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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

“A house – and a secret. A teenage girl and a murder.” Helen hesitated. “I don’t know. It’s still vague at this stage.”

“Sounds intriguing. We can push the deadline out. I’ll talk to the publisher, get you some more time. I think it might be worth it.” Sharon paused again. “Look, truth time. Sales are down; reviews haven’t been great. It’s like…”

“Say it, Sharon.”

“The publisher thinks you need to change things up a bit. The formula is getting a bit… stale. So if this new idea has legs, then run with it. Get some new chapters over to me and we can take it from there.”

She’d said it. Stale. That summed everything up. The shop was stale. The books were stale. Helen was stale.

“I’m not trying to hurt your feelings here, Helen. I’m on your side. I still think you are great at what you do. We just need to change it up a bit, that’s all. Have a think, do some planning and call me later, ok?”

Helen sighed and shifted her weight. The chair groaned again, as if in agreement with Sharon. “Ok, I will.”

Helen ended the call and sat in the silence. Her writing room was at the very top of the house in the attic. It was a turret-shaped room tucked into the eaves, only accessible by a rickety staircase attached to a trapdoor in the furthest corner of the house, which had to be pulled down from the ceiling by a long pole. It was dark and musty, with a steeply pointed roof and very little natural light coming in from one small window set high into the turret. Helen could just make out the sea in the distance if she stretched up onto her toes and strained her neck. Today it was a swirling, endless greyness, choppy and angry.

Boxes were piled precariously along one curved wall, creating deep shadows, and the wall lights were a hazy yellow under old, fringed lampshades that offered no useful illumination. This wasn’t a glamourous writing space, but it was all hers. She had commandeered the attic as a child when she had needed a place to hide. She didn’t think her parents ever knew she had taken over this space. They never came up here looking for her.