The Second Home

by Kathryn Sharman

Genres: Marriage & Divorce; Holiday books; Amateur Sleuth; Female Sleuths; Crime Fiction; Domestic Thrillers; Psychological Thrillers; Suspense

Synopsis

Readers are gripped by Kathryn Sharman's thrillers:

'An absolute rollercoaster! So many twists and turns... When I thought I'd figured it all out... BOOM! There came the ending. I'm speechless!' Reader review ⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐

'This story is wild!! Actual mind-blowing psychological fiction that has you simultaneously shouting at the characters to stop their crazy antics, while turning pages at a rate of knots to find out what will happen next!! This is the most original book I have read in YEARS!' Reader review ⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐

'Oh my god! I literally couldn't put this book down! I had to keep reading, the suspense is unreal. Absolutely packed with twists and shocking turns' Reader review ⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐

'I was hooked from the beginning and I had to find out what was going to happen. I didn't even want to go to work because I'd have to stop reading. You won't want to put this book down I finished it in 24 hours!... Just wow!' Reader review ⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐

'Great book. Was up all night reading it... the twists and turns are fab. Definitely 5 stars ⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️' Reader review ⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐

'What. A. Debut. This one is going to get people talking... a fantastic read that you will not want to put down. Bravo!' Reader review ⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐

Release date: May 28, 2026

Publisher: Hodder & Stoughton

Print pages: 320

Sample

PROLOGUE

The night sky is black and star-spangled, as it always is on clear summer evenings like this one. All the smoke and fizz and bang of the earlier fireworks display — the annual August bank holiday celebrations — has gone, chased away by the gentle sea breeze. Just the hint of cordite hangs in the air, acrid and perfumed, amid the distant call of gulls further out, on the wing, still unnerved by the explosions.

The man picks his way along the beach, allowing his dog off the lead to explore every piece of festering seaweed and discarded litter. He stands looking out across the water, enjoying the peace and quiet now that all the festivities are over for another year, all the bars and restaurants emptied out. He watches the boats bob lazily, as though rocked to sleep by the tide, and he yawns.

He is about to turn his gaze inland again, to whistle up his dog and return home to his own waiting bed, when his eye snags on a patch of colour. It is way across on the other side of the bay, where houses and cottages nestle together, cheek by jowl, as they creep up the cliff side. It is a powdery orange hue. But as his eyes struggle to focus in the moonlight, it takes on a brighter glow, alive and moving. A haze of smoke drifts upwards.

At first he presumes it must be some of the local kids mucking about; an unauthorised, after-hours bonfire, a private party continuing late into the night. Is that a shower of sparks he can see shooting into the air? Everyone knows this sort of thing is not allowed outside the designated areas ordained by the ­council. But youngsters round here get bored. Tonight is one of the few nights they get to let their hair down, when the intense heat and activity of the tourist season peaks and boils over.

He calls to his dog, turning his body away, when a loud bang draws his head back with a jolt. The sound of it ricochets off the sides of the buildings along the shore, the faces of the craggy inlets. Surely it’s just hoodlums letting off rogue bangers. But the sound gives him concern, makes him pause. It isn’t the jubilant snap and crackle of his childhood, the illicit pop of his youth. It is like a landslide; the sound of something falling, collapsing.

The man strains his eyes a final time to see the golden colour intensify, the smoke billowing now, growing bolder with every passing moment. It is a fire; a real one. Not constructed for pleasure or celebration but fast, furious and out of control. He turns, snapping the lead onto his dog’s collar, and begins to run.

By the time he has dialled the emergency services, shouting into his mobile phone in broken sentences, it is confirmed that a fire crew has already been alerted and dispatched. Nevertheless, he carries on running round to the other side of the harbour and into the streets of houses, the high orange glow in the sky his only navigational tool.

As he reaches the site of the fire, he sees there is nothing he can do to help. The fire brigade is already assembled outside the row of tall terraced buildings, focusing their efforts on the one with the scaffolding, half of which has collapsed. The heat from the burning house is immense now, rendering the air thick and toxic as embers fill the sky like fireflies. The crew works efficiently, deploying the equipment, aiming the torrents of water at different sections of the burning shell.

Nearby, residents stand on their doorsteps looking on forlornly, some peering out of upper windows, as though they are all watching yet another display, their faces a mask of shock rather than delight this time.

