BooksBarbecue
Back The Widow
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

In a city as big as London, there was always another position on a lower rung of the job chain. Her next, a minimum-wage zero-hour contract in the kitchen of an upmarket restaurant, was physically exhausting and mind-numbingly boring. Only by checking her socials every moment she could did she get through each horrendously long, spirit-stealing day. Facebook, Instagram, Pinterest… every bloody place she could go to escape from reality.

Less money required her to work more hours, the searing constant weariness grinding her down and escalating her need for escape into the parallel universe of social media. She took more risks, found hiding places in the storeroom, behind shelves, in the staff toilet, any-bloody-where to whip out her phone and scroll through the images and respond to posts.

The job lasted a week. The restaurant manager didn’t bother being polite. ‘Get your bag and coat and get the fuck out of here.’ A fistful of cash shoved into Jo’s chest nearly knocked her off her feet. She’d liked to have been able to tell him to stuff his money and his crappy job, to have had the freedom to be that stupidly careless.

One day, not then, when the rent on her tiny studio apartment in Bermondsey was due.

One day, though… she had plans.

24

As she hid under the duvet, an acrid, nose-crinkling stink of smoke made her gag then choke, her eyes burn and water. Lost in her own nightmare, she heard the stomach-churning scream of terror and agony… was it her or someone else?

As she dropped to the floor, gasping for breath, there were more shrieks, ones that begged for help, for rescue, ones that grew shriller and more desperate before stopping suddenly.

And through it all was the smell. Thick, throat-choking, eye-burning. Smoke… stinking of burning wood and furniture, of the gauzy, grimy curtains that did nothing to keep the light out or heat in yet burnt so readily, of the cheap nylon carpet that allowed the flames to lick along the floor.

A stink that grew worse… nauseatingly, skin-crawlingly worse… a smell recognised from summer barbeques drifting across the wall from neighbours’ gardens.

The smell of roasted meat.

25