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Back What I Never Told you
Chapters (56)
  1. Cover
  2. Also by Dawn Goodwin
  3. WHAT I NEVER TOLD YOU
  4. Copyright
  5. Contents
  6. Dedication
  7. Prologue
  8. 1
  9. 2
  10. 3
  11. 4
  12. 5
  13. 6
  14. 7
  15. 8
  16. 9
  17. 10
  18. 11
  19. 12
  20. 13
  21. 14
  22. 15
  23. 16
  24. 17
  25. 18
  26. 19
  27. 20
  28. 21
  29. 22
  30. 23
  31. 24
  32. 25
  33. 26
  34. 27
  35. 28
  36. 29
  37. 30
  38. 31
  39. 32
  40. 33
  41. 34
  42. 35
  43. 36
  44. 37
  45. 38
  46. 39
  47. 40
  48. 41
  49. 42
  50. 43
  51. 44
  52. 45
  53. 46
  54. Acknowledgements
  55. About the Author
  56. An Invitation from the Publisher

What was on it? And why tuck it under his pillow? Or was it just another symptom of a lazy teenager? If she could just figure out his password, she could see…

No. He was her stepson and she should trust him.

*

The shop was quiet as usual. The tourist foot traffic of the summer months had dissolved away. The shop always experienced a downturn over the winter, but Helen was reluctant to sell up. Apart from her writing attic at the top of the house, this space was her sanctuary. She had opened it when she returned to the village as a single mum after her parents’ death, using some of her inheritance to buy the property because she had needed something to fill her days, something she could do with a small baby in tow, and the shop provided that. It was somewhere quiet that didn’t need too much thought, where Mills could toddle between the bookshelves and play in the corner. Now Mills was as much a lover of books as Helen was. She was never without either a book or her phone in her hand.

On the table by the window was a display of Helen’s own books, although only a few people knew about that side of her because she wrote under a pseudonym. Anonymity suited her.

A scented candle burned on the desk by the register, filling the air with vanilla and coconut, reminding her of Bounty chocolate bars, pina coladas and summer holidays. Her stomach felt empty. She pulled the bottom drawer of the desk open with the toe of her shoe, exposing her stash of biscuits, crisps, pretzels and chocolate, ready to fill the void, to push back the emptiness that sometimes made her feel so hollow and cavernous. There were two customers in the shop though, so now was not the time for snacking. She nudged the drawer closed again reluctantly.

A woman of about Helen’s age was poring over the shelves while nudging a toddler in a pushchair, occasionally bumping into tables and muttering apologies as books toppled. Helen recognised her as the woman who rented one of the cottages further up the coastal path. Helen would often bump into her walking her dog with her toddler in tow. She was also heavily pregnant, but Helen had never seen a partner around. Ambitious for a woman in her forties, but then Helen wasn’t one to judge other people’s choices when it came to parenting. Today the woman was looking at birthing books while feeding raisins to the toddler. Helen couldn’t remember her name, but thought she remembered there being a story there, something she had overheard at the book club she hosted in the shop about how the woman had moved here on her own not too long ago. Rumours of a dead husband maybe and something to do with the child not being hers.