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Back The Scarlet Dress Save as PDF
Chapters (84)
  1. Dedication
  2. Prologue
  3. 1
  4. 2
  5. 3
  6. 4
  7. 5
  8. 6
  9. 7
  10. 8
  11. 9
  12. 10
  13. 11
  14. 12
  15. 13
  16. 14
  17. 15
  18. 16
  19. 17
  20. 18
  21. 19
  22. 20
  23. Friday
  24. 21
  25. 22
  26. 23
  27. 24
  28. 25
  29. 26
  30. 27
  31. 28
  32. 29
  33. 30
  34. 31
  35. 32
  36. 33
  37. 34
  38. 35
  39. 36
  40. Saturday
  41. 37
  42. 38
  43. 39
  44. 40
  45. 41
  46. 42
  47. 43
  48. 44
  49. 45
  50. 46
  51. 47
  52. 48
  53. Sunday
  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. One Week Later
  77. 71
  78. Afterwards
  79. 72
  80. Acknowledgments
  81. Reading Group Questions
  82. More from Louise Douglas
  83. About the Author
  84. About Boldwood Books

Gabriel was still talking, but Marnie was no longer listening. Behind him, Alice was smiling, waving at Marnie and Marnie couldn’t wave back because she was carrying a plastic laundry basket full of Alice’s clothes. The heat that day was intense, the sun beating down, shining on the sequins sewn onto the scarlet dress that was folded on top of the laundry, and it was a day in late August, almost twenty-five years earlier. Marnie Morahan, aged ten years and two months was sick, and even though she didn’t know it yet, she was about to betray Alice. And she’d never have the chance to make it up to her, because this was the day that Alice Lang would disappear.

2

Will Jones was the only passenger on the single carriage connection from Bristol Temple Meads to Severn Sands. He sat by the window, jiggling his feet, feeling headachy and raw.

He didn’t want to go back to the town where he’d grown up but he owed it to Alice. He’d once told her he would do anything for her, and he’d meant it. He meant it still. When it came to Alice, he had never had a choice. For two and a half decades he’d been powerless to do anything, but now he had a task: to make sure the man who had killed her was brought to justice.

He stared at his own ghostly reflection staring back at him from the surface of a grimy window, the countryside flattened as it unscrolled behind. Alice was dead. There was no avoiding it now. If he was honest, deep down he’d known she was never coming back, but for as long as there was no concrete proof of her death there could still be a tiny thread of hope that she might return. Until today, he’d allowed himself to daydream, to look for her face amongst the commuters on the underground, to imagine a chance encounter in a restaurant, or a park and to write the script of the exchange that would follow – ‘Alice?’ ‘Will? Oh my God, is it really you?’ – to picture the two of them going forward into a future together. Now that thread had been severed. Alice was dead, gone in the cruellest way: murdered. What was left for Will was an overwhelming desire to make Guy deVillars pay for his crime.

Because Guy had killed Alice.

Will had always suspected; now he knew.