The New Family

by Victoria Jenkins

Genres: Psychological Thrillers

Synopsis

Can you really trust the family next door?

Brooke is delighted when Oliver decides to rent her old family home with his three-year-old son Finley. Finally someone to bring happiness to the rundown house across the street. They seem like the perfect tenants, but Brooke is a little unnerved when they move in with just a single bag between them. Where are their belongings?

When Brooke asks Oliver about his past, he quickly changes the subject. Her best friend tells her to leave it, after all Brooke has been through enough trauma in her life. But Brooke can’t shake off the feeling that something isn’t right. Why aren’t her new tenants’ names listed anywhere online?

Then Brooke arrives home to find orange flames dancing in the upstairs windows. As her whole life goes up in smoke, she is convinced it wasn’t an accident. And when she finds Finley drawing a picture of an angry burning house with terror in his eyes, her blood runs cold. What is Finley so frightened of? And why does Oliver snatch the drawing away the moment he sees it?

Brooke is convinced Finley is in serious danger, but given her past, she’s not sure anyone will believe her. Is Brooke ready to face up to her own demons to save the little boy? And when the truth is finally revealed, who is really the one in danger?

The New Family is an addictive psychological thriller with a twist you won’t see coming, perfect for fans of The Wife, The Silent Patient and Lisa Jewell.

Why readers love The New Family:

‘A delicious thriller… I read this over two days, jumping into bed each night to pick up where I left off!… I was thoroughly hooked… I loved this book.’ NetGalley reviewer, 5 stars

‘There are twists and turns that could rival a roller coaster! Surprise after surprise kept me riveted… Intense, gripping and very compelling!… A must-read.’ @rubie_reads, 5 stars

‘A superb read… Kept me on the edge of my seat… Exciting, engrossing, a page-turner… Top marks.’ NetGalley reviewer, 5 stars

‘I absolutely loved this thriller.’ NetGalley reviewer, 5 stars

‘A one-sitting read… Brilliant.’ Goodreads reviewer

‘Plenty to keep you absorbed!’ NetGalley reviewer

‘Compelling suspense… An immersive read…

Release date: November 16, 2021

Publisher: Bookouture

Print pages: 350

Sample

Local legend says that this stretch of coastal path is haunted by the ghosts of ancient mariners, though why these deceased men of the sea would choose solid land for their haunting ground is a detail that has remained vague as the story has passed down the generations. Today the route is open to the sky, this section of the path unprotected by trees or hedgerow, and if there are ghosts that travel alongside me, they do so silently. There are fifty-three steps down to the beach; I counted them first as a five-year-old, then repeatedly for every summer that followed. My parents never let us come here during the winter months, fearful of a landscape that both enchanted and intimidated them. As soon as we were of an age at which they allowed us freedom to roam – I, as the elder, always entrusted with my sister’s safety – we would explore the web of woodland paths that led to various points of the beach, then walk barefoot on the sand until our toes hit the freezing sea. It feels right to come here on her birthday, and as I watch the ghosts of our past – two skinny little things with bare legs and dresses tucked into knickers – I wonder where she might now be.

Once on the beach, I remove my boots and socks, letting my toes sink into the wet sand. I have done this in January, when the air has been at its most bitter and the land has felt like ice beneath my bare feet, the coldness a shock to my core and a jolt to the breath that fills my lungs. I am deep within my thoughts, pressing my heels into the sand, when I spot them. They are two inert figures in the distance at first – one tall, one much smaller at its side. As I walk further down the beach, they move into life. The child stands in the shallows, throwing stones into the waves. He moves methodically, a pebble plucked from his left palm, expelled by the fist of his right. He has hair made for seaside living, sandy and shoulder-length. The boy with the sad eyes, I think, and I realise I have passed this father and son before, along this same stretch of coastal path, not really noticing the man but always the child – his head tilted to one side, glassy eyes gazing seaward as though searching for the sight of something amid the low-hanging clouds that form a perpetual ceiling over this corner of the shoreline.

