The Woman in Coach D

by Sarah A. Denzil

Genres: Women's Fiction; Psychological Thrillers

Synopsis

“Let the fear set you free, Jenny.”

It’s been sixteen years since Susie Patterson last told me those words. Sixteen years since our ever-escalating dares and challenges finally went too far, and my best friend plunged into the icy waters of Hangman’s Cave never to be seen again.

I’ve spent every moment since trying to come to terms with what happened - and recover the memories I lost the night my best friend died. I’ve been a wreck - tormented by panic attacks, treated like a pariah, and never quite certain that all the terrible things people whisper about me behind my back aren’t true.

All I know for certain is that the night Susie died, the person I used to be died as well.

Except suddenly, I’ve discovered that Susie’s not dead. I saw her again just now, getting off the same train as me at Manchester Piccadilly station. I looked into her eyes, and they were exactly the same as the eyes I used to stare into back when we were teenagers.

It shouldn’t be possible. I thought my fractured mind was playing tricks on me. There’s no way Susie could still be alive all these years later…

Then, the letter arrives. An envelope containing pages from the diary I wrote back when I was just seven years old, accompanied by a handwritten note.

Susie is alive, and she asking me a question:

“Are you ready to play our game again?”

The Woman in Coach D is an intense and addictive psychological suspense by bestselling author Sarah A. Denzil, the “mistress of twists.” It’s a must-read for fans of Gillian Flynn, Frieda McFadden, and Paula Hawkins.

 

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Release date: October 10, 2024

Print pages: 406

Sample

Prologue

 

The abyss yawns beneath their toes. Somewhere, deep down in the throat of that black hole, awaits freezing cold water. But the drop is long before their bodies will hit the water. She looks to her friend, terror written starkly across her young features. Skin pulled tight across a quivering jaw, eyes darting along the dark landscape. They clasp hands, both letting out a nervous giggle.

This is the one. The challenge to end it all. This is what they’ve both been waiting for. And now they’ve finally dug deep enough to mine out the bravery needed.

Or stupidity.

People have died at this spot. She knows that. It’s closed to the public for that very reason. They are trespassing in a place that doesn’t belong to them, but they don’t care.

She looks at her best friend in the entire world and knows she’s doing the right thing. Her friend looks back, long hair flowing in the wind, tears formed in the corners of her eyes. Maybe from the wind, maybe not. They both nod and they say the words.

One, two, three

Dare you, dare me.

Her body trembles, her toes tense around the crumbling edge of the drop.

One, two, three

Let the fear set you free.

She pulls in a deep breath, redirecting her eyes to the hole below them. The cave. The ancient drop where so many others have fallen to their deaths. But not them. They won’t die, because they are protected.

One, two, three

Follow you, follow me.

She notices her voice is shaking. So is her entire body. She has never been so terrified in her life. And this isn’t the first time she’s leapt into the unknown.

One, two, three

Let the fear set you free.

Let the fear set you free.

Her friend steps first. She hesitates. Only for a split second, but she does. And then she bends her knees. She flies into the air. Her fingers come loose from her friend’s grip and the darkness swallows them both. She hangs there, for just the briefest of moments, before gravity pulls her into the abyss. And then she’s gone.

 

 

Chapter One

 

December rain taps against the umbrella canopy. Water drips down to my shoes. A steady stream of traffic fills the space around me with the white noise of swooshing of tyres. I take my time approaching the train station. I’m early, which is exactly how I like it.

“Sorry, love.”

The sudden knock against my umbrella almost loosens it from my grip. I lift a hand to accept the woman’s apology, but she is already ahead of me, hurrying to Harrison Park station. I recognise her from my regular commute into Manchester city centre. She always wears a navy-blue trench coat that complements her olive complexion. She must be catching the earlier train today. If I run, I could get it, too, but I don’t. I’d rather wait the extra twenty minutes for my usual train and sit in the seat I always reserve. Coach D, seat 22. If I get the earlier train, my seat reservation won’t count, and I could end up standing. Even after 5 p.m., the train into Manchester is busy and I’m not a big fan of crowded spaces.

Harrison Park station is small, just one platform and a ticket office. I know exactly where to stand on the platform to get on the correct carriage. I hang back first, letting the earlier train leave. A few minutes later, I pick my spot to wait.

