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Readers LOVE Amanda Brittany

‘I almost stood up to applaud the author’

‘Totally gripping’

‘I had to keep turning the pages – I couldn’t guess the ending, and I had to know!’

‘5 out of 5 stars. A real page turner with a brilliantly executed twist’

‘Yet another 5* thriller from Amanda Brittany’

‘Brittany is a superb writer, highly skilled at keeping you gripped, staying up late to uncover the secrets’

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, walking, reading, and sunny days at the seaside. Her debut novel 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. 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 almost £8,500.

Also by Amanda Brittany

Her Last Lie

Tell the Truth

Traces of Her

I Lie in Wait

Also by Karen Clarke and Amanda Brittany

The Secret Sister

The Perfect Nanny

The Island House

AMANDA BRITTANY

Dedication

For Ruby

Epigraph

Poison hemlock grows wild on Seafield Island. Proud, white flowering plants dance in the light breeze, reaching for the sun, held upright by purple-spotted stems.

Come closer, it calls to unsuspecting victims, giving away nothing of how deadly it is. Pick me.

PART ONE

‘Curiouser and curiouser!’

Lewis Carroll

Chapter 1

May 2017

Jan Walker steps into the inky darkness of the lobby at Flynn House, a musty smell snatching her breath away. She fumbles her phone from the pocket of her leather jacket, flicks on the torch.

‘It’s as though the place is dying,’ James says, coming in behind her.

Jan glances over her shoulder at her assistant in the doorway. ‘Bit dramatic.’ She won’t say she feels it too. She wants this commission. But, truth is, stepping into this sad, dilapidated building, after walking across the beach in the brilliant sunshine, has made her uneasy.

‘I’ve got a bad vibe about this place.’ There’s a tremor in James’s voice. He’s in his mid-twenties, younger than her by ten years. ‘We shouldn’t even be here. Let’s come back another time with the owner.’

It’s true she has yet to be officially invited to view the house. But they were passing through Dunwold, and she wanted to take a look. She swings the torch beam across the hallway. ‘It’s good money,’ she says. ‘I can’t afford to pass this up.’ She lifts the light towards a grand staircase leading to a second floor. A thick, frayed rope hangs from the banister.

‘And that’s not freaky at all,’ James says, not moving from his frozen spot.

Faded gold wallpaper peels from high walls. Cobwebs cling to every surface. The parquet flooring, once beautiful Jan imagines, is scratched, lifting in places, pieces missing, never to be found.

Her gaze glides to a faded framed poster, hanging on a slant. It advertises a performance at The London Palladium. The man in the picture is in his twenties, dressed in a yellow and blue striped jacket, his black hair oiled back from his forehead.

‘Felix Flynn,’ she says, eyes narrowing. The man is holding a ventriloquist puppet, an exact replica of him, right down to the striped jacket, and oiled-back hair. ‘A puppeteer, apparently.’

‘Really not helping.’ James moves across the hallway, reaches her side – so close she senses him shiver.

A rat darts from the shadows, claws scratching the flooring.

‘Jeez!’ Jan’s heart thuds beneath her fingers, as it disappears into the gloom of a far corner. Clearly, James’s nervousness is catching. ‘This place is going to need some makeover.’

There’s no doubting Flynn House in Suffolk was once a grand property, and Jan knows her company can restore it to the stunning Gothic building it once was. But James is right, there’s a foreboding about the place, as though it’s crying out to be left alone to decay.

It was built in the late eighteenth century on Seafield Island and can only be reached along a causeway at certain times of day. If she decides to ignore the silent pleas of the house to be left in peace, and takes on the renovation, she’ll need to take that into account. The hope is to transform the place into a Gothic boutique hotel for visitors looking for something different, but going by the way James’s wide eyes flick over the ground floor, the tenseness of his body language, she knows her team will take some convincing.

‘So nobody’s lived here for years?’

Jan shakes her head. ‘The owner alternates between staying in a cottage on the island and living abroad. Rarely comes to the house.’

They continue to look around the ground floor. A huge room looks out through grubby, cracked windows onto a garden over-run by weeds. The view of the sea is stunning. There’s a downstairs bathroom that could be renovated to accommodate guests, a dining area and a run-down kitchen.

Jan turns. ‘We should look upstairs.’

‘You sure?’

‘Don’t be a wimp, James. There’s nobody here.’ She heads towards the stairs. Takes them two at a time, hears James’s reluctant footfalls behind her.

There are six rooms on the first floor, set off a narrow corridor, the door to each standing ajar. Jan pokes her head round each one in turn. ‘There’s a fair amount of work, but the layout is perfect,’ she says.