I see the man properly for the first time now: tall, dark-haired. We might have said hello once, maybe a week or two ago. He stands with arms folded as he watches his son. He is wearing a thin windbreaker jacket, jeans and a pair of running trainers, the expensive type worn by people who don’t run. There is nowhere to walk to other than the sea and back again, so I continue towards them, not wanting to have come here without feeling the water at my feet.

‘Finley.’

The boy doesn’t react to his name at first, but on his father’s second call he turns his head. As he continues to throw stones, ignoring his father’s suggestion that it is time for them to go, the man sees me and smiles. I sense him watching me as my toes meet the sea, probably wondering why I would be mad enough to brave its icy bite.

‘Fin.’

The boy’s shoulders sag, and he moves his hand to his pocket to store the remaining pebbles. As a child, my feelings were just the same; no matter how cold it might have been, I was never ready to leave.

‘That must be freezing, surely?’

It takes a moment to realise he is talking to me and not his son. ‘Good for the circulation, apparently,’ I reply.

He pulls a face and smiles. My eyes move to the boy, who is still staring at the water, dejected. ‘Do you know how to skim those stones?’ I ask. The child – how old is he? Three? Maybe four? – lowers his head at the question.

‘He’s a bit shy,’ the man explains, his tone apologetic.

Finley catches me staring, so I look away, finding distraction in a cawing gull that circles overhead.

‘Come on then, kid,’ he says, moving towards the boy to take his hand. ‘Say bye-bye.’ He stoops to pull Finley’s zip closer to his chin. ‘I’m guessing you live locally?’ he says to me. ‘Are there any pubs nearby, somewhere we can get some food?’ He runs a hand through his son’s hair. ‘This little man must be starving.’

‘There’s the Ship in the village, but they won’t be doing food at this time.’

‘The village?’

‘Aberfach. It’s about a mile that way.’ I gesture vaguely towards the steps. ‘Where have you two come from then? People don’t usually just stumble across this place.’

He rolls his eyes. ‘We got lost. I said right, Fin said left… we ended up here. God knows how we’ll find the car later.’

The nearest car park is at least a couple of miles away; if he didn’t stop in the village, he must have parked near the diving centre.

‘How far have you walked?’

He digs into his pocket for his phone and checks the time. ‘We’ve been out a couple of hours now.’ He takes his son by the hand, persuading him from the sand with a promise of snacks, and the two of them follow me back towards the cliffs.

‘That’s a lot of walking for little legs,’ I say, smiling at the boy – a skinny child even in his padded coat – as we reach the steps. ‘You’d better go first. They’re pretty steep.’ He makes his ascent in front of me, while his father waits to follow. ‘If you’re not sure where you’re parked, maybe you’d better give the Ship a miss,’ I say, turning to cast the words behind me. ‘It might take you further away.’

‘It’s not a problem. I’ll have to get him something, even if it’s just a drink and a bag of crisps.’

‘I’m heading that way if you want me to show you?’

‘Thanks. It’s a beautiful beach, isn’t it? We’re lucky to have found it.’

‘You’d be surprised how many local people don’t even know it’s here.’

‘I can’t imagine many people wanting to attempt these steps too often.’

‘They’re what keeps it quiet. That’s why I like it here so much.’

We make the rest of our way up to the top in silence, Finley’s breath ragged as we reach the final steps. ‘Good going,’ I say, once we’re back on the flat. ‘He’s determined, isn’t he? I imagine most kids would be moaning by now.’

I notice that whenever I talk to the child, he looks away, reluctant to make eye contact. I usher him towards the path, and he leads the way, trailing his open palm through the long grasses that reach up to his waist.

‘You live here?’ the man asks.

‘Yes.’

‘I’ve been looking for somewhere to stay for a few months. We’ve been at a B and B in Fishguard for a while, but I need something more permanent.’

‘I have a rental property that’s empty at the moment,’ I blurt, the words leaving me as though without my permission. I cringe at their desperation. The months between May and September are the busiest, even competitively cheap rental fees normally enough to see me through the rest of the year, but this past summer has been quiet, the income generated the most meagre in years. After paying the outstanding fees for my mother’s care home and the rent on my own place, I’ve been reliant on the earnings I make from painting commissions for paying bills and buying food, but they too are sporadic. I have two bookings on the cottage over Christmas and New Year; after that, the place will be empty until April unless things start to pick up.