The man sees one of the crew standing by the fire engine, directing others in his team. He recognises him; the son of a friend he knows from this close-knit community of generations. He wanders over and the two nod briskly at each other in acknowledgement.

‘All right?’

‘Bit of a bloody mess this then.’

‘Sure is. But we’ve got it under control.’

‘Everyone out okay, then? Next door. No one hurt, I hope?

The younger man looks towards the houses but makes no answer as he coordinates his team, calling out instructions.

‘Just as well it was a building site, eh? No one living there. Silver linings and all that,’ the man says, tugging his dog to heel.

Something passes over the other’s face. He sees it.

‘What is it, Tom? What’s happened?’

‘Sod it,’ he hears him mutter. ‘It’ll probably be all around the town by daybreak anyway. Don’t say I told you but we’ve pulled a couple of people out. Now do me a favour and get back would you?’

1

‘First person to see the sea!’ she shouts. It comes out of her mouth, this phrase, like an echo across time, dredged up from her own childhood memories of trips to the coast.

‘Where, Mama?’

Lottie twists around in her seat to reassure her three-year-old as he cranes his neck towards the car window.

‘Keep watching, Joshie.’

She winds her window down and the smell of fresh brine hits her, the sound of gulls calling overhead. And with it a feeling of excitement uncurls in the pit of her stomach. They are here at last. This holiday has been much anticipated; saved for, longed for, needed. It is their first proper holiday together as a family, the first time their son has been away from their small London flat for more than a night or two.

The taxi driver queries the address with her.

‘Which number did you say?’

‘Number 15, Cliff Road,’ she answers, checking the details once again on her phone.

‘Thought so.’ He grunts and makes a right turn.

They have travelled down on the train. Neither she nor her husband, Tim, owns a car. There’s never been much need in London, though the buggy can be a faff on the Tube. But they’ve always opted for public transport. It suits their wallet and their green credentials. Most of the time.

‘How long you staying?’ asks the driver in his bluff, laconic tone.

‘A week,’ supplies Tim as he points at something out of the window. He is a teacher and so they must restrict breaks to the school holidays. It is one of the reasons they’ve never been away, the cost being so prohibitive during the summer months.

‘You’ll just miss the bank holiday fireworks on the Saturday night then,’ says the driver. ‘The world and his wife will be down for the last weekend in August,’ he adds wearily.

Lottie can’t decide if this is a good or a bad thing. This taxi driver isn’t the most hospitable of chauffeurs, his tone somehow disapproving even though the cab fare is rising at an extortionately fast rate. He’d seemed to sneer when they appeared at the station with all their kiddo paraphernalia. She and Tim had packing down to a fine art when they were students, travelling with their few belongings strapped to their backs. But things are different now they have a child.

As the car winds its way down towards the bottom of the town, she catches sight of the water shimmering like silver. The sun is high in a cloudless blue sky and pretty boats are arranged in the harbour, reminiscent of Josh’s bath toys. The houses cling to the cliffside in shades of grey, blue and pink, alongside flowering bushes and shrubs the colour of sugared almonds.

Counting the numbers as the car slows to a crawl, Lottie holds her breath. The photos on the holiday rental website had looked charming. They are staying in part of an old period property that must have been split into separate apartments at some point over the years. It overlooks the bay, with stunning views of the harbour through a large picture window in the lounge. Casting another glance at the rental listing, she notes that the owner’s instructions advise them to approach from the rear where they can access the house via the back garden, which is stepped into the hillside.

When they come to an abrupt halt, Tim pays the taxi driver while Lottie tries not to look at the eye-watering amount. She busies herself unstrapping Josh from the car seat, wondering if the driver is going to help them unload their luggage from the boot. Apparently not. Instead, he remains seated, scratching his tanned, hairy forearms and peering out through the windscreen.

‘Looks like you’ve got some company,’ he calls through to the back of the car.

Lottie catches the jeering note in his voice and looks up in the direction of the houses. They are tall white multi-storey buildings, built in the Georgian style. Their faces are weathered with salt and wind yet most are recently painted and well maintained. But then her attention is caught by the house further along. Its facade is covered with ugly scaffolding and orange tarpaulin, the sign for a local building firm attached halfway up, like a flag.

