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You won't be able to put this addictive No. 1 bestseller down . . .
And don't miss Clare Mackintosh's twisty new thriller - The Last Party is out now.
'No one writes a twist like Clare Mackintosh' PAULA HAWKINS
'A belter of a novel' HEAT
_____________________
The police say it was suicide.
Anna says it was murder.
Who do you believe?
One year ago, Caroline Johnson chose to end her life brutally: a shocking suicide planned to match that of her husband just months before. Their daughter, Anna, has struggled to come to terms with their loss ever since.
Now with a young baby of her own, Anna misses her mother more than ever and starts to ask questions about her parents' deaths. But by digging up the past, is she putting her future in danger?
Sometimes it's safer to let things lie . . .
_____________________
'Another one-more-chapter, stay-up-late sensation' LEE CHILD
'Absolutely BRILLIANT. I LOVED it. I think this is Clare Mackintosh's best yet' MARIAN KEYES
'A triumph' LOUISE CANDLISH
'A work of genius' JOANNA CANNON
'A rollercoaster ride with a shocker of a final sentence' GOOD HOUSEKEEPING
'Clare Mackintosh does it again. A brilliantly twisting tale' ERIN KELLY
- LinguaInglese
- EditoreSphere
- Data di pubblicazione8 marzo 2018
- Dimensioni file3289 KB
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Descrizione del libro
Number One bestselling author of Richard & Judy reader's favourites I See You and I Let You Go, Clare Mackintosh returns with the sensationally gripping Let Me Lie --Questo testo si riferisce a un'edizione fuori stampa o non disponibile di questo titolo.
Recensione
One of our favourite thriller writers . . . A rollercoaster ride with a shocker of a final sentence, Good Housekeeping
[An] expertly constructed thriller . . . Instant gratification grip-lit of the highest order , METRO
With twists aplenty, this is a belter of a novel, Heat
As heartbreakingly sad as it is breakneck thrilling, Let Me Lie is a triumph for Clare Mackintosh and a must read for 2018, LOUISE CANDLISH, author of The Swimming Pool
Another one-more-chapter, stay-up-late sensation from Clare Mackintosh. No doubt about it now - she's a major talent, LEE CHILD
Let Me Lie is absolutely BRILLIANT. I LOVED it. I think this is Clare Mackintosh's best yet. An engaging, engrossing read, MARIAN KEYES
Brilliant. Tense and surprising but heartbreaking and sensitively written . . . I expect no less from Clare but she seems to get better with each novel, GILLIAN McALLISTER, author of Anything You Do Say
Clare Mackintosh does it again. A brilliantly twisting tale of toxic families, ERIN KELLY, Sunday Times bestselling author of He Said/She Said
I devoured every page of this addictive, complex, multi-viewpoint spider's web of plot and clever characterisation. The big twist took me completely by surprise - but even this was overshadowed by the shock of the last page. No cheating. You're in for a treat, JANE CORRY, author of My Husband's Wife and Blood Sisters
Gripping, inventive and unexpected. Her best yet, EMILY ELGAR, author of If You Knew Her
Let Me Lie is simply impossible to put down. Complex and clever, this book will grab onto you and will not let go, EMMA KAVANAGH, author of Falling
It's like being in the hands of a master magician. You think you know what she is doing, and that seems thrilling enough, and then she pulls the rug from under you. So very clever. Totally absorbing and original, SABINE DURRANT, author of Sunday Times bestselling Lie With Me
Another masterclass in misdirection that twists, twists and - when you think you've figured it out - twists again, MARK EDWARDS, author of The Lucky Ones
Tightly-plotted, tense and affecting, Let Me Lie will keep you guessing until the very last line. No one writes a twist like Clare Mackintosh, PAULA HAWKINS, number one bestselling author of The Girl on the Train
Brilliantly clever . . . Let Me Lie is a work of genius, JOANNA CANNON, author of The Trouble with Goats and Sheep
A beautifully written, haunting page turner with a devilish twist or two, COLETTE McBETH, author of An Act of Silence
A compelling premise, perfectly paced and threaded with killer twists -Let Me Lie is an utterly gripping psychological thriller, LUCY CLARKE, author of Last Seen
Shocking, dark and brilliant, I loved it!, SAM HEPBURN, author of Her Perfect Life
Nothing is what it seems in this extraordinarily twisty tale of heartbreak and love by Clare "Page-turner" Mackintosh, MICHELLE FRANCES, author of The Girlfriend
I absolutely loved Let Me Lie. The plot is engrossing and in Murray Mackenzie Clare Mackintosh has created one of those perfect characters who stay with you long after the final page is turned, SARAH FRANKIN, author of Shelter
Clare Mackintosh just keeps getting better and better - no mean feat after her first two cracking novels. She's so good at getting under the skin of ordinary lives to reveal hidden stories and dramas . . . I honestly raced through the book, JULIA CROUCH, author of Her Husband's Lover
Clare Mackintosh is the master of surprise, DAILY EXPRESS
With Clare Mackintosh's trademark clever twists, this will keep you up all night, FABULOUS
A rollercoaster read, PRIMA
Latest gripper from popular ex-copper turned bestseller, in which Anna starts to doubt the suicide verdicts on her parents' deaths. The insight and delicacy with which Mackintosh draws her characters - from new mother Anna to weary police officer Murray - is compelling, SUNDAY TIMES AND TIMES CRIME CLUB
Let Me Lie grabs you from the first page and never lets go. Taut, compelling and twisty, Linda Green, bestselling author of While My Eyes Were Closed
A brilliant roller-coaster of a read, Closer Magazine
Threats and lies abound as the mystery draws you in, Daily Express
A nightmare scenario and some nuanced writing make this a cut above your average thriller; it's not just the premise of the story but the characters who will stick with you, Grazia --Questo testo si riferisce a un'edizione fuori stampa o non disponibile di questo titolo.