‘Really? Whereabouts?’

‘In the village. I’ll show you when we get there.’

I have always referred to Aberfach as a village, despite it being too small and insufficiently populated to really be called such. Technically it is a hamlet. There is no shop, no church, no post office – just the pub, frequented by locals, walkers and tourists – and a handful of homes, some inhabited by those who have been here and will remain here forever, others rented out to holidaymakers looking for a coastal escape.

‘Sorry,’ he says. ‘I haven’t asked your name.’

‘Brooke.’

‘I’m Oliver.’

Finley’s legs finally start to tire, and he tugs at his father’s jeans as a signal of his exhaustion. Oliver reaches down to lift him and carries him the rest of his way on his hip, the boy’s focus remaining on the sea view that travels alongside us, disappearing as our path dips down towards the harbour walls.

When we reach the village, I point to the curve of mountainside opposite, and to the house, my childhood home, standing guard over the hamlet and the harbour. I try to see it now as though through someone else’s eyes, that I might hide from the memories attached to the place. ‘Hillside Cottage.’

Oliver raises his eyebrows. ‘Impressive.’

‘It’s only a two-bedroom, but there’s a lovely garden to the side and it’s got the best views of the sea. In my opinion, obviously.’

‘Can I arrange a viewing with you?’

Finley, still being carried, starts tugging at his father’s arm, muttering something that sounds like ‘crisps’.

‘How about you take this hungry young man to the pub,’ I suggest, ‘and I’ll meet you afterwards, unless you’re in a rush to get away?’

‘Sounds perfect, thank you.’ He checks his watch. ‘Shall we say four thirty?’

‘I’ll meet you outside the pub.’

Oliver prompts Finley to say goodbye, the boy responding by burrowing his head into his father’s neck. I wonder why he would want to bring his son to stay in a place like this, so remote and isolated, though it was the life my parents chose for their own children. It had been my mother’s dream to live by the sea. My sister and I grew up with the ocean air in our lungs and a permanent breeze against our skin, and the need for both have never left me, but for my sister, the harbour walls came to represent her incarceration, the landscape synonymous with her imprisonment.

I turn back to watch father and son as they head to the pub before making my way back across the main road to the little terraced cottage that I now call home. My thoughts stray back to the conversation just shared, filtering through the details that Oliver revealed, whether knowingly or not. He had said, ‘I need somewhere more permanent.’ Not ‘we’, but ‘I’. Perhaps it was simply a misleading choice of words, though there was no mention of a partner. I wonder where the boy’s mother is.

Christina pulled into the driveway of Janet Marsden’s house. It was a beautiful building – a sprawling detached property that somehow managed to retain a homeliness usually afforded to smaller, cosier places – and if it hadn’t been for the busy main road that linked Barnet with the A1, she might have thought she was somewhere remote and rural, not just half an hour away from the centre of the capital. Although Christina saw most of her clients at her own home, there were some for whom she made an exception. Janet was one of them. She had been having chemotherapy for breast cancer for months, having already overcome the disease once years earlier. Physiotherapy was helping her to manage the pain, and though she could have completed the exercises Christina provided for her alone, it was more beneficial to both women to see each other in person.

She hid her pain behind a smile that was worn as a permanent accessory, in place as always when she opened the door to Christina. ‘How are you?’ she asked, as she always did, which seemed a summary of all that Janet was, forever concerned with the well-being of others despite everything that she was going through.

‘I’m fine, thank you. How are you feeling this week?’ Christina followed Janet through to the beautiful kitchen at the back of the house.

‘The usual. Tired. But I’m okay. I’ve been managing a daily walk, just up the road and back.’

‘That’s really good progress. Can we do some of the strengthening exercises I showed you last time?’

Christina moved a couple of the dining room chairs so that they could sit side by side.

‘How’s Rebecca getting on with her dissertation?’ she asked.

