I Know You Lied

by Lesley Sanderson

Genres: Crime Fiction; Psychological Thrillers; Suspense

Synopsis

‘I couldn't put this book down for a second, I completed this book within 3 hours… such a great story and loved all the twists turns and suspense which kept me gripped to the very end. I loved it so much.’ Goodreads reviewer, ⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐

The news of her mother’s death hits Nell as if she’s been shot. The letter must be some kind of prank, but who could be so cruel? Because Nell’s mother died nearly thirty years ago. When Nell was just a tiny baby, her parents died in a car crash, leaving her to be raised by her devoted grandmother, Lilian. So when the lawyer’s letter arrives, informing her of her mother Sarah’s very recent death, it destroys everything Nell thought she knew. Her grandmother loved her, so why did she lie? And why did her mother abandon her? Nell knows she can never recapture the years with her mother that were taken from her, and fears this will haunt her forever. Now she won’t rest until she finds out why she was so cruelly deceived. But her family’s past has been kept secret for a reason, and someone is desperate for it to stay that way. How much danger will Nell risk for the truth? If you loved The Silent Patient , The Secret Mother , and The Wife Between Us, then this addictive thriller about dark family secrets and obsession will have you on the edge of your seat . Readers are loving I Know You Lied : ‘Wow oh wow, what an amazing thriller. This one has you holding your breath the whole time, thrilling, chilling and hard to put down. Had me on a rollercoaster of a ride and I didn't want it to stop.’ Goodreads reviewer, 5 stars ‘ My heart was beating so fast!... Every page, every chapter was a page turner… It was just perfect!… What a Rollercoaster!... Like OMG! ’ Goodreads reviewer, 5 stars ‘[An] absolutely fantastic read… I have devoured this book in just one sitting. ’ Little Miss Book Lover 87, 5 stars ‘ What an absolute corker of a thriller! I was blown away… Jammed to the rafters with twists, turns, betrayal, family lies, jealousy, deception, manipulation and pure evil!... I was completely gripped from start to finish.’ Bookreviewercakemaker, 5 stars ‘ Had me captivated since the first page… [It keeps] you guessing with surprise after surprise… one of my top read books this year.’ Goodreads reviewer, 5 stars ‘[I was] glued to the pages… I loved this book! ’ B for Bookreview, 5 stars ‘ I couldn't put this book down for a second… such a great story… loved all the twists turns and suspense which kept me gripped to the very end… so amazing.’ Goodreads reviewer, 5 stars ‘ A well-written, twisty novel. Another fantastic and compelling thriller by Sanderson.’ The Bandwagon, 5 stars ‘ An excellent mystery… kept me glued to the pages. I can’t recommend the book enough! ’ Goodreads reviewer, 5 stars ‘What an intriguing story this is!… Loved it! ’ Rona Halsall, 5 stars ‘ I screamed, cried, jumped for joy… This book had tons going for it, what a great thriller! ’ Goodreads reviewer ‘ A thrilling story with twists and turns, and a variety of intriguing characters, I couldn't stop reading.’ Goodreads reviewer ‘ Packed with mystery, secrets and lies… Unpredictable and thrilling. Captivating and compelling.’ Charlenejess Blog ‘ Brilliant... A fast paced read with plenty of twists and turns which kept me on the edge of my seat throughout. ’ Goodreads reviewer ‘ I was completely captivated from very start to finish… The book has it all – twists and turns, lies and betrayal, manipulation and obsession.’ Goodreads reviewer

Release date: June 23, 2020

Publisher: Bookouture

Print pages: 232

Sample

It has finally happened.

The letter arrived on Friday the thirteenth. Not usually a significant date for me – I’m not one of those people who pander to superstitious nonsense – but afterwards, when I had calmed down, it made me pause a moment and wonder.

It arrived when I was preparing my morning coffee. Strong, with a dash of cream, just how I like it. My cleaner never did get it quite right, despite so many years of practice. The rattle of the letter box alerted me and I could hear the postman whistling as he walked away from the house. Pain spread through my bones as I bent down to retrieve the letter from the bristly doormat. Did I suspect then that it had happened, the unravelling of events that I had dreaded for years?

The envelope was the beige of letters of import – a bank statement, perhaps, or a bill – but when I turned it over to reveal the familiar name of the solicitors’ firm, unease stirred inside me.

I took a sip of coffee and opened the letter. When I saw the subject matter, I let the scalding liquid run down my throat. I imagined it making its way through my body as the implications of what her death would mean trickled into my mind. No doubt Nell would be reading it too. It would be too much to expect that she wouldn’t be contacted. How could I stop this?

I’d heard that my solicitor had been trying to get in touch with me but had never anticipated this. Over the years it had occurred to me as a possibility, a fleeting one, but I’d trained myself never to allow my thoughts to go in that direction. Think positive, I’d told myself, as I’d told others so many times.