The taxi driver shakes his head and pulls away without ­another word while Tim, Lottie and a wriggling Josh are left by the ­roadside with all their kit and caboodle. Lottie takes a few steps along the pavement. The sound of drilling and the high-pitched screech of a stone-cutting machine can be heard, breaking the spell of the holiday brochure magic.

How close, she wonders with a rising sense of panic. How close is their holiday let to this building site? She looks again for the numbers. Some are attached to the side of the house, others are nailed to the garden gate.

‘Mama, wait for me,’ she hears her son call behind her as she lopes forward in haste.

She comes to a stop outside a gate marked with the number fifteen. It opens onto a flight of stone steps dotted with earthenware pots of geraniums, leading downwards. A blue door can be seen tucked in next to a neatly appointed decking area and garden. It is perfect. Her fingers itch to unlatch the gate, hurry down and locate the key safe. To explore their home for the next week, where she knows she will find seagrass carpets and elegant white furniture alongside a modern kitchen and bathroom.

But to the right, just next door, a full-blown renovation project is in progress. A cloud of dust rises into the air as a couple of builders shout and curse to each other. The garden, separated from theirs only by a few paving stones now that the original fence has been demolished, resembles a merchant’s yard. Planks of wood are propped up against the far wall. Piles of bricks are stacked seemingly at random. The perpetual whine of power tools is like a desperate child, unable to be soothed.

As Tim and Josh catch up with her, Lottie hears her husband groan softly while her toddler gives out an audible gasp of excitement.

‘Look, Bob the Builder. Me wanna go see Dizzy,’ he says, pointing to the concrete mixer which churns away continuously.

Lottie turns to look at Tim, flashing meaning from her eyes. He returns her gaze with a resigned droop of his shoulders.

‘Not now, eh mate?’ he says to Josh. ‘It’s not safe. Bob’s very busy doing lots of jobs.’

Lottie swears under her breath, feels her teeth gritting involuntarily.

‘What wrong, Mama?’ asks Josh, sensing his mother’s mood.

‘Nothing, sweet pea. It’s just very hot and I’m a bit tired from the long journey.’

Both of these things are true. She can feel the sun beating down on them and not a single hat or slick of SPF between them. The air is thick and muggy too. Where is the fresh coastal breeze she was hoping for? Instead, she feels a trickle of sweat running down her spine, licks her parched lips and senses a layer of dust already settling on her skin. She looks to the builders who are strolling around in shorts and jeans, their bronzed arms covered in elaborate tattoos. One is leaning against a wall, snatching a pull on his vape.

But then an older man comes forward. He seems to have an air of authority as he answers his phone, shouting into it hoarsely.

‘Right, you lot,’ he says once the call is ended. ‘Site visit. ­Client and architect, on their way. Shift yourselves.’

Lottie turns to Tim with a look of challenge on her face.

‘Let’s just get inside, shall we?’ he says. ‘Start to unpack.’

He leads them off down the steps, trailing the buggy and a large rucksack like some kind of sherpa. Lottie scoops Josh into her arms, partly to avoid him tripping down the steps but also because she instinctively wants to protect him. Everything suddenly feels full of menace; the scorching sun, the ear-splitting noise, the sharp edges. Even the hard stares that she has ­detected from one or two of the builders. And she follows on behind.

Inside the holiday apartment, they dump their luggage and explore. Lottie lets a squirming Josh down onto the floor and he immediately runs into the lounge, pressing his hands and face up against the large bay window. She can hear him whispering to himself, exclaiming at all the boats moored in the harbour. A couple of paddleboarders can be seen drifting serenely along the coastline. Coloured bunting waves back at them cheerfully from the far side of the water. It looks like a picture postcard. Instagram-worthy, she thinks and wants to whip out her phone, to capture it and post it to social media with a triumphant comment: ‘Have arrived in paradise’.

Tim lets out a heavy sigh behind her.

‘It’s a bit stuffy, don’t you think? Where’s the air con?’

There is an antiquated-looking fan in the centre of the ceiling rose. He finds the switch and it begins to stir the hot, soupy air around the space.

‘Let’s just open some windows. Let in a bit of fresh air, shall we?’ says Lottie.

But as soon as she unlatches the lounge windows a crack, the sound of drilling and hammering can be heard, leaking into the room. She had hoped that all the building work would be confined to the back of the house but as she looks down, more builders can be seen working on the front garden, landscaping it with concrete and stone.