‘I think she’s struggling more than she lets on. She’s working late into the night too often, but whenever I ask her about it, she just says everything’s fine. I think she’s trying to protect me, though she really doesn’t need to.’

‘Did she speak to Alice?’

Christina’s sister-in-law was a police officer with the Met; she had offered to help Janet’s daughter with any questions she might have while completing the dissertation for her master’s degree in criminology.

‘Yes, and she was a massive help, thank you. Rebecca’s ordered her some flowers.’

‘That’s kind of her. She’s a lovely young woman. You must be very proud of her.’

‘Always.’ Janet winced at a pain in her neck as she stretched. ‘I’m fine,’ she said, waving it away. ‘Just a twinge. And how are your two doing? Is Edward sleeping any better?’

Her mention of the twins brought a tightening to Christina’s throat. ‘They’re fine,’ she managed, turning her face away from Janet’s view as she stood from her chair to attend to her. ‘Still a pair of little monkeys,’ she added. She reached for Janet’s shoulders. ‘May I?’ She worked her fingers into the other woman’s shoulders, manipulating the muscles that had tightened through treatment and tension. ‘Edward’s sleep is no better, bless him. I was never a great sleeper when I was a child… he might just be following me.’

‘Rebecca didn’t sleep through the night until she was almost five years old.’

‘God, really? Don’t tell me that.’

Janet laughed. ‘It’s a hard phase, the toddler years. But trust me, you’ll miss them when they’re gone.’

They fell into silence, Christina’s hands still working to ease the stress from Janet’s shoulders. Beneath her fingers, the other woman seemed to have left her for a moment, her thoughts flown to some distant memory of a life that hadn’t been shaped by her illness and all its consequences. She concentrated on the flexing of Janet’s muscles, trying to distract herself from thoughts of her own situation.

‘That hurts.’

She stepped away, lifting her hands as though Janet’s skin had burned her. ‘I am so sorry,’ she said, moving around to face her. ‘Are you all right?’

‘Just hit a nerve or something.’

Christina opened the bag she had left on the table. She got out a bottle of water and took a long drink, grateful that Janet wasn’t paying her any attention. She could feel herself growing too hot, a line of sweat trickling beneath her collar at the base of her neck. A burning sensation spread through her stomach, and she struggled to remember what she had eaten that morning. As the room swayed, she staggered, almost falling against the table.

The plastic bottle dropped from her hand, spilling water on the tiles at her feet. ‘Oh God, I’m so sorry. That was so clumsy of me.’

There was a packet of tissues in her bag; she pulled out a handful and tried to mop up the worst of the water, managing only to make the mess worse.

‘Please don’t worry about it,’ Janet said. ‘It’s just water, it’ll dry.’ She sat up, and Christina could feel her eyes on hers as she returned the remainder of the tissues to her handbag. ‘Is everything okay? Are you feeling all right?’

Despite the heat that coursed through her, Christina knew her face had gone pale. She had felt the colour fade from it at Janet’s mention of the children, the blood seeming to drain from her in an instant.

‘I’m fine, sorry. I’ve been getting these dizzy spells, that’s all. It’s probably tiredness. From Edward, the lack of sleep, you know.’

The part about the dizziness wasn’t a lie – the spells had been recurring for a number of weeks now, increasingly frequent and catching her off guard, with no apparent pattern to the timing of their arrival.

‘It’ll pass, love. Everything always does.’

The comment cast them both under a shadow for a moment.

‘Should we stop it there for today?’ Christina asked, noticing the wince that Janet tried to hide as she moved.

‘Probably for the best. I don’t want to overdo it. But this is really helping, please don’t think otherwise. It’s always a bit painful at first.’

‘Maybe give it a few days before you attempt the upper-body exercises again,’ Christina suggested. ‘And if you’re unsure of anything, please just give me a call, okay? Any time… I mean it.’

Janet saw her out, waiting to wave goodbye as Christina left the driveway and pulled onto the main road. She made it as far as the T-junction that took her back into town before finding the first side street and stopping the car. She checked her phone; there was a message from Joel.

Let me know when your session’s finished x

Her fingers quivered guiltily over the keys as she tapped out a reply.

