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Back The Marriage Trap: A completely addictive psychological thriller Save as PDF
Chapters (60)
  1. Cover
  2. Books by Sheryl Browne
  3. Dedication
  4. KARLA
  5. One
  6. Two
  7. Three
  8. Four
  9. Five
  10. Six
  11. Seven
  12. Eight
  13. Nine
  14. Ten
  15. Eleven
  16. Twelve
  17. Thirteen
  18. Fourteen
  19. Fifteen
  20. Sixteen
  21. Seventeen
  22. Eighteen
  23. Nineteen
  24. Twenty
  25. Twenty-One
  26. Twenty-Two
  27. Twenty-Three
  28. Twenty-Four
  29. Twenty-Five
  30. Twenty-Six
  31. Twenty-Seven
  32. Twenty-Eight
  33. Twenty-Nine
  34. Thirty
  35. Thirty-One
  36. Thirty-Two
  37. Thirty-Three
  38. Thirty-Four
  39. Thirty-Five
  40. Thirty-Six
  41. Thirty-Seven
  42. Thirty-Eight
  43. Thirty-Nine
  44. Forty
  45. Forty-One
  46. Forty-Two
  47. Forty-Three
  48. Forty-Four
  49. Forty-Five
  50. Forty-Six
  51. Forty-Seven
  52. Forty-Eight
  53. Epilogue
  54. The Affair
  55. Hear more from Sheryl
  56. Books by Sheryl Browne
  57. A Letter from Sheryl
  58. The Babysitter
  59. The Second Wife
  60. Acknowledgements

I’m not sure how much of what the press is accusing him of is true. I’m not sure of anything, other than that it’s not my father I’m here for. I’m here because my mother is not. Perhaps all of this, the clamouring reporters who will undoubtedly dig up the past, is the final straw that’s driven her to do what I never imagined she would. But for her not to have discussed it with me, with all I have happening in my life? For her not to have at least rung me? I don’t understand. She’s left so suddenly, and I need to know why. I need to know where she is.

Shit. I curse silently as my key jams in the lock. They’re still on me, right behind me, still shouting, making my head spin. ‘Think of the victims, Mrs Connolly,’ one of them bellows. ‘How would you feel?’

I don’t know how I feel! I want to turn around and scream. My husband is cheating on me. My father is accused of things I can’t bear to contemplate. My mother’s not here, and I need her. I need something tangible to hold on to, and there’s nothing! How would you feel?

Pulling my key from the lock, I stuff it back in and wiggle it, and finally the front door gives. Stumbling into the hall, I slam the door behind me and stand still for a moment, trying to take stock. It’s quiet. No clangs of baking trays and pans from the kitchen. No radio drifting from inside.

It’s as still as the grave, Sarah whispers.

‘Dad!’ I yell, panic twisting my stomach. ‘Dad! Where are you?’

Gathering my courage, I head down the long hall and through the kitchen towards the utility – and the pulse of tension in my throat tightens. The washing machine is on. Dad doesn’t use the washing machine. He’s never used the washing machine. I’m not sure he knows how to. But it’s not this incomprehensible oddity that causes my heart to palpitate like a trapped bird in my chest. It’s the next load, waiting on the floor in front of the machine. The dark crimson stain on the duvet cover. The spatters of blood on the floor.

‘Mum!’ Whirling around, I retrace my steps. My eyes glued to the floor, I notice a steady trail of rich red droplets – splat, splat, splat – along the hall carpet and continuing on up the stairs. I pause at the foot, my mouth dry, my thoughts a chaotic jumble.

Clutching hold of the banister, I heave myself up and charge to my parents’ room, where I hesitate, and then, terror climbing my chest, I shove the door open – and freeze.