Silent Lies

by Kathryn Croft

Genres: Thrillers; Psychological Thrillers

Synopsis

"Your husband didn’t kill himself." Five years rebuilding your life. Five words will destroy it again.

Mia Hamilton lived the perfect life with her husband, university teacher Zach, and their two-year-old daughter. But everything changed when Zach committed suicide on the same night one of his students vanished.

Five years later, just when Mia is beginning to heal, stranger Alison walks into her life, saying her husband didn’t kill himself.

Fragile, slight Alison leads Mia on a path into Zach’s past, and Mia begins to think she never really knew her own husband. As the secrets revealed get darker, Alison becomes harder to read, and Mia starts to wonder – why is Alison so keen to help?

And then a piece of the puzzle appears in an impossible place, and Mia has to ask, is she losing her mind, or should she be afraid for her life?

An absolutely unputdownable psychological thriller about obsession and buried secrets, with a brilliant twist. Fans of The Girl on the Train, Behind Closed Doors, and Gone Girl will be hooked from the very first page.

See what readers are saying about Silent Lies :

" I loved, loved, loved this book. Silent Lies was impossible to put down, I was up until 2am last night reading it and picked it straight back up again this morning… Wow! That ending. I literally had no idea! " Life Has a Funny Way

"I honestly didn't see that twist coming but my shock at that twist was nothing compared to how I felt when I got to the final chapter, I was so shocked I nearly dropped my kindle! " Nicki’s Life of Crime

 

Release date: October 25, 2017

Publisher: Bookouture

Print pages: 294

Sample

Five Years Ago

For better or worse. That’s what marriage is meant to mean, isn’t it, Zach? But not for us, not now you’ve gone.

The few mourners who have actually turned up are now leaving, offering me thin, but kind, smiles, no doubt trying their best to push aside all thoughts of how and why you did this, because it’s impossible not to think of it, Zach.

I’m grateful that nobody has asked why there won’t be a wake. It just felt wrong, given the circumstances. Impossible to do that for you, even though it’s tearing me up that I can’t.

Freya cries in my arms; too young, hopefully, to fully understand that we’ve just said goodbye to her dad. That she’ll never see you again. ‘It’s okay,’ I tell her. ‘We’re going home now. Everything’s going to be okay, I promise you.’

‘Dada…’ she protests, in between her cries.

Salty tears sting my eyes as I place her in her buggy and fasten her in, but I force them back; I can’t let her see how much I’m struggling with this.

‘Dada, Dada, Dada…’ Freya’s small, yet huge, words echo in the churchyard, each one crushing me. I walk faster, heading away from the church and out onto the street, hoping the momentum of the buggy will distract her from her chant.

I need to get out of this place quickly because it’s not a normal funeral, is it, Zach? Nothing about this situation is anywhere close to normal.

Out of nowhere a hand grabs me. I haven’t noticed anyone approaching, but now there are two women right in front of us, both of them strangers.

Their expressions are murderous and such intense hatred seeps from every pore in their bodies that I can almost reach out and touch it.

‘That man doesn’t deserve a funeral,’ the one clasping my arm spits. Her saliva lands on my cheek, but I’m too stunned to wipe it away.

I finally pull free of her grasp. ‘Get off me!’

‘Did you know?’ the other one screams. ‘Did you know what he was doing? It’s disgusting. Despicable. And you’re just as much to blame for being married to him.’

There is no point responding to this; trying to explain that I had no idea about anything, because the last few weeks have taught me that people like this don’t want to listen – they need someone to bear the brunt of their anger.

I try to swerve the buggy around them but they block my path. My heart thuds violently. Another thing I’ve learnt is that these people aren’t afraid to cause harm; to them it is justified.

One of them points at Freya, who is innocently watching the proceedings, staring wide-eyed at these two women. ‘And that’s his daughter. Poor kid! When are you going to let her know her father’s a monster?’

‘Monster,’ Freya mimics, and that’s when I ram the buggy straight in between them and run as fast as I can.

‘You’re just as bad as he is,’ someone shouts after me. ‘You should have known what he was doing. What kind of wife doesn’t know what her husband is up to? I hope you rot in hell!’

But how could I have known, Zach? How could I possibly have comprehended what you were capable of?

Now

Mia

Someone is watching me, I’m sure of that. As Freya runs off to play on the swings, I glance around the park, but there’s nobody acting out of the ordinary, only mothers like me with their young children, a few dog walkers and an elderly couple huddled together on a bench, smiling gently as they gaze at everyone, perhaps remembering when they themselves had young children. The bright sun bathes us in its warmth; this is a picture of innocence – surely nothing terrible can happen on a day like this? And there is nobody here who should pay me any attention.

