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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

One of her neighbours would open the bag, find Peter’s name and go through the current list of occupants to find a connection. Of course, they wouldn’t find any and since her neighbours were far more law-abiding than she, they’d be forced to get rid of the rubbish themselves. It saved Jo the walk down to the refuse shed behind the apartment block.

Restless, she tossed the cushions off the sofa bed and unfolded it. She wasn’t tired and lay with her hands behind her head, thinking.

Her plan to befriend Allison had hit a problem. It was becoming clear she didn’t much like Jo. She wasn’t sure why – she’d gone to so much trouble to ensure they had things in common. All lies, of course; it was too soon to share what they really did have in common. It wasn’t necessary that they be friends, not really, but it suddenly seemed an important step.

Allison didn’t want her as a friend and with this woman – this Portia – she didn’t need her either. The only solution was to get rid of Portia, but first Jo needed to find her. Without a surname, it was going to be hard, but not impossible. She would simply hang around outside Allison’s house until an unknown woman turned up and follow her. It wasn’t as if Jo had anything better to do.

Luckily, there was no hurry. With her husband’s death under investigation, Allison would be forced to stay put for a while. Jo’s plan for her was vague, revenge a concept rather than a predetermined pathway.

Throwing back the bedcovers, she got to her feet and crossed the room to the bathroom door. She didn’t bother switching the light on. There were no curtains on the windows of her tiny bedsit. There had been, of course, the place advertised as being fully furnished. But the curtains, with their black-out lining, made the tiny space not just smaller but claustrophobic. They were rolled up and shoved to the back of one of the kitchen cupboards.

It meant the bedsit was never dark; light streamed in from neon signs, street lamps, oozed from the other apartments that crowded around hers. With the bathroom door open wide, there was sufficient illumination for Jo to see her reflection in the small, toothpaste-spotted mirror hanging over the wash handbasin. A soft-focus version of her. Perhaps the woman she would have been if it hadn’t been for Allison.