‘We can’t leave those open for long,’ says Tim. ‘Everything will be covered in dust.’

Lottie slumps onto the white sofa. Next to her is the beautiful fireplace, as advertised in the website photos. A large mirror above the mantelpiece reflects light back into the spacious room. Everything is decorated in tasteful shades of white, grey and pastel blue. Charming prints of sea birds grace the walls and an antique model sailing boat is positioned in one of the alcoves. She will have to make sure that is beyond Josh’s reach. Her gaze comes to rest on the carved marble fireplace once again. And that’s when she hears it. Or rather, she feels it.

A resounding thump reverberating from next door. As though one of the workmen has taken a mallet to the fireplace’s twin on the other side of the wall. A fine shower of dust comes down the chimney and scatters itself on the hearth. Another thump accompanies it. Then another. She looks up to see the ceiling fan shaking, as if in fear.

‘This is bloody ridiculous,’ she says, heaving herself off the sofa. ‘The website said nothing about this place being right next to a bloody building site.’

‘Bloody. Bloody. Bloody,’ she hears Josh repeating to himself as he stares out of the window. His lips and fingers have left smear marks all over the glass pane. The perfect view has become distorted already and she hasn’t even had chance to take a photo.

‘Right, that’s it. I’m going next door to speak to someone. It’s not even legal to be working at this time on a weekend, surely? And we’re sending an email to the rental owners too, Tim. I’m not having this. It’s bloody outrageous.’

2

‘Mind your step, kids,’ Olivia calls as her son and daughter follow on behind. She can tell by the slope of their shoulders, their faces, that they are not nearly as excited about this as she’d hoped they’d be.

‘All right, Mum. I think we can manage some steps, y’know,’ says her son Drew, blowing his floppy fringe away from his hot forehead. Her daughter, Bella, picks her way down the steps more carefully, mindful of her bare toes in flip-flops.

‘God, it’s a bit of a shit hole, isn’t it?’ she says as she finally catches up to them, appraising the building site and scaffolding. ‘I thought you said it was nearly finished.’

‘Language, Belle,’ admonishes Olivia softly. She has given up trying to control her daughter now she is at university but she still tries to keep up some standards. ‘You’ve just got to imagine all this will be gone and we’ll have a lovely decked area, sun loungers, fire pit. But the really exciting stuff is happening inside. We’ve knocked through a lot of the rooms and there’ll be a glorious open-plan living, dining, kitchen space.’ She feels like she’s been giving the same spiel for months now, telling everyone about the plans for the renovation. ‘You’ll love it,’ she promises. ‘Imagine the parties, the entertaining we can do. Friends down for the summer. You could invite people on holiday.’

‘No thanks, Mum. I’m already planning to do Ibiza with the girls next summer.’

Olivia feels herself deflate.

‘Oh well, we don’t have to decide right now. The main thing is we’ll have the whole of next summer to enjoy here once it’s ready. Long weekends away as soon as the weather starts to pick up next spring. And I can’t wait to come back in autumn once all the tourists have left and the kids are back to school.’

‘Mum, we are tourists,’ Drew reminds her.

‘No, we’re not. We’re homeowners. Part of the community now.’

‘Second-home owners,’ clarifies her son. ‘Part of the problem, not the solution.’

She wishes he wouldn’t be quite so high-handed with her these days. Drew has always been her favourite. Oh, she knows you’re not supposed to have them, but she’s so proud of her bright, talented son. Though, since he started his A levels and began studying politics, their views rarely seem to align any more.

Bella, on the other hand, is just like her father. Both fire signs with hair to match. When they are sitting on the sofa, red heads bent together, sharing one of their in-jokes, Olivia has felt a little left out over the years. It doesn’t help that she’s often the butt of the joke, their cruel humour. They think she’s a dippy hippy, an airhead, because she believes in more than the physical, material aspects of life.

‘Is it safe to come in, darling?’ she calls ahead to her husband, Tobias, who has marched on straight into the house. He’s been very much involved in the renovation right from the beginning, taking pride in project-managing the build in conjunction with Marcus, the architect. Speaking of which, she thinks, shouldn’t he be here by now?

She looks over her shoulder hoping to catch a glimpse of Marcus’s distinctive car and tall, muscular build clad in its usual uniform of white shirt and high-vis jacket. Instead, Tobias shouts to her from within the house before his russet head and pink-cheeked face appears in the doorway.