‘Mum!’ Freya yells. ‘Watch me, watch me!’

It is easy to get lost in watching Freya; she has turned into a beautiful, lively seven-year-old, despite the start she had in life, and I’m only thankful she was too young to know anything, too young to even remember her father. She is gliding through the air now, her legs swinging beneath her as she gathers momentum on the swing. Her gleeful smile brings one to my own face, but still I cannot shake the feeling of eyes being upon me.

A hand touches my shoulder, causing me to leap up.

‘Sorry, Mia, didn’t mean to scare you.’ Will, my partner, has somehow crept up without me – or Freya – noticing.

‘Don’t do that! I thought… Never mind. Just don’t do it again, please.’

He holds up his hands. ‘Okay, I’m sorry. I really didn’t mean—’

‘I know, I know. I’m just a bit jumpy, that’s all.’

Will scrunches his face and I can guess what he’s doing. He’s calculating dates to see if it’s the anniversary, or Zach’s birthday, perhaps. The day I married him, or the day we met. He’s wondering if it could be any of these things. But it isn’t, and I can’t explain why I feel so on edge.

‘Why?’ he says, frowning. ‘Can I do anything to help?’

This is Will all over. Mr Fix-It – if he can.

I shake my head and brace myself for his disappointment. ‘No, it’s nothing. I think I’ve probably just taken on too many clients this month. It’s hard trying to fit them all in, in just three days.’ As soon as I say this I regret it. Will already thinks I’m doing too much by setting up my own counselling business a few months ago, but I need to help people. It’s the only thing I want to do.

It’s Wednesday today and as it’s the summer holidays I’ve kept my mornings free of clients so I can be with Freya until Will comes over. Sometimes I can’t believe how much he does for us. He saves his annual leave for Freya’s school holidays so that he can take afternoons off when I need help with childcare. It can’t be easy – he’s an accountant in a huge firm and I know he’s hoping for a promotion soon, so taking so much time off in that way probably doesn’t look good. But that’s just the kind of thing he does for us. Sooner or later it’s bound to take its toll, though.

Care of my daughter is not Will’s responsibility; we’re not married and we don’t even live together – despite his numerous requests – so I owe him a huge debt of gratitude for doing so much for Freya. One day I will be able to do it. But he understands that I can’t just replace Zach.

‘Is there any way you can—’

‘I can’t stop seeing people if they need me, Will. But I won’t take on anyone new for now.’

He nods. ‘That’s a good idea. And you’re doing all right for money, aren’t you? Because if you ever need anything, all you need to do is ask.’

Zach and I never took out life insurance but, financially speaking, I’m okay. I work hard to make sure Freya has everything she needs without being spoilt, and I will never let myself be dependent on anyone.

I grab Will’s hand and pull him down next to me on the bench, while Freya screams in delight from up in the air and lets go of one side of the swing to wave to Will. I gesture for her to hold on with both hands. ‘Thank you. That means a lot to me, but I’ll be fine.’

Will waves back at Freya. ‘I guess that means you won’t think about me moving in yet? Or if that’s too weird we could get a new place together? I know you love Ealing so I’m more than happy to live anywhere around here. I just had my flat valued and I can get quite a lot for it at the moment. Apparently, after all the turmoil with the housing market, it’s a good time to sell.’

I picture Will’s flat – a pristine new build in Chiswick – and have no doubt he’d do well if he sold it, but moving in together is not a decision I can make with my head. It’s my heart that has to tell me the time is right.

Squeezing his hand, I hope that even some small part of him will understand how I feel. ‘I’m just not ready yet, Will, I’m so sorry. I’m not saying never, but not just now. I need to get the business more established and, well, Freya’s so happy right now. For the last five years it’s just been the two of us in our house, so…’ But Freya loves Will and he’s been like a father to her for the last two years, so I shouldn’t use that as an excuse. I correct myself. ‘But I know she’d love it if you moved in…’

Will sighs and takes a moment to answer. ‘It’s okay, I know you have to be ready too.’ He turns to watch Freya, unable to look me in the eye because yet again I have rejected him. The kindest man I could ever meet.

But didn’t I think that about Zach? He had my complete trust and it was shattered into a thousand pieces. I won’t let that affect my feelings for Will, though. I have to be fair to him: he is not Zach.

Oblivious to the thoughts swirling around my head, Will turns to me. ‘Hey, isn’t your client due in a minute? You’d better get going.’

