The Stranger Next Door
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Synopsis
'A fascinating and unputdownable thriller with a devious twist' JOHN MARRS, bestselling author of What Lies Between Us
'The Stranger Next Door has all the very best ingredients for a perfect thriller! I thoroughly recommend it' SAMANTHA HAYES, author of The Happy Couple, Date Night and Single Mother
'Twisty, compelling and incredibly pacy, The Stranger Next Door will keep you on the edge of your seat from the first page to the last' PHOEBE MORGAN, author of The Doll House and The Girl Next Door
When Matt and Imogen move out of the city, they're hoping for a much-needed fresh start. Matt throws himself into his new job, but Imogen struggles to adjust to life in quiet Surrey. She's grateful for the kind welcome from new neighbour Nancy, and they soon become close friends.
So when Nancy makes a shocking accusation, Imogen doesn't know who to trust. This isn't the first time Matt has found himself on the wrong end of a false accusation. . . but is Nancy hiding secrets of her own?
As simmering tensions threaten to boil over, Imogen is in more danger than she realises. Can she uncover the truth before she loses everything?
An utterly gripping thriller with a jaw-dropping twist, perfect for anyone who loved The Family Upstairs, Here to Stay or An Unwanted Guest.
Praise for THE STRANGER NEXT DOOR
'I read it over two nights. . . it had a good twist at the end that I wasn't expecting' PATRICIA GIBNEY, author of the Detective Lottie Parker series
'I tore through this perfectly plotted tale of secrets and lies' VICTORIA SELMAN, author of Blood for Blood and Snakes and Ladders
'Loved it . . . [a] superb domestic drama that smolders the whole way through, stoked by a set of central characters who are so well imagined they really could be living next door' JAMES DELARGY, author of 55 and Vanished
(P)2021 Headline Publishing Group Limited
Release date: September 16, 2021
Publisher: Headline
Print pages: 352
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The Stranger Next Door
Adam Southward
The stretcher caught on the kerb, the wheels snagging, lurching to the left before righting itself. The paramedics yanked it free, cursing as they pulled it on to the road.
Smoke billowed from the rear of the house. The firefighters ran in and out, unpacking more equipment, rolling hoses across the front lawn, shouting at each other with controlled urgency. The noise swept over me. I couldn’t process it. Just another wave of chaos.
I resisted the urge to run to the ambulance, to jump inside and beg. My legs were frozen, rooted to the ground. The grief was overwhelming; the relentless build-up of the last few weeks seizing my every muscle.
A second stretcher appeared, a second body bag, wheeled more carefully, missing the kerb. The paramedics lifted this one easily into the vehicle. The bile caught in my throat this time. I coughed again, my saliva thick with ash.
How did it come to this? How could it? This was my house, my family, destroyed by reasons too hurtful to contemplate. I sank to the ground, hugging my knees to my chest, thoughts spinning with pain as the shivers took me.
The air was electric, the storm gathering pace. The rain hadn’t arrived yet, but the wind howled through the street, taking my breath with it. Jake barked from a neighbour’s garden – he’d got out, scared but unhurt, not even a mark on his golden fur. A firefighter had taken him to calm him down. His barking cut through my shock, keeping me from the brink. Beyond, there was only darkness.
I shook my head, blinking to clear my vision and my mind. The curtains were still drawn in Ashley’s windows, untouched by the blaze. I pictured the neatly made bed, patterned with hedgehogs – Ashley’s favourite – and the patchwork quilt rolled up at the end. It would fall on to her dolls’ house, knocking the delicate figures over. Ash moved them around inside the dolls’ house every day, a wonderful cycle of disorder in which only a child could delight.
My Ashley. Perfect. Vulnerable, as all children are.
I turned to Nancy’s house, standing untouched, separated by the flawlessly trimmed hedge and picket fence. Nancy’s house would never be the same, either. It might not burn, but it was damaged beyond repair. Some wounds would never heal.
The shivers increased. A paramedic sauntered over, pulling a silver blanket from his bag. I took it but refused to move. He backed away, promising to return.
Thoughts of Matt spun out of control, refusing to settle, refusing to make sense. Imogen and Matt Roberts, the perfect couple. My perfect husband, and now what? I knew it would get worse before it got better, but I struggled to tear myself away from this moment, where time had stopped, a period of respite between the pain of before and the pain yet to come.