She’d been found in her flat in London, the cause of death as yet to be determined. She was in her fifties, far too young to die, but she’d had a hard life, which was entirely her own doing. Now old secrets that had been so deeply buried would rise to the surface and spill forth, and I had to be prepared to put a stop to it. Whatever it took. I didn’t doubt my capability of resorting to extreme measures, though; after all, I’d already done the worst. What did I have to lose?

It all begins with the letter from the solicitor. Thick beige envelope, expensive, the name of the firm printed on the back: Grayling and Hurst, Solicitors. Nell is mildly curious but leaves it on the table for now, relieved to finally kick off her shoes and enjoy her evening. Takeaway pizza, she’d decided. It’s been a long day, after all, and colder weather is setting in. Melted cheese and a bit of stodge is exactly the comfort food she needs.

It was one of those ordinary days at work, rushing around as she does every day of her life, phone stuck to her ear and inbox bursting with unread emails, trying to get more done than the allotted time would allow and ending the day with her head feeling like it was encased in a too-tight helmet. She enjoys working as an events manager but deep down is starting to wish she could find a less intense career in which to express her creative side.

The innocent remark made by her boss, Stacey, last week – that she should take some leave and go back to the coastal village she grew up in – caught her unawares. Stacey was oohing and aahing about how lovely that must have been and wondering how on earth she ended up in the city. Nell recalls the way her body stiffened. That particular nugget she keeps to herself. She doesn’t go down that route for anyone. She looks around the flat, which is all hers – the walls she lovingly repainted in a cool grey last year, the few but much-coveted items of furniture she’s worked so hard to save for – and smiles to herself. Her life in London, which she’s built from scratch, is what matters now. Her phone buzzes and she knows it will be Hannah, excited about their night out this weekend: a film followed by a meal, where they can pull the movie apart and talk about their week.

She puts the kettle on, sticks a tea bag in her favourite chipped mug and wonders about the solicitor’s letter. She’s pretty confident she hasn’t committed any crimes lately. The one parking ticket she’s received – wrongly in her opinion, but it wasn’t worth the hassle of contesting it – was paid immediately. Her life is like this: a series of imagined scenarios she creates for herself every night before she goes to sleep – alone in her king-size bed since her recent split with Sam – and which mostly bear no relation to what is really happening in her life. Like winning an award for her fantastic flute playing when she’s never even picked up the instrument. A girl can dream, can’t she? A close family would be her wish of choice, as simple and as complicated as that. The less she thinks about her family, the better.

Wrapping her hands around the mug, she goes back to the letter she’s discarded on the sofa, willing it to contain something exciting. She tries to recall the last time she received a letter that wasn’t a bill. Lilian used to tell her of a time when people wrote letters to their friends – long, handwritten, lovingly crafted letters, which, once sent on their way, meant an agonising wait for the postman. Lilian. Her grandmother. She tries not to think about her often, but it’s too late: she’s looming in Nell’s head and her stomach turns over, as if steeling itself for an indigestible meal.

She straightens her back, shoulders down, takes deep breaths and reminds herself who she is, how far she has come.

When Nell last saw her grandmother, she had a mane of tight silver curls, a cloud of steel wool around her head. Nell has that thick hair too, but hers is blonde, with a distinctive silver streak at the front, and her curls are loose, created with a clever implement. Lilian never had time for such frippery.

The mug of tea burns her fingertips and she can’t put it down fast enough. She opens the letter and slides out the contents: one sheet of paper with a gold crest at the top and a single paragraph of writing.

Dear Ms Wetherby,

You are requested to attend the offices of Grayling and Hurst on Friday 4 October at 11 a.m. to discuss the will of Sarah Wetherby, of which you are a beneficiary.

Please confirm that you will be attending.

Yours sincerely,

Jonathan Grayling, solicitor

The news hits Nell as if she’s been shot, and she’s on her feet, breathing hard, knocking the table, which causes tea to spill over her hand. The letter has to be some kind of prank, but who could be so cruel? She reads it through again, and again, but the words are there in black and white: not many of them, but their impact is no less powerful. Her thoughts are racing. What if it’s not a prank? Could it be true? She sits down, then jumps up again as if a puppet master is pulling her strings. Is this the work of her grandmother? Lilian has always made her feel like that, that she must dance to her disagreeable tune. That’s the reason she left home at sixteen.

Rational thought returns. She locates her phone and squints at the address and phone number at the top of the letter. An SW3 postcode, Chelsea: upmarket, very Lilian if she’s right about this having something to do with her grandmother. The name is familiar – yes, she’s convinced these are her grandmother’s solicitors too. She keys in the number.

