I couldn’t stand to have any of us, wounded and damaged as we were, dance attendance on him when he had caused us so much pain. I knew we never had a chance of getting justice for his crimes, but I could make sure it was over. Really over. For us all.

I think I was in a haze when I did it. If I hadn’t been, maybe I’d have seen that stupid diary. Taken it with me, made sure no one ever read those words. But you see, I really didn’t plan it. I just popped my head around the door to his room and saw him sleeping there, like a baby. Without a care in the world. Sure that he would be protected in this life and the next – that his reputation would remain unsullied while he had destroyed three lives.

That’s when I lifted the pillow.

If you enjoyed The Liar’s Daughter, you’ll LOVE The Nurse, Claire Allan’s next gripping read. Turn over for a sneak peek …

Prologue

The petal drifts to the cold stone floor, its landing cushioned by its brothers and sisters already discarded as the game creeps towards its climax. The ending changes with each petal. She loves me. She loves me not. She lives. She dies.

He can hear her move around in the bathroom upstairs. Can hear the floorboards creak under her step. The pipes rattle and fizz to life as she turns on the taps over the sink.

She thinks it has been a good night. He’s sure of it. He has cooked them dinner of fillet steak, served with potatoes dauphinoise, green beans and seared asparagus. He thanks God for M&S and their idiot-proof ready-prepared dishes. He’d opened a bottle of Châteauneuf-du-Pape. He doesn’t consider himself a wine connoisseur, but it had cost more than £20 so it must be a good one. It is more than she deserves, but he has to play the game properly.

The goal, he knows, is fear. And fear is always most pronounced when it comes as a surprise. When it comes at a moment when his pawn is relaxed. Happy. Hopeful.

There is no rush like seeing realisation dawn on the face of his prey. When they realise they aren’t invincible. That they aren’t as safe as they thought they were.

But it all depends on the petals. Once he sets the rules, he abides by them. He plucks one more petal, tries not to guess how many more are left. Patience, he thinks. The moment is sweeter for the wait.

A floorboard creaks overhead and his eyes glance upwards. She has been gone a while now and he’s starting to get antsy. The adrenaline is already pumping in his veins, making him jittery. The fight-or-flight reflex is primed and ready to go. He thinks, if the petals dictate it, it will be a fight this time. She strikes him as a fighter.

The pipes stop rattling and if he’s not sure, and if he listens really intently, he thinks he might hear her talk. It throws him for a moment until he looks across at the empty chair opposite him. The bag that she had hung on the back of it – the bag which contains her phone. No. No, she isn’t supposed to do that. That breaks the rules. When they are together, he expects her full attention. It’s a matter of manners. Of respect.