The Street Party

The Street Party

An unputdownable, gripping domestic psychological thriller

Claire Seeber

Books by Claire Seeber

The Street Party

The Stepmother

24 Hours

Available in Audio

The Stepmother (Available in the UK and the US)

Contents

Prologue

Ruby

Melissa

Ruby

Melissa

Ruby

Melissa

Ruby

Melissa

Ruby

Melissa

Ruby

Melissa

Ruby

Melissa

Ruby

Melissa

Ruby

Nella

Jan: Mum Of The Iced Gems

Ruby

Melissa

Ruby

Ruby

Melissa

Melissa

Nella

Melissa

Ruby

Nella

Ruby

Melissa

Ruby

Melissa

Ruby

Melissa

Ruby

Nella

Ruby

Melissa

Ruby

Melissa

Jan: Mum Of The Iced Gems

Ruby

Nella

Melissa

Ruby

Ruby

Jan: Mum Of The Iced Gems

Melissa

Nella

Melissa

Ruby

Melissa

Ruby

Nella

Ruby

Melissa

Ruby

Melissa

Ruby

Melissa

Ruby

Melissa

Ruby

Melissa

Ruby

Melissa

Nella

Ruby

Melissa

Ruby

Melissa

Nella

Ruby

Melissa

Nella

Melissa

Ruby

The Struggling Mama Blog

Epilogue

The Stepmother

Hear More from Claire

Books by Claire Seeber

A Letter from Claire

24 Hours

Acknowledgements

*

For Nicola Smyth

And in memory of

Louisa Haswell Coles,

Beloved light and laugh much missed.

‘Truth is, everybody is going to hurt you.

You just gotta find the ones worth suffering for.’

Anonymous

‘Every contact leaves a trace.’

Locard’s Exchange Principle

Prologue

RUBY

SUNDAY 1 OCTOBER

Afterwards.

I kept thinking, if only I hadn’t fallen asleep when I’d got home, things would have been completely different.

If I hadn’t been so daft, so tired, so naive.

He would have been OK.

It was always afterwards when things made more sense, by which time it was also always too late.

I should never, ever have left him alone at the Jacksons.

But they’d all worked so hard to persuade me that he was safe.

The minute my eyes had snapped open, lying on my sofa, head in a muddle, I knew there was something different, something about the quality of the stillness in the flat.

In the darkness, I scrabbled on the floor until my fingers closed round the phone. The call went straight to voicemail.

I hauled myself up and searched for the Snapchat app I’d insisted Ali install when she was pulling her disappearing tricks a while back.

‘Got twenty thousand snaps,’ she’d boast to her brother, pouting at her camera.

He’d make a face at me over his cornflakes, and I’d wink back, relieved that, however hard Ali pushed at the boundary, I still had my little boy.

But now he was also counting snaps every day, pushing back.

I pulled up the Snapchat map. Fiendishly bright in the shadows of my living room, West London blinked at me. And I blinked back: my tousle-haired, grey-eyed avatar, grinning like a lunatic. I scrolled over – ah! And there, phew! There was my smiling cartoon son: hovering over—

Northgate Square: Nella’s house. I exhaled unsteadily.

Where he was meant to be.

I jumped as the phone began to vibrate in my hand.

‘Did I wake you?’ said the adult voice on the other end. ‘Sorry!’

Just as friendly as ever. Calmly reassuring: my son was fine with them.