I grab my phone to check the time. I’ve been so wrapped up in my claustrophobic bubble, while Freya played, that I didn’t realise I needed to get back. A new client, a woman I haven’t seen before, is coming at 2 p.m.

‘Good job you only live across the road!’ Will says. I know what he’s doing: bringing humour to the moment so that I don’t meet a new client while burdened with guilt.

‘I’ll take Freya to the cinema,’ he suggests. ‘Beauty and the Beast is on, I think.’ Knowing Will, he’ll have already checked this and worked out the best showing to see, and calculated what time they will have to leave to get there so that they don’t miss any of the film.

‘Thank you so much,’ I say, my words coming out as barely a whisper because I’m so choked up by his thoughtfulness.

I leave the park and glance towards my house. The house Zach and I saved all our money for all those years ago, with the hope of a future for our little family.

Before I cross the road, I turn back and see Freya wrapping her arms around Will. He lifts her up in the air and she squeals with delight. The elderly couple on the bench across the park nod and smile. They probably think Will is Freya’s dad. Sometimes I really wish he was.

At home I head straight to my office to wait for my client. I’m lucky to be able to work from home and not have to rent office space, and my room is right next to the front door, a separate area from the rest of my home. It’s important to me to have a clear division between work life and my life with Freya, and so far this has worked well. The downstairs toilet is also right by the office, so I can be sure no clients need to see the rest of the house. When Zach and I bought this place I never thought I’d be working here, or that he would be gone.

Now I’m in this space I immediately switch into work mode, pushing all other thoughts aside. I’ve become good at doing this. But Zach would probably say that I always was, even before. I need to give one hundred per cent to this woman, due at any moment. To remind myself of her name, I check my appointment book.

Alison Cummings. She only called a couple of days ago, informing me that she thought she needed counselling after being in an abusive relationship. That was all the information she offered. I have no clue how old she is or whether she has any children, but I’m sure I will find that out in good time.

She is late. Not a good start. Minutes tick by and I’m about to give up on her – it’s to be expected that people have second thoughts when it comes to baring their souls – but then the doorbell chimes and I stand, straightening my jeans before I head to the front door. I don’t dress formally for my sessions; I’ve found that wearing casual clothes helps put people at ease, enabling them to see me as someone just like them, someone they can open up to.

The first thing I notice about her is how young she is. She barely looks twenty, but when I study her further, I realise my assumption comes from her being so tiny in stature. I am only five foot four, but I seem to tower over her, even though we’re on level ground. From head to foot she’s dressed in black, despite the heat, and I can’t tell whether she’s wearing leggings or jeans, but they cling to her stick-like legs, further emphasising her petite frame.

‘Mia Hamilton?’ she asks, her voice quiet and unsure.

I hold out my hand. ‘You must be Alison. Nice to meet you, come in.’

Her hand is fragile and thin like the rest of her, but also moist. She is nervous.

I stand back so she can enter the house, but she stands like a statue on the doorstep, making no move to go anywhere. ‘Alison? Are you okay?’

She nods, but still doesn’t move, and her eyes take in my home. ‘So is this where you live?’ she asks. ‘I thought it would be… an office or something.’

‘I work from home and my office is just there.’ I point to the left to show her how close it is to the front door, to make her feel safer.

‘Okay.’ Finally she steps forward and I close the door behind us. ‘Can I get you anything to drink?’ I ask, as we head into my office. Now she is right by me I can smell her shampoo, or whatever hair product she’s used today. It could even be perfume. For some reason it makes me think of Zach, although I have no idea why; it is definitely a female scent.

She eyes the cabinet in the corner where I keep a kettle, some mugs and a jug for water. ‘No, I’m fine, thanks.’

‘Not even a glass of water? It’s very warm out there today. And in here, actually. I’m sorry I don’t have air conditioning, but it is something I’m planning to sort out.’ I am rambling as if I am nervous, but I don’t know why. I always find first sessions tricky, before I’ve got to know a client, because it’s hard not to feel judged. People have expectations; somehow they expect you to have all the answers, when the truth is it’s a journey we have to go through together, and that means I need to get to know them. Know what puts them at ease and what makes them uncomfortable.

But there is more to it than that this afternoon, only I can’t pinpoint what it is.

‘Take a seat, Alison.’ I open the window – the air in here feels thick and cloying – and the sounds from the park across the road immediately drift in. ‘So, let me tell you a bit about myself first.’

She nods and her shoulders droop slightly; clearly she is relieved I’ll be doing the talking first.