There was a roar as the first police car entered the road. It was followed by a second. They disappeared from view behind the fire trucks and the sirens stopped. The doors opened, slamming shut a second later. My heart missed a beat.
I’d expected to see them, but it didn’t reduce the shock. Or the fear.
Three short months.
And it still wasn’t over.
Three Months Earlier
Matt drew several deep breaths, savouring the smell of cut grass and a multitude of other garden scents, of tree pollen and shrubs and wildflowers. The tension of the last few months seeped away. He could feel it in his shoulders and neck, a distinct shift in his posture. So this is what relaxed feels like. The physical relief was palpable, and he allowed himself a smile. London was behind them, and the country sun beat down as he turned to Imogen. She squinted, pecking him on the lips.
‘See,’ she said. ‘I was right.’
‘As usual.’
It was a great house. Old and detached with four bedrooms, a hundred-foot lawn and a block-paved driveway. He’d viewed it only once, trusting Imogen to make the final decision. Now they were moving in, it was even better than he remembered.
‘Have we really bought a house in a private country estate?’ he said.
‘Village community,’ said Imogen.
‘What’s the difference?’
‘The price, I think,’ said Imogen.
It had been rather high, on their financial limit, but he’d convinced himself they’d manage – and they didn’t have a whole load of options, given the timescale. His new job paid quite well, all things considered, plus the cost of everything else would be lower outside London. Besides, it was perfect for Ashley. The primary school on the main road was highly rated, and they already had a place for her, starting in the autumn term.
‘You did well,’ he said, nudging her gently in the ribs.
‘I know,’ she said. ‘These places never come on the market. Can you believe it?’ Her dark hair fluttered around her face and she swept it out of her eyes, tucking a few strands behind her ears. Her smile was infectious and Matt grinned, reaching out to her.
Imogen squeezed Matt around the waist, her hand fidgeting like it always did when she was nervous or excited. He suspected a little of both. He was nervous too, but he hid it better. More practised, perhaps. They looked left and right at the neighbouring houses, then back to theirs – standing proud in prime position at the end of the cul-de-sac.
‘Number thirteen,’ she said. ‘It’s lucky we’re not superstitious.’
There were only thirty-one houses in the community, bordered by a natural treeline and a security gate on to the main road. Tucked into the northeast corner of the village of Albury in Surrey, it was as idyllic as it got. Paintings were made of such villages, stories were told. People retired in places like this to get away from it all.
Matt knew he was lucky to live here. Lucky to get a second chance.
‘What do you think the neighbours are like?’ said Imogen.
‘I’m sure we’ll find out,’ said Matt. ‘But probably just like us. Perfect in every way.’
Imogen gripped him a little tighter. ‘It’s nice you think that,’ she said.
They enjoyed a few moments of silence, arm in arm, before a scream erupted from the car.
‘Mummy! Daddy!’
Ashley was bouncing in her seat, hammering on the window, her pigtails bouncing around her face, her brown eyes wide with excitement.
‘Somebody’s awake,’ said Imogen, breaking away. She opened Ashley’s door, trying but failing to stop Jake leaping out. He barged past Ashley and sprinted off into one of the neighbours’ front gardens, sniffing a small cherry tree before cocking his leg against it.
Ashley stretched, blinking several times before dancing over to Matt, burying her head against his stomach. Matt pulled her into a hug, gripping her small shoulders, reaching around to tickle her gently on the neck. She giggled, writhing away, but still too tired to escape. He wondered what she thought about the move, what questions might be bubbling around in her tiny head. She seemed to take it in her stride, her normal happy self – she was a perpetual daydreamer, often lost in her own little world, which was almost certainly a good thing. A more inquisitive personality might have asked more awkward questions by this point.
‘Is that our new house?’ she said, yawning. She looked puzzled. ‘I thought it would be blue.’
Matt stared down at her, her skinny body wrapped in denim dungarees and pink trainers, white socks pulled up to her knees. His chest tightened, a warm squeeze reminding him of what he had, what he could have lost. But he’d fixed it, would fix it. Just a few more loose ends, and everything would be sorted.
‘Blue?’
‘I had a dream,’ she said. ‘It was blue.’
Matt laughed, ruffling her hair. ‘That,’ he said, pointing to one of the upper front windows, ‘is your bedroom. Want to go and check it out?’