The rain almost makes me regret letting the earlier train leave. There could be delays. I could end up standing here for an hour. I’m wearing court shoes with a slight heel. I’m usually in flats but I was taking minutes in an important meeting today at work and had to come straight from the office to catch the train.

My ex-boyfriend, Jack, used to laugh at my small feet and the fact I could never find comfortable shoes. Every pair rubbed my skin or squashed my toes or fell off my feet when I walked too fast. Later he’d roll his eyes, sick of it. I should probably have seen the break-up coming at that point, but I loved him so much. Too much. An all-consuming, unhealthy love that can only be born from a trauma bond.

A garbled message comes over the Tanoy sound system, bringing me back to the present. Jack and I are over. I’ve been single for six months and am renting a small, terraced house. Harry, my housemate, makes me a cup of tea after a nightmare. And, no, we’re not having sex, we’re just friends, but he still treats me better than my ex. Jack was sympathetic towards my anxiety at first, but then he started wearing ear plugs or headphones so I wouldn’t disturb him at night. What at first endeared me to him ended up frustrating him.

I pace the platform, watching familiar faces arrive. A few even nod at me. There’s the pink-cheeked man who smokes at the end of the platform. The anorak lady who always clutches her handbag like one of us is going to rob her. The woman with honey-coloured hair and full lips who is almost always in a hurry but still an absolute knockout despite running for the train.

Finally, it screeches up to the platform, and I take my usual seat by the window. I grab my phone and consider checking my work inbox but there’s nothing too pressing going on. My boss, Trudy, won’t have even read the minutes yet. There’s a group of men in suits drinking bottles of Peroni a few seats away from me. Ties are askew, the top button of their shirts undone. It’s Friday night and they’re heading into the city centre for drinks after work.

My stop approaches. I tug on my winter coat, bracing myself for the biting December wind, and shuffle down the aisle to the door. As the train lurches, my foot catches on someone’s bag strap and I pitch forward for a few uneven steps. Then I right myself, turning to apologise to the woman whose bag I accidentally kicked.

“No problem,” she says.

Her blue eyes tilt up to mine. She’s around my age, I think, in her early thirties, but there are bags under her eyes and her skin is dry and flaky. Her hair hangs limp and greasy, but it’s a beautiful golden colour. She wears a large wax jacket that completely swamps her tiny frame.

I double take.

“Have we met?” I ask.

She shakes her head. “I don’t think so.”

A tremor works its way along her jaw as though she is gritting her teeth, and then those azure eyes turn to the train window. The doors open, and I hurry through the rest of the carriage. A thundering sound echoes through my mind as I step down onto the platform. It takes a moment to realise it’s my throbbing pulse.

Cold wind slaps me on the face. I’m soon lost in the crowd. Manchester Piccadilly is a vast, open space that now feels tight and constrained as I’m surrounded by coats and suitcases and shoulders. My chest tightens. I need to get away from these people, away from the sound of trains pulling in, whistles blowing, station staff hollering. There are harsh lights above me, like hospital lights, and then an escalator, and then turnstiles, and all the time my breath is frozen in my lungs, and I can’t breathe. I’m sweating. It trickles down my temples. My face feels bloodless, and my hands shake as I search for my ticket to scan.

I know the signs now. I’ve experienced panic attacks for over a decade. While my body is in flight or fight mode, I force myself to keep going, to move and breathe and follow the flow of the people in front of me.

The arrow glows green on the turnstile and I hurry through, rushing out of the exit as quickly as I can without shoving people out of my way. Even then it takes me a few minutes to find a quiet place, somewhere I can sit on a bench and pull in a deep breath. I use the circular breathing method of holding my breath before releasing it, and then I touch the wood with bare fingertips, grounding myself to this place, this moment.

“Mummy loves you, Jenny. Don’t forget that.”

Her voice in my mind is what anchors me, pulling away from the attack, and finally letting it go. Mum tucking me in for bed. Making me marmite sandwiches. Wrapping my small body into hers as we watch The X Factor in fuzzy socks.

I smile. I’m back. I lived through it. Sometimes panic attacks trick my brain into thinking I’m going to die. Sometimes they fizz and crackle beneath the surface, lasting for hours, or even days.

Then the smile fades from my face. It was the woman, I think. She triggered this. I know her from somewhere, but I just can’t remember where.