‘Come on then, you lot,’ he barks.

Obediently, Olivia gathers up the hem of her long white dress, silver bangles clanking around her wrists, and steps carefully through the sandy rubble and over the threshold.

The house appears to have been turned inside out since she last viewed it, all those months ago. When she and Tobias had seen it advertised for sale in a local estate agent’s window, their mouths had both watered. This was the one, she was sure of it. They had reached the end of a blissful week on holiday. ­Tobias and Drew had spent most of the time sailing while she and Bella had sunbathed and swum in the sea – when they weren’t pottering around the chi-chi boutiques or buying fresh fish to barbecue for supper.

The house was obviously in need of a grand-scale make­over, which combined with the asking price had been a bit of a stretch. But happily they’d paid off the mortgage on their London property years ago and Tobias needed something on which to spend his bonus. It was either that or give it all to the taxman.

Now, as she looks about at the high ceilings, the marble fireplaces, the large windows, they are all that’s left of the original building they first viewed. Most of the walls have been stripped back to the bare bones, the hideous carpets torn up to reveal beautiful herringbone wood flooring, which will be lovingly sanded and restored. She hopes the builders are being careful to protect all these features – the true spirit of the house, as she likes to imagine it. As soon as she had stepped inside this place, she felt it was right. It had a good energy. This was her future. She could be happy here, finally.

Olivia continues down the stairs to the main floor as Bella and Drew explore the upper level, choosing what will eventually be their bedrooms. As she descends, her husband’s imperious tones waft up to meet her.

‘Why hasn’t there been more progress?’ says Tobias ­pointedly. He wanders around pulling at random wires sprouting from the walls, toeing piles of debris on the floor. ‘I thought we’d agreed that these rooms would all be replastered by now and the first fix on the wiring was supposed to have been in place last week. Why are we behind schedule?’

There is no real need to shout now, as all the tools and machines have been turned off in honour of their visit, the ­various workmen congregating outside in the garden to take advantage of the break.

The foreman rocks backwards and forwards on his heels.

‘Two of the lads have been off sick,’ he answers. ‘One of them was testing positive for Covid so he was off for a while.’

‘Oh for God’s sake,’ says Tobias. ‘It’s no more than a common cold. Everyone with half a brain is fully vaccinated these days, anyway. Must they really take so much time off?’

Olivia joins her husband and places what she hopes is a calming hand on his shoulder. She hates it when his skin takes on this livid, mottled hue. The foreman, whose name is actually Bill, she believes (though Tobias never seems to remember this) shrugs in a ‘what can you do?’ sort of way.

‘We’re still a bit under-staffed. I’ll see if we can’t draft in another guy. Make up some lost time,’ he says.

‘Problem?’ calls another voice behind them all and Olivia looks up to see Marcus has arrived. ‘You know, you should all be wearing hard hats in here,’ he reminds them and proffers a spare one to Olivia. She takes it shyly, placing it on her head, wondering what it will be doing to her artfully tousled updo.

‘Oh, hello, Marcus,’ says Tobias. ‘Can you have a word and make sure we pick up the slack a bit? We’ve got to make the most of the weather before autumn sets in. Especially if that roof is to be patched up in time. I promised Livvy here that we’d be finished by winter. She’s been fantasising about some alone time by the sea, haven’t you, darling?’ He winks at the other two men. ‘Can’t wait to get away from me and the kids.’

‘Tobias,’ she scolds, feeling herself blush. She pivots between Bill and Marcus, smiling. ‘Honestly, don’t worry about me. I know how long these things can take.’

Marcus coughs.

‘Better to get the job done right first time, Mrs Woolf.’

His face is stern and she feels herself straighten, ­reprimanded, as she nods eagerly in agreement.

‘Of course. Exactly. Better to be safe than sorry.’

3

Lottie yanks open the door and runs up the stone steps, two at a time. She realises that all the noise has ceased for some reason, which momentarily takes the wind out of her sails, but then she sees the builders lounging around outside in the next door ­garden and her ire is reignited.

‘Excuse me,’ she says. ‘Hello. Hi.’ Her eyes range around the figures, trying to make contact. ‘Can I speak to someone in charge, please?’

She is standi. . .