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Chapters (70)
  1. Title Page
  2. Contents
  3. Copyright
  4. Praise for Caroline Mitchell
  5. Also by Caroline Mitchell
  6. Dedication
  7. Epigraph
  8. Prologue
  9. 1
  10. 2
  11. 3
  12. 4
  13. 5
  14. 6
  15. 7
  16. 8
  17. 9
  18. 10
  19. 11
  20. 12
  21. 13
  22. 14
  23. 15
  24. 16
  25. 17
  26. 18
  27. 19
  28. 20
  29. 21
  30. 22
  31. 23
  32. 24
  33. 25
  34. 26
  35. 27
  36. 28
  37. 29
  38. 30
  39. 31
  40. 32
  41. 33
  42. 34
  43. 35
  44. 36
  45. 37
  46. 38
  47. 39
  48. 40
  49. 41
  50. 42
  51. 43
  52. 44
  53. 45
  54. 46
  55. 47
  56. 48
  57. 49
  58. 50
  59. 51
  60. 52
  61. 53
  62. 54
  63. 55
  64. 56
  65. 57
  66. 58
  67. Epilogue
  68. Acknowledgements
  69. About Caroline Mitchell
  70. About Embla Books

Sarah shook her head in disgust. He had come to protect his investment. The councillor was in his pocket, that much was evident. But what had he meant about Blackhall? Was it the bad publicity of the murders he was trying to avoid, or was there something more? Do I need to remind you what’s at stake? Had his visit been motivated by greed? What about Angelica? Her funeral hadn’t even taken place yet. A pair of squeaky shoes echoed as a caretaker walked purposefully down the hall. Darting into the girls’ toilets, Sarah’s thoughts went into overdrive. She knew better than anyone that people reacted differently to grief. But something about this set-up felt all wrong.

27

Libby’s breath was quick and panicked as she came to. She didn’t remember the journey which brought her here, and the bag was still over her head – but she recognised the location by the smell clawing at the back of her throat. She was back in Blackhall Manor, in the bowels of the building where the stench was magnified tenfold. She groped in the darkness, feeling a mass of tiny beads on the floor. A whine rose up her throat as she recalled the rat droppings littering the rooms. She was barefoot, bound and in fear for her life. Around her, rotting timbers creaked steadily, as if the house was breathing. She thought of the Sunday school lesson about Jonah, trapped in the belly of a whale. Libby blinked in an attempt to clear her vision. There were no shadows, no dots of light. The room was devoured by darkness. Her throat was scratchy from screaming for help, her face wet with tears and snot. A visceral shudder drove deep into her bones.

She shifted into a sitting position, her back against a wall. She was alive, and she was still in one piece. But for how long? Her heart was galloping in her chest, every instinct screaming at her to escape. A wisp of a sound caught her attention. The echo of a child crying. A reverberation from the past? Blackhall Manor was a place of last breaths – but it was not having hers if she could help it. The back of her head throbbed. She must be concussed.