As she listens to the dial tone, she becomes aware of her hand smarting where she scalded it with tea. Pushing back her sleeve to see how bad it is, she can’t help glimpsing the unsightly mark that has plagued her all her life, deep red and ugly. The mark Grandma said she was born with, though a nurse once told her otherwise. But Grandma was always right and the nurse was young, inexperienced.

She focuses on her tea to calm herself, blows hard to cool it down, a ball of anxiety in her throat. But the woman who answers is softly spoken and kind as she puts her through to Mr Grayling, who explains that yes, indeed, as stated in the letter, she is named in the will of Sarah Wetherby – her mother, he believes – and will she be attending, and Ms Wetherby, are you OK?

Nell is not OK, far from it; how could she ever be OK again, because this person can’t possibly be her mother. Her mother died in an accident when Nell was a baby. This woman has to be an impostor. But the cold finger of fear presses against her heart. If this is true, her grandmother has lied to her her whole life. Why would she behave so cruelly?

She sits for ages as the light dims around her and night falls outside, the words going round and round in her head. When she finally managed to speak and stop the solicitor from hanging up, convinced either that he was dealing with an imbecile or that the line had gone dead, she swallowed the boulder in her throat and asked him to tell her what had happened to her mother.

Sarah Wetherby had died alone, impoverished and undernourished, in the one-bedroom flat she’d lived in since her arrival in London twenty-six years ago. Nell sank to the floor then and listened, trying not to let her pain spill out. She wanted to wail and sob and rage but held it all inside her like a tight ball of string.

‘Are you all right?’ Mr Grayling asked, and part of her wanted to let the truth pour out, but it was too improbable a tale to tell and in that moment she could scarcely believe it herself.

When the solicitor was no longer on the phone and had gone back to his day, which was much the same as any other day of his life, Nell went back to hers, which is forever changed. Her gut tells her this is her mother. A cold hand squeezes her heart. Her mother has been living in the same city as her this whole time, desperate for help, and Nell had no idea. Did she know her daughter was here? Or was the truth kept from her too? Why did she never try and find Nell, and why did she leave in the first place?

The tea is cold when she comes back to life, lifting her head and gazing into the murky brown liquid. She goes out onto her balcony and inhales the cold evening air. It revives her, and anger burns through her. Pigeons gather on the adjacent rooftops, heads bobbing as they scavenge for food. Nell’s eyes scan the London skyline. The answers aren’t to be found there, or anywhere else in this sprawling city. The answers lie back in Seahurst, and she knows who holds them. Her grandmother. It is Lilian Wetherby who has done this to her.

She closes the balcony door behind her, shivering, and reads through the letter once more. The meeting is tomorrow morning. She’s too emotional to call her manager and sends her a text instead. Thankfully tomorrow is Friday, which means she’ll have the head space to get herself together over the weekend. Already stress is mounting up as she does a mental run-through of all the tasks she’d planned to do tomorrow. Ironic that only hours earlier she was thinking of all that leave she should be taking, but working as an events manager means there is always a project on the go, so it’s hard to leave things behind, and she never trusts anyone to do things as well as she would. If nothing else, her grandmother taught her to be self-sufficient.

She spends an hour cancelling appointments and dealing with urgent emails, and it keeps her focused. Tomorrow she will write a new list. But as the evening draws on and her eyes grow heavy, the night ahead looms like an ominous shadow. Business concluded, she pours herself a large glass of red wine, puts some music on and thinks about her mother, this woman who up until today she knew nothing about.

‘You must be Ms Wetherby.’ The tall man in an immaculate grey suit steps out from behind his desk to shake her hand. Thick dark hair peppered with grey and expressive eyebrows over blue eyes. He’s around fifty, his handshake is firm and Nell senses she is in capable hands. Her anxiety lessens slightly. ‘Jonathan Grayling. Welcome to Grayling and Hurst. May I get you tea, coffee, a glass of water?’

‘Water, please,’ she says. ‘And please, call me Nell.’

She has spent the last hour sitting in the café across the road, a bitter cup of coffee growing cold in front of her. She’s made a note of all the questions she needs to ask. She wonders whether anyone else will be attending, is preparing herself just in case.

Mr Grayling slides a coffee pod into a sleek-looking Nespresso machine and Nell tries to relax, inhaling the smell of coffee that permeates the room. His offices are in an old building and his room is large and airy, with big windows looking out over a park. His desk is neat and polished, with one of those executive toys where you flick a ball to make the others move. A terrible urge to tap it overtakes Nell and she holds the water glass tight to stop herself from reacting inappropriately.

Jonathan Grayling takes a file from his in tray and opens it. ‘The last will and testament of Sarah Wetherby.’ He looks over his glasses at her.

‘Are you expecting anyone else?’ She holds her breath as she waits for his answer.

