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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

She switched on the torch of her mobile and crossed to a doorway. It opened quietly into another room. Light drifted in from the street outside to show her a large, well-furnished living room. Thick carpet underfoot deadened her footsteps as she walked around looking for something personal, surprised to find no photographs, no stuff.

Neat freaks.

Another doorway to one side opened into a hallway. She went through, shutting it quietly behind her. The front door she’d hammered on several minutes before seemed to taunt her. She went to it, twisted the catch and pulled it open. Pushing the snib down on the catch, she closed it over. If she had to make a quick getaway, she’d be safe now.

Safer. She turned and looked up the stairway. The house was eerily quiet. Too quiet; it didn’t feel right. An understatement… it felt very wrong. Focusing on why she was there kept her from cutting her losses and fleeing this creepy house. Allison had to be here somewhere. Perhaps she was asleep. Worn out from playing her exhausting role as grieving widow. The sneer carried Jo up the stairs, one step at a time, stopping now and then to listen.

On the first-floor landing, she opened door after door but only one of the four bedrooms showed signs of being used, damp towels in the en suite, a blouse thrown on a chair. The main bathroom, a room as big as her entire bedsit, held none of the paraphernalia that said someone used it.

Returning to the stairway, Jo stared upward, her mouth suddenly dry. The house looked to be a two-storey over garden-level building from the front. This narrower stairway, she guessed, was a later addition. An attic conversion.

At the top, she stopped on a small landing and looked at the only door. There was a key in the lock. The feeling something was wrong had grown stronger. Reaching for the handle, the cold metal grounding her in a suddenly unstable world, she pressed it down and pulled, then pushed. Nothing happened; it was locked. She turned the key and tried again.

This time the door opened.

64

Allison was struggling to shake away the dreams of monsters chasing her. The knocking had stopped a few minutes before and she’d drifted, not to sleep, but to that fuzzy in-between space.

The sound of the key being turned in the lock penetrated her thoughts and sent fear jolting through her. Fear of Portia, of Stuart, or what they had planned for her future. This was her life. Forever. How had Amy escaped? Allison would find a way. Death was preferable.

‘Allison?’

The word was whispered in disbelief.

She opened her eyes then, turned onto her back, wincing as pain shot through her. She looked towards the door, expecting Portia, doing a double-take to see someone else standing there. ‘Jo?’