Ashley’s eyes widened. ‘Yes!’
‘I’ll open up,’ said Imogen. ‘Can you grab Jake?’
Matt nodded, emptying the boot of the car on to the driveway, keeping an eye out for the removal lorry. He scanned the road, taking in the mature leafy green gardens and the neatly trimmed hedges. He hadn’t paid much attention to the outside of their old house in Bermondsey – they always had at least one broken fence panel and a tree in need of lopping, weeds sprouting all over their driveway – but things were clearly different here, with each house exquisitely manicured. He suspected most of the neighbours were retirees with nothing to fill their time except hedge trimming. Perhaps they’d do his as well. Either that or he’d have to find a gardener. He certainly wasn’t going to do it himself.
He turned back to the car as his phone rang.
‘Happy moving day!’ It was Shelley, the editorial director at the Guildford Press – his new boss.
‘Shelley, hi,’ he said, not expecting a work call. He didn’t start for another week, taking the opportunity for some time off to unpack and wade through all of the moving paperwork.
‘Chill out,’ she said, ‘I can hear the tone in your voice. This isn’t work, it’s just a welcome to the area. Making sure you haven’t changed your mind, et cetera.’
Matt smiled. ‘No. Not changed my mind. I’ll be your new editor, right once I’ve finished unpacking my entire life’s belongings. Though the lorry hasn’t arrived yet, so this might be it.’
She laughed. ‘Don’t worry. If they don’t turn up, I have a blow-up bed you can borrow.’
‘Good to know,’ he said.
‘Just one thing,’ said Shelley. ‘HR tell me they’re still waiting on a reference, from your previous director, a Mr . . . let me see . . .’
‘Mr de Vries,’ said Matt. Damn. He’d hoped one reference was enough.
‘That’s him,’ said Shelley.
‘I’ll chase it,’ said Matt. ‘You’ll have it asap.’
‘Brilliant,’ said Shelley. ‘In which case, see you soon, Matt. And welcome – you’ll love it in Surrey. I promise.’
Matt tucked his phone into his pocket and forced away the faint unease that threatened his good mood. It would all come together. He’d work hard, and he’d try to make Imogen happy. She’d given up a lot to be here.
He’d promised he would make it worth her while.
‘Do you remember the first time we did this?’ said Matt, checking his watch. They’d been unpacking for almost three hours, and he was ready for a chilled glass of wine, or at the very least a warm one. His romantic suggestion of spending the first night sitting on boxes with takeaway pizza had been quickly dismissed by Imogen, who said she couldn’t relax until they’d made some headway. She’d barked orders until Ashley was in bed and all the essentials were unpacked. Jake was confined to the utility room until he calmed down, after which he lay in front of the fireplace, watching them both and yawning.
Imogen kept insisting unpacking was fun. Matt reluctantly played along, knowing that if it was left to him, they’d be sitting on boxes until they grew old and withered, their belongings preserved forever in bubble-wrap and cardboard.
‘We had less stuff the first time,’ said Imogen, shoving a box across the floor with her foot.
They’d moved immediately after their wedding, fifteen years ago. Matt remembered the stress of not only planning the big day but also coordinating the house, which was to be ready on their return from their honeymoon. Their new life together in London would be sealed.
‘We had cheaper stuff,’ he said.
Imogen shrugged. ‘Stuff is stuff. It’s not . . . you know.’ She kicked another box, turning away.
Matt paused, watching her linger in the doorway, facing away, through the kitchen-diner towards the garden. She’d loved their little garden in London, the outdoors, getting in touch with nature – she told him it was a necessary contrast from the clinical confines of the hospital. She used to drag him for long walks in the parks, out of the city for a few hours and into proper countryside. She’d sometimes take her trainers and go for a jog. Matt would make an excuse, feign an injury, trail behind. They used to run together, years ago. He couldn’t remember the last time they did.
He watched her now, the way she wrapped her arms around herself, holding her body tight. Perhaps they could again.
‘It’s not what makes a home,’ he said.
She turned, her face breaking into a surprised smile. He walked over, slipped his hands around her waist.
‘But I know what will,’ he said.
‘Oh?’ Her voice was soft. Not sad, but thoughtful.