‘No,’ he says. ‘Before we start…’ He takes off his glasses, and his eyes are kind. ‘Obviously I know a little about this case, being your grandmother’s solicitor. Had you been estranged from your mother for a long time?’

Nell gazes out of the window, her smile ironic. ‘You could say that. I was told when I was young that my mother died in a car accident.’

‘Goodness,’ he says. ‘Who told you that – if you don’t mind talking about it, that is?’

‘No, it’s a relief really. My grandmother brought me up.’

‘That would be…’ He refers to his notes. ‘Lilian Wetherby. She was down as Sarah’s next of kin. I tried to contact her but she didn’t respond to my letter.’

‘We’re estranged. Not completely; we have minimum contact where necessary.’

Memories of the last contact floods into her head. The obligatory Christmas card, one word inside – Lilian – a word with a thousand meanings. ‘I left home when I was sixteen and moved to London. My grandmother smothered me. We lived in Seahurst, a small seaside town in Sussex, and I’d been desperate to break free for most of my life. Living with one other person was hard. Lilian didn’t drive, and the bus service was so unreliable, and none of my friends lived nearby.’ Most of the time Lilian had wanted to keep Nell tethered to her. She’d been like a dog tied to a post, straining at the leash yet unable to escape.

‘And presumably she was the one who told you your mother had died. Are there any other relatives?’

‘She had a sister, but I never met her. They didn’t communicate. Lilian was – is – a difficult woman.’

‘I understand. This must have been rather a shock to you, I imagine. I’m sorry it’s been difficult. Hopefully it will at least bring you closer to your late mother.’

He pulls the folder towards him.

‘We might as well make a start. It shouldn’t take long, as you are the only beneficiary. I’ve made a copy for you to look at.’ He passes a piece of A4 paper across the desk, his hand steady. Nell feels anything but. ‘If I may direct you to the relevant clause: paragraph three – “I, Sarah Wetherby, being of sound mind and disposing memory, do hereby give my entire estate to my daughter Eleanor Mary Wetherby.”’

Nell follows the words through blurry eyes. Some legal jargon follows, before the solicitor says, ‘She makes particular reference to a gold locket necklace she would like you to have. I’ll be honest,’ he goes on, ‘there is little of any financial value to inherit. She was renting her property and had no savings. I’m afraid to say she died in somewhat impoverished circumstances. However, I believe the gift of the necklace will be of immense emotional value to you. I have it here.’

He takes a small package from his drawer. Nell’s fingers tremble as she opens the box, in which lies a gold locket on a chain. Her fingers fumble at the clasp. Her head feels light; she wonders whether there will be a photo inside.

‘Allow me.’ Mr Grayling gets to his feet and takes the delicate necklace from her. He gently opens the locket with his long fingers. ‘There,’ he says, ‘a photograph on either side in the traditional fashion. Your mother and yourself, I believe.’

He passes it back to Nell and she peers at the two tiny photographs. A chubby-cheeked baby with huge serious eyes stares at the camera on one side, but it is the other that seizes her attention: the blonde woman with the heart-shaped face and the exact same eyes as Nell. Her gaze is direct, serious. A gasp escapes Nell’s mouth, which she covers with her hands.

‘I’ve never seen a photograph of my mother.’ She raises her head to look at him, her eyes full of tears.

‘Let me get you a cup of tea,’ he says, and goes outside to speak to the receptionist. ‘I have some other things for you here,’ he says when he returns. ‘The keys to her flat. I understand the landlord has allocated two weeks to clearing the place out, and I’m afraid that task will be left to you to organise. I can recommend a clearance company should you require advice. Will you be arranging the funeral?’

Nell swallows. ‘I hadn’t thought. I suppose I will.’ Through the dark fog in her mind she remembers Hannah’s dad. ‘My best friend’s father is a funeral director. I’ll ask him to help me.’

‘Excellent. That will no doubt be an enormous help in this difficult time.’ He hands her an envelope. ‘The address and keys and some other information you may require are in here.’

‘Thanks.’ The keys bulge in the envelope and Nell grips it in her palm.

Moments later, the receptionist comes in with a mug and a warm smile.

‘Would you like to sit in our family room?’ she asks Nell. ‘It’s a quiet area where you can take some time to think about your loss and what you’ve learned from us today. Most people find wills upsetting in some way.’

Nell nods. ‘Thank you,’ she says to Mr Grayling, and he shakes her hand.

‘Any questions, here’s my card.’

She follows the woman into a small room adjacent to the reception. It’s a bit like how she imagines a therapist’s room might look: small table, box of tissues, comfortable chair, a colourful print on the wall.

‘I’m out here if you need anything,’ the receptionist says. ‘Take as long as you need.’

Once she’s gone, Nell rips open the envelope. The address on the piece. . .