She heads up a further set of stairs, taking in two more bedrooms. ‘James?’ she calls.

‘Yep, coming.’ There’s hesitation in his voice, as he climbs the stairs, and follows her along another landing.

‘The attic room,’ he says, looking up a staircase towards a closed door, two brass dogs standing either side – guarding.

‘Mmm …’ Jan shines her torch up at a peeling red door. ‘If we take the house on, we’re to leave it locked. The owner doesn’t want it touched.’

‘Bit odd, don’t you think?’

Jan looks about her, flashing her torch into the shadowy corners, and back up at the door. She places her foot on the first step.

‘What are you doing?’ James says.

She takes another step. The stair splinters and cracks under her weight. She stumbles, grabs the banister for balance.

‘Are you OK?’

She ignores him, continues. Reaches for the handle as a thud comes from inside the room – the sound of laughter.

‘Someone’s in there,’ she blurts in a half-whisper. She turns, hurries back down the stairs, heart racing. ‘We should go.’ She swings back, looks up at the door once more. ‘Did you hear that?’

James’s eyes are wide, full of fear. ‘I didn’t hear anything.’

They race down the hallway, away from the attic room. ‘I’m sure it’s just the old building stirring,’ she says.

But she knows what she heard.

They are not alone in Flynn House, and the sooner they leave the better. They won’t be back.

Chapter 2

January 2019

Alice

A woman in her late thirties steps into the shop. A slightly older man, putting Alice in mind of a spectacled Gary Barlow, follows.

‘Miss Hadley?’ the woman says. ‘Miss Alice Hadley?’

Alice nods from where she’s sitting behind the antique counter in the corner. She can tell they are police. No uniform, but a calm confidence. Shadows beneath their eyes that tell of overwork and lack of sleep. She takes a deep breath, steeling herself for bad news, a heavy feeling, as though a bag of rocks is pressing against her chest, consuming her.

‘Your neighbour said we might find you here.’ The woman glances about her, studying the shelves full of sculptures.

Alice’s father bought her ‘Alice’s Sculptures in Wonderland’ three years ago, with the royalties from his debut novel Where Doves Fly. A Victorian building on a cobbled path a hundred yards from the sea, nestled between a bookstore and a jewellery shop selling pieces made from the gemstone Whitby jet.

‘I’m Detective Sergeant Barnum,’ the woman goes on, showing Alice her badge, eyes now on her. A weak smile appears on her lips then vanishes. ‘This is Detective Constable Marsh.’

A prickle of fear touches Alice’s neck. Her knees bounce, hitting the desk – tap, tap, tap. ‘Has something happened?’ Of course something’s happened. Two officers wouldn’t track her down, turn up with faces like grim reapers, to tell her she’s won the lottery. She lifts her ankle-length cardigan from the back of the chair, wraps it round her shoulders like a comfort blanket.

DC Marsh turns the sign on the door from open to closed. ‘Is there someone we can call to come and be with you?’

Alice shakes her head. Please don’t say what you’ve come to say.

‘There’s been an incident in Sparrow Lane, Miss Hadley.’ DS Barnum steps closer. ‘Your father has been in a hit and run, and I’m afraid—’

‘What about Henry?’ Alice is stalling. She knows once the officer says the words – your father is dead – it can never be unsaid. It would be true. No return ticket. She will have lost him forever, her amazing reclusive father. She will have lost her best friend.

‘Henry?’ DC Marsh furrows his forehead.

‘Dad’s dog – did you find him? Is Henry OK? Dad never goes out without him.’ She’s talking too fast, on her feet now, pacing three steps across the shop, three steps back, her throat drying as she speaks.

DC Marsh turns to look at the DS, moves closer. ‘There was no dog, as far as we know.’

‘Dad never goes out without Henry.’ Her heart kicks against her rib cage. She knows she’s being ridiculous – hysteria rising. ‘Are you sure it’s my dad?’

‘Miss Hadley—’

‘Alice.’ She squeezes her hands into fists. ‘Call me Alice.’

‘Alice. We are sure the man in the incident is your father. He had his wallet on him.’ The DC pauses for a moment. ‘Your father didn’t survive the hit and run, Alice. I’m so sorry.’

‘I need to call Leon.’ Her voice cracks, and tears fill her eyes, as she rummages in her bag, and pulls out her phone. But as she stares at the screen, she knows she can’t call him. It wouldn’t be fair. They’ve been broken up for three months. Yes, she’s seen him a few times since, as friends, but it wouldn’t be right turning to him. It wouldn’t be fair.

The officers look at each other, and back at Alice. ‘Can we call Leon for you?’ DS Barnum says.

