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Back The Widow Save as PDF
Chapters (92)
  1. Cover
  2. Dedication
  3. PART I
  4. 1
  5. 2
  6. 3
  7. 4
  8. 5
  9. 6
  10. 7
  11. 8
  12. 9
  13. 10
  14. PART II
  15. 11
  16. 12
  17. 13
  18. 14
  19. 15
  20. 16
  21. 17
  22. 18
  23. 19
  24. 20
  25. 21
  26. 22
  27. 23
  28. 24
  29. 25
  30. 26
  31. 27
  32. 28
  33. 29
  34. 30
  35. 31
  36. 32
  37. 33
  38. 34
  39. 35
  40. 36
  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. 49
  54. 50
  55. 51
  56. 52
  57. 53
  58. 54
  59. 55
  60. 56
  61. 57
  62. 58
  63. 59
  64. 60
  65. 61
  66. 62
  67. 63
  68. 64
  69. 65
  70. 66
  71. 67
  72. 68
  73. 69
  74. 70
  75. 71
  76. 72
  77. 73
  78. 74
  79. 75
  80. 76
  81. 77
  82. 78
  83. 79
  84. 80
  85. 81
  86. 82
  87. 83
  88. ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
  89. MORE FROM VALERIE KEOGH
  90. ABOUT THE AUTHOR
  91. The Murder List
  92. About Boldwood Books

Not Allison. Portia and a man. Arm in arm. Their faces wreathed in big, toothy smiles. Both dressed up, she in a flowing, multi-coloured dress, he in a dark suit. They looked well together. Their laughter floated on the air to where she stood, and she felt a moment’s envy for how obviously happy they were.

A night out for two. Leaving one behind. Jo smiled. If she dashed across now, rang the doorbell, or banged on the knocker, Allison would assume her friend had forgotten something and would hurry to open it.

What a surprise she’d get when Jo pushed her way in.

She almost bounced across the road, so sure was she of her success. There was both a doorbell and knocker. She pressed the bell once and waited. She didn’t think Portia would be the impatient type.

Jo was, though, and when the single ring resulted in silence, she rang again. Twice this time. Then she lifted the knocker and rapped it twice. Soon she was pounding the knocker, hammering on the bell, unable to believe her bloody brilliant plan was failing.

62

This time when Allison woke, she knew exactly where she was. She was lying on her side, curled up in the foetal position. She didn’t know why she’d resorted to returning to the womb in her distress. Her mother had rarely offered her comfort or support after birth; Allison doubted she had before.

The after-effects of whatever drug her food had been laced with made her thoughts woolly, her head woozy. She stretched slowly. One aching limb after the other. Even after so many days, her bruises still caused her discomfort. There didn’t seem to be a part of her that didn’t hurt. A sudden spasm sent her rushing to the toilet, where she heaved and shot a gush of undigested food into the bowl.

A wave of weakness kept her there, gripping the edges of the toilet, her face staring into the mess. The stink from it, from her despair, from her bruised body, loosened a hand and sent it trembling for the handle to flush away at least one of her problems.

It was several minutes before she was able to get to her feet and stagger back to the bed. The sheets, both bottom and top, were twisted as if she’d struggled with nightmares during her drugged sojourn. She lay down and wrapped the top sheet around her again.