‘You and Ash,’ he said. ‘That’s all it’ll take. We don’t need stuff.’ He kicked out, catching the nearest box with a dull thud.
Imogen chuckled, her breath hitting his cheek. She sighed. ‘You mean that? You really mean it?’
‘I mean it,’ he said, staring into her eyes, not blinking, not flinching. She had to believe he really meant it, or all of this was for nothing.
She held his gaze for a few moments before leaning in, kissing him firmly on the lips, causing a warm rush of excitement, of longing. He pulled her body against his. She tensed, for just a moment, before relaxing, pushing her arms against his chest, her fingers creeping up to undo his top button.
‘I believe you,’ she said, breaking away.
‘Good, then—’
But she shook her head, putting a finger to her lips. She kept her eyes on him, tiptoeing across the wood, biting her lower lip in the playful way that meant trouble. She stopped at the foot of the stairs.
‘Come on,’ she said. ‘It’s nearly midnight. Work’s over. Time for play.’
They lay on the mattress, catching their breath, Matt’s feet still tangled in the sheets. Imogen reached over and grabbed her wine glass from the floor. She sipped at it, her face glowing. Matt watched her lips, followed the curve of her neck down to her body.
‘Poor thing,’ she said. ‘Did I break you?’
‘Nearly,’ he said, pushing himself on to his elbows, ‘but I’ll survive.’
She passed him the glass and swung her legs off the mattress. ‘Good, because there’s plenty more work for you tomorrow. The kitchen door sticks, and so do the French doors. The dishwasher’s broken, oh, and there’s something wrong with the boiler.’ She winked and jumped up, grabbing her robe from the chair, slipping it on.
Matt laughed and sank into the pillow, listening to the shower start up. The door to the en-suite clicked shut and Matt closed his eyes, absorbing the sounds of the new house – the vibrations of water against the bath, the creak of pipes expanding, the whistle of the breeze through the window frames, and the most striking thing of all – the silence outside. He raised his head off the pillow, straining to hear the sound of a car, or a siren, or a group of teenagers shrieking on their way to a party.
Nothing. Not a peep of human activity. It would take a little getting used to.
He slid off the mattress and went to the window overlooking the back garden. He flicked the light off so he could see more than just his own reflection.
The gardens were dark, most of the houses darker still. Over the back fence was another row in the estate, all of the buildings silent and sleeping. Beyond was the main village, and then countryside for miles. He looked at the garden to the left. In the dim moonlight he could make out a large patio with a long table and chairs, ordered and neat.
To the right, the other neighbour’s garden looked more overgrown, not messy, just mature, large clumps of black hiding the lawn underneath. His eyes moved towards the house and he jumped – there was a figure near the back door. He squinted. An old man, wearing a bathrobe. He raised his hand to his mouth. Matt saw the ember of a cigarette glow bright orange, then fade.
Matt checked the time: 1 a.m. He didn’t know why the sight of the man had surprised him; he’d expect to see people in London this late. He leaned in against the window and realised the man was facing his way, staring at the house. He wondered whether to wave but decided it would look ridiculous, plus he was naked, albeit most of him was hidden beneath the windowsill.
The neighbour took another long drag of his cigarette before stubbing it out on the ground, the ember dying in a shower of sparks. He paused, staring at Matt’s window. Matt could have sworn he saw the man shaking his head, before he turned and disappeared into the house.
Matt didn’t mention it to Imogen. She’d tell him not to stare into people’s gardens, which, at this time of night, would be fair enough. He took a quick shower and they both collapsed on the mattress, sleep taking them quickly.
Matt found himself restless, in and out of the same, strange dream for hours – walking barefoot through his neighbour’s garden, late at night, high walls on each side, darkness at the end. He broke into a run, but it was never-ending. He stopped, his legs locked, unable to move another step. He turned around to find the old man in front of him. The man took a long drag of his cigarette, then flicked it through the air. It landed by Matt’s feet and extinguished.
The dream played on repeat until the early hours, when the silence of the countryside was broken by the sounds of his family. The welcome, noisy sounds of a young girl wanting her breakfast, and a dog wanting the same.
I waited until Matt fell asleep before I slipped out of bed and sat on the toilet, staring at the wall. The black and white mosaic tiles stared back – the tiles Matt had already said he’d replace with something more modern. I supposed I’d chosen the house, so he got to choose the tiles.