‘I studied psychology at university, but then took a few years out to travel. I went all over the place, actually: Thailand, America, New Zealand, Europe…’ As I recite some of the places I went to, I feel detached, as if I’m discussing someone else’s life. Because it was all before, and I am a different person now. ‘Then I met my husband and we had a little girl. She’s seven now.’ Of course I don’t mention that Zach is dead, or that I never really knew the man I was married to.

Will would be devastated, would probably question our whole relationship, if he found out I never mention him in these introductions, but how can I? It would throw up questions I’m not able to answer, and I can’t have my clients encroaching on my personal life: the boundaries have to be clear.

‘Yes, I saw you in the park just now with your daughter. She’s very sweet. I had no idea it was you, of course, until you opened the door just now.’

So I was right to believe someone was watching me in the park. Well, at least it was only this woman. ‘Thank you. Anyway, a couple of years ago I trained as a counsellor and now here I am. Do you have any questions before we get started?’

Alison shakes her head and a curtain of dark red hair falls across her face.

‘Okay. Well, you’ve made contact with me because you feel there are some things you could do with talking through. Do you want to tell me what it is that’s causing you emotional pain?’

‘It’s hard to talk about,’ she says, staring past me to the window. A stream of sunlight covers half her face, and I have to turn my chair to see her clearly. ‘I… my partner… he… hits me.’ She looks back at me to check my reaction, perhaps thinking I will judge her, but I remain impassive.

‘I know I should leave him, but it’s not that simple,’ she continues. ‘Oh, God, I know what I must sound like. But we have a history together, a complicated one. We’ve been through a lot together.’

On the phone, Alison had led me to believe she had come out of the relationship, and now she is telling me something different. But I cannot make a big deal of this; I’m just grateful she’s being so open. Usually it takes longer than this to get to the root of things.

‘Please don’t tell me to go to the police,’ she says, before I even open my mouth to speak. ‘That’s just not an option.’

‘It’s understandable that you’re afraid, but there are safe places you can go, and they’d make sure he couldn’t hurt you again. That’s the number-one goal, isn’t it?’

She doesn’t answer, and a heavy silence fills the room, somehow stifling the roar of car engines and the shrieks from the park.

Alison sighs. ‘Please, can we just talk about it without you trying to get me to report him? Aren’t you supposed to help me find the strength to get away from him?’

Those expectations again. The belief that I can wave a magic wand and banish all problems. Life just isn’t that straightforward – I know that well enough. We bear the scars of our past, permanent tattoos carved onto our skin, whoever we are.

‘Okay,’ I say. ‘Then why don’t you start by telling me more about what’s going on? How does that sound? Don’t worry about anything else for now.’

She clasps her hands together and sucks in a deep breath. ‘I was young when we met. I mean, I’m only twenty-six now, but I was twenty-one at the time. He’s a lot older than me. Forty-one when we met.’ Her eyes scan my face, searching once again for signs of judgement, but that is the last thing she will find.

I do a quick calculation and work out he must be about forty-six now. With a nod, I wait for her to continue.

‘I really didn’t like him at first. That’s the ironic thing. In fact, I would actually say I hated his guts. He was arrogant. So full of himself, as if the world owed him.’ Her eyes drop to her lap. ‘I suppose that makes it even worse, doesn’t it? That I saw signs of the person he was before I even got involved with him.’ She pauses for so long that I wonder if she will ever speak again.

‘How did you meet?’ I need to get the conversation moving, and this is a harmless enough question.

‘At his work. Well, actually, it was university for me. He was a lecturer there. Not mine, but that doesn’t matter, does it?’

My chest tightens and it feels as if it will collapse inwards. It’s just a coincidence. I need to hold it together, but I can’t seem to manage any words. It is all coming back to haunt me.

Alison leans forward, frowning. ‘Mia? Are you okay?’ Our roles have reversed and now Alison seems like the counsellor while I am the one needing help.

I manage a nod. ‘Sorry, please continue.’ For show I grab a tissue from the box on my desk. ‘I get really bad hay fever and, well, the pollen levels are extra high today.’

She frowns, but carries on speaking, and I try to focus on each word she says, though they are now blurring into each other.

‘We got together by accident. I was drunk and I shouldn’t have gone anywhere near him, but I was feeling so bad about myself, so… I don’t know… rejected, by everyone and everything, and I think I just needed to know someone wanted me. Does that make me a weak person?’

‘No, definitely not. It makes you human.’ It’s a struggle to remain present, but I must force myself to focus if I’m to have any chance of helping this woman. ‘It’s understandable to feel like that, Alison. We all lapse in judgement sometimes, don’t feel guilty about that.’