Now. See you soon x

At 4.30, as agreed, I meet Oliver and Finley outside the pub. They follow me up the narrow, winding road that leads to Hillside Cottage, and I let them into the tiny square space that almost passes as a hallway. A faint smell of damp lingers, the kind of smell that resides in places left uninhabited for too long, and yet still I can recall the scent of burning wood and home baking that would greet me whenever I came through this front door as a child. Time stops when I am here.

The house looks nothing now as it did when I was a child, back when my mother was alive with colour. It had taken years for her to get it exactly as she had wanted, the vision of a home that she had painted in her mind upon first viewing the house when I was just a baby and she was pregnant with my sister. Every room was painted in a different vibrant shade – the living room a sunshine burst of lemon yellow, the kitchen mint green, our bedroom a hot raspberry pink, and our parents’ room a cheery seaside blue. She furnished the whole house with items she had bought in second-hand markets and charity shops, and some of my earliest memories are of us in the front garden, my sister and I playing on the small strip of grass as my mother sanded and drilled and painted, restoring the previously unloved and rejected pieces into things she was proud to say she had brought back to life. ‘One woman’s junk is another woman’s treasure,’ she would say, and my father would joke that she would eventually do him out of his job as a carpenter.

After his death, my mother redecorated in magnolia, painting over the memories to make them less prominent. Yet when I stand here now, I can still see it as it once was – the colour and the quirks designed by my mother’s hand, the collection of nautical trinkets she had accumulated over the years lined up on the window sills, the patchwork cushion covers she had made from her favourites of our childhood clothes. I can still hear the low rumble of my father’s laughter rolling into the house from the back garden, where he worked in his shed, as I know my mother must have in all the years that passed between his death and hers.

‘You okay?’

‘Sorry,’ I say, flitting away my thoughts with an idle wave of a hand. ‘I was miles away for a minute. Anyway, as I said, it’s nothing special, but this is it.’

Oliver walks with me into the living room, but Finley stays by the front door. ‘Don’t be shy,’ his father prompts him, but the boy remains frozen, making eye contact with neither of us.

‘The kitchen’s just through here.’ I point to the door. ‘Go on,’ I say, when Oliver looks over to his son to check he hasn’t strayed back outside. ‘I’ll keep an eye on him.’

By the staircase, there is a bookcase that houses things I left here for the families who stay: guides to the area, books and board games. Like a flashback from a dream, my sister appears in the corner of the room, ten years old again, her head thrown back as she laughs over the details of a game I can no longer remember. I hear her voice, hear her speak my name, about to reprimand me for some misdemeanour, and then she is gone.

I go to the bookcase and take down a few items, putting them on the coffee table where Finley can access them. ‘Would you like to have a look?’

He says nothing, but when I glance away and pretend to busy myself with straightening the curtains, he goes across to the table and starts sifting through the books. I watch from the corner of my eye as he methodically picks each one up, studying the front cover and then the back before turning the pages. He settles upon a small hardback book that used to belong to my sister, an illustrated guide to coastal wildlife.

Oliver comes back into the room and smiles when he sees that Finley has moved from his position in the doorway. ‘Okay to look upstairs?’

‘Of course.’

‘Want to come, Fin? Brooke can give us a guided tour.’

I lead the way and show Fin the room that used to belong to my sister and me, having to fight the memories from flooding the space around me. Trying to distract myself from the past, I focus on the built-in wardrobe that is perfect for playing hide-and-seek or for setting up a den. ‘Look,’ I say, and I flick a switch to illuminate the space. I used to spend hours hidden away in here, usually with a book or a sketchpad. Finley remains mute and unresponsive, furtively glancing out from under his wayward hair, and I wonder just what this child has been through.

‘Look at the view, Fin,’ Oliver says. He lifts his son to the window and rests him on the sill so he can see the sea. The two of them look out to the greying horizon, neither speaking, and there is something intimate about the moment, something that makes me feel I shouldn’t be there to invade it.

‘You weren’t lying about the views,’ Oliver says, turning to me.

‘Wait until you see this one, then.’