The insomnia was biting. My mind was racing, exhausted. My parents were right. They’d said moving was one of the most stressful things you could do in life. More than the other stuff. Moving away from them, our friends, from our hometown, only added to the pressure. Were we sure we needed to go?
Yes, I was sure.
An emotional rush. A sense of loss, or perhaps a premonition, something primal. A flicker of unease.
But we’d done it, hadn’t we? A perfect new beginning. The unease would be transient, the sinking feeling would rise. The simmering would dissipate and happiness would return.
It was just moving nerves. Matt was convinced of it.
I was trying. God, I was trying.
I put my mood down to the stress, the wine, the sex. The relentless positivity and smiling. Yes, dear, it’s perfect, and so are we. Let’s unpack, eat, drink, fuck like we’re newlyweds again. I was exhausted.
Focus on the future.
That meant not hiding in the bathroom all night. I tiptoed back into the bedroom, pausing at the door. I stared at Matt. He was out for the count, snoring with the annoying nasal hiss he saved for when I was too tired to complain.
I crept along the side of the bed, discovering the creaky floorboards, wondering why it mattered. If Matt woke up, we’d talk, we’d cuddle, we’d get frisky again and pretend we were fine. Matt was trying, too, I had to remember. This wasn’t easy on him, either. His enthusiasm hid the weight of the responsibility he carried.
Past Ashley’s room, I poked my head in. Fast asleep, duvet tucked around her shoulders, mouth hanging open. She was still too young for any of this to really affect her. That’s what I hoped, anyway.
The ground floor was alien in the dark, unfamiliar shadows, the dust still hovering. I heated some milk and stirred in hot chocolate. It was my comfort drink, the one my dentist told me I shouldn’t have in the middle of the night. But that was my old dentist. The new one might be more forgiving.
The garden was black, the sky lit with stars. I followed a few, trying to remember the constellations, racking my brains. What were you supposed to do? Use Orion’s Belt as a marker, trace the rest of the hunter’s body, working outwards. Matt had taught me that, lying on a beach in Brighton at 3 a.m., the alcohol making the sky spin until I couldn’t even find a streetlight without heaving. Matt had held my hair while I threw up on to the damp sand. I fell asleep in the taxi on the ride home. The stars were worth it, though. It was the only thing I remembered from that night.
My gaze fell. Our garden was huge. I loved it. You didn’t get gardens like that in London, not where we’d lived, anyway. The grass stretched away into the pitch-black, the magical secrets of the garden hidden from us mortals. The neighbours’ houses were out there somewhere, beyond the hedgerows, full of strangers. Full of opportunity.
The dregs of the hot chocolate were sickly sweet. I licked the inside of the mug, imagining Ashley scream, ‘Mummy, you’re not allowed to do that!’ I smiled, ran my tongue over my lips, and placed the evidence in the dishwasher.
Matt’s phone was on the worktop, on charge. The LED was flashing. Message. Email. Some banal social media notification. Or something else.
My stomach sank, just a little. It would fade, and there was really nothing for it to get itself in such knots about. I was clear on that.
I wouldn’t be here otherwise. I wouldn’t be trying this hard.
My heart fluttered, but I resisted. The phone would be locked, and I didn’t know his passcode. Why should I? I didn’t need to know it.
It was the dead of night, Matt was asleep, and trusting wives don’t check their husband’s phones.
The first few days passed in a frantic blur, the grotesque quantity of their material possessions laid bare as they struggled to shift them around the house, shoving toys into cupboards, clothes into wardrobes, pushing shoes under the stairs. Several boxes were hidden in the shed, perhaps ready for next time.
Matt ducked into the study while Imogen took Jake for a walk, something she did frequently to clear her head. Ash went with her, wanting to explore the village and look for sweet shops. ‘I’ll bring you back some bon-bons, Daddy, and perhaps some liquorice, if you’re good.’
Being good had dropped a little way down Matt’s list at the moment. He spun back and forth on his swivel chair, staring at the laptop screen. The early evening sun had dipped below the window-line, causing him to squint. Fitting blinds was a long way down the list.
The two paragraphs of text stared back at him. They weren’t quite right, but they’d have to do. Tinkering with it wouldn’t help matters. He had the headed paper, and the envelope ready to post. His gut sank with what he was doing. He’d already been offered the job. They wanted him. But the reference was the final hurdle, one which he’d hoped in vain would magically appear from his previous employer, no questions asked.
