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Back The Family Next Door Save as PDF
Chapters (117)
  1. Also by
  2. Title Page
  3. Copyright Page
  4. Epigraph
  5. PROLOGUE
  6. 1
  7. 2
  8. 3
  9. 4
  10. 5
  11. 6
  12. 7
  13. 8
  14. 9
  15. 10
  16. 11
  17. 12
  18. 13
  19. 14
  20. 15
  21. 16
  22. 17
  23. 18
  24. 19
  25. 20
  26. 21
  27. 22
  28. 23
  29. 24
  30. 25
  31. 26
  32. 27
  33. 28
  34. 29
  35. 30
  36. 31
  37. 32
  38. 33
  39. 34
  40. 35
  41. 36
  42. 37
  43. 38
  44. 39
  45. 40
  46. 41
  47. 42
  48. 43
  49. 44
  50. 45
  51. 46
  52. 47
  53. 48
  54. 49
  55. 50
  56. 51
  57. 52
  58. 53
  59. 54
  60. 55
  61. 56
  62. 57
  63. 58
  64. 59
  65. 60
  66. 61
  67. 62
  68. 63
  69. 64
  70. 65
  71. 66
  72. 67
  73. 68
  74. 69
  75. 70
  76. 71
  77. 72
  78. 73
  79. 74
  80. 75
  81. 76
  82. 77
  83. 78
  84. 79
  85. 80
  86. 81
  87. 82
  88. 83
  89. 84
  90. 85
  91. 86
  92. 87
  93. 88
  94. 89
  95. 90
  96. 91
  97. 92
  98. 93
  99. 94
  100. 95
  101. 96
  102. 97
  103. 98
  104. 99
  105. 100
  106. 101
  107. 102
  108. 103
  109. 104
  110. 105
  111. 106
  112. 107
  113. 108
  114. 109
  115. 110
  116. Teaser chapter
  117. ABOUT THE AUTHOR

He was frank and honest, told her everything. “We can start again, Dessie,” he’d said, and touched her hand, offered up a hopeful smile. She had smiled back and nodded, let him think that she’d believed him.

His breathing was slow and steady, the rhythm of untroubled sleep. Who was the vulnerable one now? She gazed at the Cupid’s bow of his lip, the stubble shadowing his chin and felt—nothing. When he began to snore, she slipped from their bedroom.

His work bag was in the hallway. She’d never had a reason to go through it before, would never have intruded on his privacy in that way, but this was a necessary evil.

She unzipped it.

A weakness in her legs.

Boxes and bottles. Dozens of them. Phenobarbital. Diazepam. Zolpidem. She’d had enough celebrity clients to recognize sedatives when she saw them. Fletcher must have stolen them from work. A thought—traitorous but resonant—popped into her head. The bodies in the woods. No visible signs of injury.

Her mouth was dust.

She knelt down, rummaging through the medications and tossing them aside, desperate now to find what she was looking for.

And there it was. At the bottom of his bag. The rectangle of his digital camera. In her hands, it flickered into life.

She scrolled through the pictures, dozens of images of cloud formations, each of them filled with a kind of mystery. A halo around the eye of the sun. The bruising of a storm. A belt of trees silhouetted against a mackerel sky. For one, glorious moment, relief sluiced through her. She had been mistaken.

And then the landscape changed.

Sky became skin. The branches became arms and legs. Hundreds and hundreds of pictures. Of her, asleep or lying in the bath. Of women she did not recognize and who did not know they were being photographed. Some blurry, some in sharp, precise focus. All unguarded. The intimacy floored her.

They were time-stamped. Three months ago. Last week. On Sunday.

Several photographs of the neighbors who had just moved in across the road. The teenage daughter. The woman who was now missing.

A drum began to beat in her head. Where had he been all evening?

Dessie put her thumb to her mouth, tore at the nail until it was ragged and sore. She huddled against the wall and tucked her knees up under her chin. She was trembling, despite the suffocating heat.

She scrolled through the pictures again and the fire that had been smoldering in her belly since she’d discovered the lies about his past blazed into life, the flames leaping high. Her anger was the petrol, fueling it.

On the telephone table was the card of the female officer who had knocked on the door yesterday. Dessie registered it was late, but she did not much care about the time. All she knew was that she needed to contact the police.

78

78

Wednesday 1st August 2018, 2:40 A.M.