning debut. Brilliantly formed characters and a twisty, clever plot had me turning pages well past my bedtime’ Heidi Perks, bestselling author of Now You See Her

‘A dark, deep, terrific thriller and a scorching portrait of friendship and its betrayal’ Nicci French

‘I loved it. A SUPERIOR crime book’ Marian Keyes

‘Classic detective fiction at its best! Lodge paints an absorbing tale of murder – and more – involving a cast of superbly drawn characters. Rarely does a book so seamlessly blend the past and the present, building edge-of-the-seat suspense to the very final scene, all the while offering up piercing psychological insight’ Jeffery Deaver

Dedication

For Rufus, the most excellent and ridiculous of sons. I hope you can forgive the lack of Fortnite references.

And you’re still too young to read this. Sorry.

Prologue

I felt cold. Cold in the way of night sweats. In the way of a slow waking to damp sheets that stuck to my skin. It was like that time when I thought I had lymphoma but was, in fact, falling to pieces mentally instead. Do you remember that? I would wake up every night, drenched and shivering, having sweated so much that it had soaked half the mattress.

I fought waking up. I was too tired, and too aware of the hangover that was about to descend. I was hating myself before I’d even opened my eyes. Well, hating Drunk Louise, anyway. That irresponsible, crappy version of myself who always seems to screw everything up, just so she can have a good time.

So I was half awake and hating it. And I thought that maybe if I shuffled back onto your side of the bed, then I’d find a dry area, and possibly even the duvet, and I’d be able to go back to sleep.

I couldn’t seem to find the duvet. So instead, I squirmed further back to tuck into your body. It’s always the warmest way to sleep, with you wrapped around me. But it didn’t make me warmer. What had been dampness became shivering wetness. Something was soaking into my nightshirt.

And I remember working out that it wasn’t, in fact, a nightshirt. There were thin, hard straps digging into my shoulders and the restrictive feeling of tight fabric. So, clothes. Drunk Louise had gone to sleep in her clothes. And that made me feel a little afraid of what else she might have done.