Except it was a personal reference, and the silence said it all.
His eyes drifted to the wedding photo Imogen had unpacked on to his desk, angled so he could see it from any position in the room. He smiled, both at the photo and the gentle nudge to his memories.
Their wedding had been lavish, Imogen taking her parents’ offer of a blank cheque at face value. Matt felt out of place for much of the day, scared to touch the bouquets, each costing more than his shoes, or ruffle the napkins that had each taken ten minutes to hand-fold. To be fair, Imogen didn’t care for any of that stuff either, but told him it was part of the experience – for the guests, not for them. Regardless, Matt drifted through the day in quiet contentment, watching Imogen beaming. She was happy, so he was happy. He couldn’t have wished for more.
She bought him a leather-bound writer’s notebook as a wedding gift, which he intended to keep in the top drawer in this very study. He’d never used it, scared to mark the soft material. Once used it would become just another notebook. Imogen had written a note on the first page: Stay faithful to the stories in your head. She’d taken it from a novel, although Matt could never remember the name of it. She added her own note below: Write your dreams. I hope I’m in them.
And she was. But fifteen years is a long time, and things were different now.
He huffed, struggling with the closing sentence, deleting and re-typing it a couple of times. Would they check? Did anybody check? He shouldn’t have to do this. He was innocent of any wrongdoing – had sworn it was all a misunderstanding, a lie – but they’d closed the door and that was that.
Imogen believed him. That was all that mattered.
Except he still needed the damn reference.
His fingers danced over the keys, interrupted as his phone buzzed, shuffling across the desk. He checked the caller ID and closed his eyes for a second, taking a deep breath before answering.
This was all he needed.
‘I can’t,’ he said, picturing his bank balance, the glaring red of his overdraft, the mess of credit card accounts.
A moment of silence. ‘You promised.’
Matt sighed. ‘I’ve just moved house. You know that. I don’t have it.’
A grunt. ‘I’m not asking for much. Just the usual.’
Matt closed his eyes, clenched his jaw. ‘It all adds up. I simply can’t right now.’ He paused. ‘I’m sorry, I really am. Maybe in a few months.’
He listened to the rapid breathing on the end of the phone.
‘I need it by the end of the week,’ came the reply, ‘or I don’t know what I’ll do.’
‘Look, I—’
The line went dead.
Matt stared at the screen for a few moments, waiting for his pulse to settle. It was an old threat, tired, worn out. He was certain of it.
Almost certain. The flutter in his chest said differently. But what could he do? He was being truthful, and he was damned if he’d let some empty threat distract him. There was no money left in his accounts, threat or not.
He tried to put it out of his mind, returning to the document he’d been working on, scanning it over one last time before hitting the print button. He took a deep breath and signed at the bottom, using long, sweeping handwriting, and folded the page carefully. He sealed the envelope, and with it, that period of his life. The period where he’d nearly come unstuck; nearly lost everything.
He tucked the envelope into the side pocket of his work bag, carefully out of sight.
This time would be different.
Matt took a deep breath, stretching his back, casting his eyes across the lush gardens to the front of the house. The spacing between the houses was generous, assuring privacy, the low fences bolstered by mature shrubs and trees overhanging the gardens and road. Through a small gap he spied Imogen, back from her walk. She was at the neighbour’s house to the left, standing in their front garden with Ash and Jake, chatting to a dark-haired woman dressed in a floral blouse and long pink skirt, apron tied at her waist.
Imogen said something and the woman laughed, waving her hands animatedly.
Matt had been expecting this. Getting to know the neighbours was something Imogen had been looking forward to. She’d made a point of stressing how important it was, that the faceless anonymity of London wouldn’t be acceptable here. It would be good for him, she’d said. Time to work on his people skills.
Perhaps, but Matt didn’t need to address it quite so rapidly. He stepped back from the window, keeping out of sight until Imogen broke away, heading home.
He watched her stroll up the garden path, swinging Ashley’s hand in hers, the optimism flooding back again, sweeping aside the nagging doubt.
His beautiful wife and daughter. He didn’t need anything else.
‘I think we need a new coffee machine,’ said Imogen, pouring a cup down the sink. It was Saturday morning and she fu. . .
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