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About the Author

PHILIPPA EAST grew up in Scotland and originally studied Psychology and Philosophy at the University of Oxford. After graduating, she moved to London to train as a Clinical Psychologist and worked in NHS mental health services for over ten years.

Philippa now lives in the Lincolnshire countryside with her husband and cat. Alongside her writing, she continues to work as a psychologist and therapist. Philippa’s prize-winning short stories have been published in various literary journals. Her first novel Little White Lies was published in 2020 and was shortlisted for the CWA John Creasey New Blood Dagger. Safe and Sound is her second novel.

Also by Philippa East

Little White Lies

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Dedication

For my sister, Katherine

Chapter 1

Last night, I began to worry about Charlie again.

An appointment letter arrived yesterday, blue and white logo at the top. Maybe it was because of that letter that I lay in bed, unable to sleep, staring at the ceiling, thinking about him. Replaying every one of his actions and movements from the week, checking them in the slow motion of my mind. Did his speech ever slur, did his thinking seem confused or slow, did his emotions wander out of control? I went over it again and again, trying to assess him, and myself, feeling the tightness take hold of my ribs.

This morning, though, in the bright light of day, Charlie seemed absolutely fine. His chatter over breakfast was so clear and clever, and when I got him to reel off everything I’d packed into his schoolbag – my own tiny, reassuring test – he didn’t miss a single thing. I kissed him well done, feeling ridiculous for worrying.

But even now, as I hurry down the hill from his primary school, I can’t quite seem to make the thoughts go away.

When I reach the office, Emma is at her desk, her pretty face smiling up at me.

‘Morning!’ she says, and then a beat later: ‘Good weekend?’

It’s like throwing a switch. I feel my back straighten; I automatically lift my chin up. I smile back at Emma, though my lips still feel numb from the February cold. Arriving at work each morning, it’s like another version of myself that I shift into: my professional role, my competent self. Even my speech comes out a little bit different.

‘Oh yes. It was, thank you,’ I reply. Even though it was just me and Charlie, the way it always is; the way I tend to keep it. Even though nothing happened but my worries. ‘How was yours?’ My tone is polite, clipped.