‘No. No.’ She shoves the phone back in her bag. ‘I should probably close the shop.’ She’s bewildered, her voice a whisper. ‘Check on Henry.’

‘Of course. Can we drop you off?’

‘I’d rather walk.’ She wipes her sleeve across her eyes. ‘Try to make sense of this.’

‘We will need you to come to the station at some point, just a few questions about when you last saw your father, that kind of thing.’

‘Yes. Yes. Of course.’ She shrugs the cardigan from her shoulders, and it falls to the floor in a heap, before she grabs her coat from the hook on the wall. She slips it on, flicks her hair from the collar. Pulls on a woolly hat.

‘And … we’ll need someone to give us a formal identification,’ DS Barnum says, following her through the door. ‘Not right now, of course. Tomorrow. If you’re up to it.’

‘OK.’ She sniffs. ‘I’d better get to Butterfly Cottage—’

‘Your father’s house?’ DC Marsh says, joining them outside.

Alice nods, in a daze, fumbles with the key as she attempts to lock the door. ‘I need to make sure Henry’s OK. He’ll wonder where Dad is. He’s always at home, you see. Dad, I mean. He rarely goes … went out … Dad, not Henry. Though Henry only goes … went out with Dad. Sorry.’ The words feel jumbled, messy, catching in her throat, anxiety rising in her chest.

‘Will you be OK, Alice?’

‘I’m fine. Honestly.’ But she’s far from it, and knows if she doesn’t move away soon she’ll break. Fall apart. Sob until there are no more tears left to cry.

‘We’re sorry for your loss,’ DS Barnum says. It sounds heartfelt. ‘I can’t begin to imagine how hard this must be for you. Please accept our condolences.’

Alice doesn’t respond – she can’t, her throat has closed. She heads away, into the freezing air. It snowed earlier, and although it disappeared as quickly as it came, the wind is icy, stinging her cheeks. Tears rise inside her, begging to be released. So this is grief.

*

Alice opens the front door to her father’s rambling old property on the outskirts of Whitby. At the sight of her, Henry wags his silky brown tail, slowly pads over, and looks up with sad, dark eyes. It’s as though he knows already that his master won’t be back.

‘Oh, my lovely boy.’ Alice drops to her knees onto the parquet flooring, and hugs the Labrador’s thick neck. ‘Why weren’t you out with Dad, Henry?’ Tears stream down her face. A sob catches in her throat. ‘Where was he going without you?’

*

‘Dad?’ Alice whispers into the darkness, seeing the outline of her father sitting on the edge of her bed, his head in his hands.

‘Promise me you’ll never go back,’ he says, lifting his head, turning to look her way. And then he’s gone.

‘No! Stay! Please.’

Alice’s eyes shoot open, her heart thudding as she scans the dimly lit bedroom, the fluorescent green numbers on the clock telling her it’s 5 a.m. She hauls herself up against the headboard, wipes away tears from her cheeks.

All her life she has suffered from recurring, bizarre nightmares of being pulled towards a Gothic house near the sea by an unknown force. Alone, she would always take the stairs towards a red door at the top of the house, reach for the handle. Always waking, sobbing, before she could see what was on the other side of the door. But this dream about her father was the most vivid she has ever experienced. It was as though he visited her from the grave to warn her.

Warn her about what?

She closes her eyes, searching her thoughts. She has always felt as though a part of her is missing, something lurking in the background that she has never been able to make sense of. She tried talking to her father about it many times – begging him to tell her more about who her mother was, what she was like, about their life before they came to Whitby – but he always shut her off, even got angry on occasions. In the end she stopped trying. Didn’t want to upset him. Or was it more than that? Maybe she’d backed down, too afraid to learn the truth.

She forces herself out of bed, grabs her dressing gown, and makes her way downstairs.

‘Here you go, boy,’ Alice says, placing Henry’s food in front of him, her face contorting with tears. He sniffs it and returns to his basket. ‘You should eat, sweetheart.’ But she knows how he feels. She can’t face breakfast either.

She makes a mug of coffee, lets Henry out into the tangled, frosty garden, before turning on her laptop. Everything about today feels slow, sluggish, as though she’s entered another dimension.

It doesn’t take many clicks on her keyboard to find the news of her father’s death and his true identity has broken. Everyone seems to know now that E. H. Membrose – reclusive millionaire and bestselling author of Where Doves Fly and Raging Fires – was her father – Adam Hadley. It appears to be the most exciting news to break in the literary industry since Robert Galbraith turned out to be J.K. Rowling.

Alice covers her mouth, trying to take in what she’s reading – seeing. Her father’s face is all over the internet; journalists excited – the secret author’s outing seeming on a par with discovering Lord Lucan’s whereabouts, or Jack the Ripper’s true identity.