She shakes her head. ‘It’s not guilt I feel. I have more than enough to feel guilty about, but that’s not it in this case.’ She pauses. ‘Stupid, that’s how I feel.’

‘Well, you’d been drinking.’

‘A lot. And I never normally touch alcohol. If only I hadn’t. Everything would be different and I’d be… free.’

‘So you feel like a prisoner?’

‘Yes, that’s it. A prisoner in my own life.’

‘Again, that’s normal,’ I say. ‘But what we’ve got to do is work out how to get you out of this prison, and there’s always a way.’ Wasn’t I evidence of exactly that?

‘I’ve got to get the key from Dominic and set myself free,’ she says, staring me straight in the eye.

And now there is no way to ignore the huge coincidence. I’m burning up, suffocating, and I can’t escape. ‘Dominic?’

‘Yes, my partner.’ And this time her voice is firmer, more controlled; she is almost a different person. ‘And I think you know who he is.’

Her words are a punch to my gut. Who is this woman and what is she doing here?

‘Dominic Bradford,’ she says, when I cannot bring myself to speak. ‘I believe he was a colleague of your husband, Zach.’

His name echoes into the room and bile rises in my throat. ‘Who… who are you?’

‘Exactly who I said I was. I just didn’t mention that I know who you are, or that I’m here to tell you your husband didn’t kill himself.’

Five years earlier

Josie

Do you ever get the feeling you don’t fit in? Like you’re the wrong piece of a jigsaw puzzle, trying to wedge yourself into a space you just can’t squeeze into? Well, that’s how I feel every day of my life. They all think I’m just a party girl, that I spend more time downing shots than studying, and do you know what? They’re right.

It’s a miracle I’ve even made it through the first three months of university, but I got this far to spite her, because she doesn’t believe for one second that I’ll make it. But here I am, Liv.

Although there are days, like today, when I want to just jack it all in.

The coffee shop is empty this evening so I’ve pretty much been left alone to deal with the customers, although Pierre is in the back office if I need help. It’s suffocating me, being in this place, but I need to pay my rent so I just have to suck it up. I’m not one of those girls who’s lucky enough to have parents supporting her. No, I’m the other kind. The kind nobody can believe has made it this far, one of those girls who ends up in trouble before they’re out of their twenties. But I revel in their shock. It drives me, spurs me on to do even better with my life. I will not be like her.

I’m so wrapped up in these thoughts that I haven’t noticed the middle-aged woman who has approached the counter and is now staring at me, hands on her hips and an impatient frown on her face. A designer handbag hangs from the crook of her arm and she teeters on heels that are too high for her. She shakes her head and huffs at me.

Screw her, I’m only human, and if she knew me she’d understand why I have trouble concentrating sometimes.

‘A skinny cappuccino,’ she says, with no greeting or smile. Maybe her tight, thin lips aren’t capable of one. Perhaps it would just crack her face. She pulls out a matching designer purse and squints at me. ‘Are you allowed to wear that thing in your nose when you’re serving people?’

She’s talking about the small diamond stud in my nose. But I’m used to it. Used to people silently, or not so silently sometimes, thinking, She would be pretty if she lost that disgusting thing.

Even though I want to scream at her to go and get her bloody coffee somewhere else and take her judgement with her, I plaster on my sweetest smile and say, in an exaggeratedly posh voice, ‘Of course. Is there anything else I can get you?’ The smile is painful, straining my face.

‘No, that’s all.’ She pushes back her coat sleeve – on her thick wrist is a shiny gold watch, which probably cost more than my car – and shakes her head when she notices the time. It’s all for show, to force me to hurry up, and because of this I take my time, pretending I’m having trouble with the coffee machine. I give her a shrug, as if to say I’m sorry, but inside I’m smirking.

Don’t get me wrong – I have nothing against wealthy people. Good for them. What I can’t take is people looking down on others, thinking they’re better than you.

When she finally leaves, I silently pray she disliked me enough to never come back in here, no matter how desperate she gets for caffeine, and then I clean the coffee machine again, just for something to do. This shift is the worst; it’s late and people are travelling home from work and probably not expecting us to be open, but Pierre insists on staying open until eight. He must know these last two hours are dead ones, but if he does, it doesn’t faze him. Perhaps he makes extra money doing something else. It wouldn’t surprise me. He’s always getting calls on his phone and never lets anyone hear what he’s saying. A bit dodgy, if yo. . .