He sets Finley back on the carpet and follows me into the main bedroom and over to the window. Early evening is beginning to close in, yet it doesn’t spoil the scene outside. The grass that borders the house merges with a low hedgerow; beyond it, the drop to the village can’t be seen and a vast sweep of ocean stretches to the sky. It is a perfect evening for painting – the kind of mood that manages to lie somewhere between serene and unsettled and is my favourite to capture. The calm before the storm.

I leave Oliver at the window and go to glance back into the other room, where Finley is sitting on the bed looking at the wildlife book that he brought up with him from downstairs. When I return to the main bedroom, Oliver is still gazing out. Evening seems to have fallen upon us within minutes, and the sky outside is charcoal grey and suddenly heavy with the threat of rain.

‘Do you mind me asking what brings you here?’ I ask. ‘This part of the world can be pretty bleak at times.’

‘Pretty bleak. I like that description. The same thing that keeps you here, I imagine.’

‘I’ve always been here,’ I tell him, looking out into the greyness that is creeping towards us from the fading horizon.

A strange silence falls between us, and I feel uncomfortable, as though I have revealed something I didn’t mean to. It occurs to me that he never answered my question, and I wonder whether the avoidance was deliberate.

‘It’s a beautiful house,’ he says. ‘How long have you had it?’

‘I grew up here.’

He turns to me, surprised. ‘A childhood by the sea,’ he says, moving his hands from the window sill and folding them across his chest. ‘Exactly what I want for Finley.’

‘Where are you from?’ I ask, noticing his neutral English accent.

‘Kent originally.’ He turns back to the window, his attention still tethered to the grey seascape that sweeps away from us. He is right – it is a beautiful view, haunting in its bleakness; the kind of beauty I have always believed can only be appreciated by someone familiar with its sometime hostility. ‘You could lose yourself here.’

I say nothing, wondering whether this is why he has come here. Perhaps this same thing was my sister’s reason for leaving.

‘When’s your next booking?’ he asks.

‘Not for nearly three months,’ I tell him, embarrassed at the admission. I don’t want to come across as a pauper, though at the moment I am scarcely much more. ‘Demand isn’t so great in the winter.’

‘Can you put my name down then?’

Relief floods me, though I try to keep it from my face. ‘How long do you want?’

‘We’ll take the three months. It’ll give me enough time to sort out what I need to. I should ask how much it is, shouldn’t I?’

I try to conceal my surprise. The extra income is much needed and will take a huge pressure off me, but it is unheard of to take such a long booking. No one has been here longer than a fortnight, or for anything more than a holiday.

‘Are you sure this is okay?’ he asks. ‘Sorry… I’ve put you on the spot, haven’t I? I mean, if you’d rather hold out for the holiday bookings or whatever, then please just say – I don’t want to make things difficult for you.’

I play down my eagerness for fear of putting him off. The fact is, demand recently hasn’t been what it once was – perhaps the location is too rural, the nearby tourist towns a more appealing option. If I hold out for holiday bookings, I could end up with next to nothing. ‘No, it doesn’t make anything difficult. It’s just… unusual for someone to want to stay so long, that’s all.’

There is a pause. ‘We have unusual circumstances, I’m afraid.’ He looks to the bedroom doorway, where Finley has appeared, still clutching the book. ‘Okay,’ he says brightly, changing the subject for the benefit of his son. ‘I should give you my number, shouldn’t I? We can sort out payment and everything then.’

I take my mobile phone from my pocket and add his number to my contacts list as he recites it. Then I call the number, waiting to hear his phone ring in his pocket so that he has mine. ‘You don’t need to use the internet too often, do you?’ I ask him. ‘Just a warning, the Wi-Fi is terrible here. The mobile signal isn’t always reliable either. I quite often have to leave the village to check my emails.’

‘Sounds lovely, actually. I think a break from twenty-first-century life is what we need, isn’t it, kid?’ He musses up his son’s hair before glancing at the book he still holds. ‘Be nice to spend some quality time together, technology-free.’

I follow them back downstairs.

‘I’ll be in touch tomorrow,’ Oliver says as I lock the front door. ‘Th. . .