Her dad’s eyes – one green, one blue – stare out at her from her laptop screen. Every media giant is running the story; #membrose and #secretauthor are trending on Twitter.

‘Oh God,’ she whispers, her heart thudding as she notices reams of messages on her phone. She grabs a tissue, dabs her face.

A newspaper clatters through the front door. She gets to her feet, makes her way into the hall. The front page covers the same news. Her father’s dark collar-length hair with just a sprinkling of grey, his sharp nose that reminded Alice of a ski slope, his chiselled jawline, his unusual eyes all now belong to the world. There are photos of her too. Recent ones of her walking through Whitby yesterday, her blonde hair poking out of the bottom of her woolly hat, her blue eyes bloodshot, cheeks blotchy. Everything her father hid for so long is on display – including her.

Alice returns to the kitchen, throws the newspaper on the worktop, buries her head in her hands and sobs.

So this is grief.

Chapter 3

February 2019

Alice

Alice has done little since her father died; even her shop remains closed. But she’s read that the funeral will help the healing process – that she might be able to start moving forward after today.

She sits in the lounge at Butterfly Cottage waiting for the cars to arrive. Tears are there, unsteady behind her eyes, but she can’t afford to cry. If she starts, she will never stop.

Her speech is folded next to her tissues in her black bag. She took ages preparing it – trying to find the right words to describe her father – her relationship with him. She hadn’t realised, until she tried to form those words, how dependent on him she’d been over the years. How desperately lonely she is now.

He would have hated all this fuss. Her getting up in front of strangers and talking about him would have been his worst nightmare. In fact he once said, ‘Alice, if you ever find me slumped over my desk – dead – tell no one. Just bury me in the back garden, then carry on with whatever you were doing when you entered the room.’

‘Are you planning on dying any time soon?’ she said, matching his teasing smile. ‘Because if you are I’ll need to buy a black dress, and a decent spade from B&Q to clear away the weeds and nettles and dig a hole.’

That was six months ago. At the time, Adam Hadley was a healthy man in his early fifties, considering his only exercise was walking Henry, and the fact he drank far too much red wine. His writing fuel, he called it. So, with recent events, it crosses Alice’s imaginative mind that perhaps he sensed, even knew, he wasn’t long for this world.

The doorbell chimes. Henry barks, startling Alice from her thoughts. She isn’t expecting anyone. Wants to arrive at the funeral alone.

She rises, pushing down a brief hope that it might be Leon. She has spoken to her ex a few times over the past few weeks. He said he was there for her, should she need him. She does need him, but has convinced herself that it’s the grief pushing her towards him. It wouldn’t be fair to use Leon as her support. He can’t be her shoulder to cry on. They want different things from life. He wants marriage, children. She could never see herself as a mother, and has serious commitment issues. He will be at the funeral though. He liked her dad. And she’s grateful for that.

She peers through the side window. Tegan Matthews stands on the doorstep. A stunning-looking woman, with tight black curls springing from her head in all directions, and cheekbones that could slice your fingers off. She’s tall and strong – does kickboxing and wall climbing – and at thirty – the same age as Alice – she’s a leading literary agent with her own company, all due to spotting Alice’s father’s talent five years ago.

Alice doesn’t want or need her here. But she can’t hide. The cars are due soon. She takes a deep breath and opens the door. Ice-cold air wafts into the hall.

‘How are you, sweetie?’ Tegan removes her dark sunglasses to reveal red eyes. ‘I thought you might need someone with you today.’ She tilts her head. ‘But I can go if—’

‘No, no it’s fine.’ She gestures for Tegan to enter the antique-filled hallway, and as Tegan steps in, Henry lumbers over, sniffs the woman’s crotch, looks up at her, tail down.

Tegan grips the dresser next to her, her feet shuffling across the floor, away from the dog. ‘He knows I’m not a fan,’ she says through a tense smile. ‘I was attacked by a dog as a child.’

Alice has heard this story before.

‘I can never quite relax around the creatures, though I’m sure Henry is a dear.’ She pauses, watching as the dog ambles back into the lounge and flops on his bed. ‘Anyway, how are you holding up, lovely?’ She touches Alice’s arm with the tips of her manicured fingers.

‘I’m just about OK.’ The words come out fractured. She is far from OK. ‘I’ll be glad when today is over.’

They move into the lounge, and stand together, looking out of the window, waiting for the cars; Alice lost in thought, imagining going through her father’s things in the subsequent weeks, months, his dusty shelves crammed with books, his drawers full of part-written manuscripts. She’s dreading it, wonders if she’ll ever be up for the task.

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