[An] expertly constructed thriller . . . Instant gratification grip-lit of the highest order , METRO
With twists aplenty, this is a belter of a novel, Heat
As heartbreakingly sad as it is breakneck thrilling, Let Me Lie is a triumph for Clare Mackintosh and a must read for 2018, LOUISE CANDLISH, author of The Swimming Pool
Another one-more-chapter, stay-up-late sensation from Clare Mackintosh. No doubt about it now - she's a major talent, LEE CHILD
Let Me Lie is absolutely BRILLIANT. I LOVED it. I think this is Clare Mackintosh's best yet. An engaging, engrossing read, MARIAN KEYES
Brilliant. Tense and surprising but heartbreaking and sensitively written . . . I expect no less from Clare but she seems to get better with each novel, GILLIAN McALLISTER, author of Anything You Do Say
Clare Mackintosh does it again. A brilliantly twisting tale of toxic families, ERIN KELLY, Sunday Times bestselling author of He Said/She Said
I devoured every page of this addictive, complex, multi-viewpoint spider's web of plot and clever characterisation. The big twist took me completely by surprise - but even this was overshadowed by the shock of the last page. No cheating. You're in for a treat, JANE CORRY, author of My Husband's Wife and Blood Sisters
Gripping, inventive and unexpected. Her best yet, EMILY ELGAR, author of If You Knew Her
Let Me Lie is simply impossible to put down. Complex and clever, this book will grab onto you and will not let go, EMMA KAVANAGH, author of Falling
It's like being in the hands of a master magician. You think you know what she is doing, and that seems thrilling enough, and then she pulls the rug from under you. So very clever. Totally absorbing and original, SABINE DURRANT, author of Sunday Times bestselling Lie With Me
Another masterclass in misdirection that twists, twists and - when you think you've figured it out - twists again, MARK EDWARDS, author of The Lucky Ones
Tightly-plotted, tense and affecting, Let Me Lie will keep you guessing until the very last line. No one writes a twist like Clare Mackintosh, PAULA HAWKINS, number one bestselling author of The Girl on the Train
Brilliantly clever . . . Let Me Lie is a work of genius, JOANNA CANNON, author of The Trouble with Goats and Sheep
A beautifully written, haunting page turner with a devilish twist or two, COLETTE McBETH, author of An Act of Silence
A compelling premise, perfectly paced and threaded with killer twists -Let Me Lie is an utterly gripping psychological thriller, LUCY CLARKE, author of Last Seen
Shocking, dark and brilliant, I loved it!, SAM HEPBURN, author of Her Perfect Life
Nothing is what it seems in this extraordinarily twisty tale of heartbreak and love by Clare "Page-turner" Mackintosh, MICHELLE FRANCES, author of The Girlfriend
I absolutely loved Let Me Lie. The plot is engrossing and in Murray Mackenzie Clare Mackintosh has created one of those perfect characters who stay with you long after the final page is turned, SARAH FRANKIN, author of Shelter
Clare Mackintosh just keeps getting better and better - no mean feat after her first two cracking novels. She's so good at getting under the skin of ordinary lives to reveal hidden stories and dramas . . . I honestly raced through the book, JULIA CROUCH, author of Her Husband's Lover
Clare Mackintosh is the master of surprise, DAILY EXPRESS
With Clare Mackintosh's trademark clever twists, this will keep you up all night, FABULOUS
A rollercoaster read, PRIMA
Latest gripper from popular ex-copper turned bestseller, in which Anna starts to doubt the suicide verdicts on her parents' deaths. The insight and delicacy with which Mackintosh draws her characters - from new mother Anna to weary police officer Murray - is compelling, SUNDAY TIMES AND TIMES CRIME CLUB
Let Me Lie grabs you from the first page and never lets go. Taut, compelling and twisty, Linda Green, bestselling author of While My Eyes Were Closed
A brilliant roller-coaster of a read, Closer Magazine
Threats and lies abound as the mystery draws you in, Daily Express
A nightmare scenario and some nuanced writing make this a cut above your average thriller; it's not just the premise of the story but the characters who will stick with you, Grazia --Questo testo si riferisce a un'edizione fuori stampa o non disponibile di questo titolo.
L'autore
With over 2 million copies of her books sold worldwide, number one bestseller Clare Mackintosh is the multi-award-winning author of I Let You Go, which was a Sunday Times bestseller and the fastest-selling title by a new crime writer in 2015. It also won the Theakston Old Peculier Crime Novel of the Year in 2016. Both Clare's second and third novels, I See You and Let Me Lie, were number one Sunday Times bestsellers. All three of her books were selected for the Richard & Judy Book Club, and together have been translated into over thirty-five languages.
Clare is patron of the Silver Star Society, a charity based at the John Radcliffe hospital in Oxford, which supports parents experiencing high-risk or difficult pregnancies. She lives in North Wales with her husband and their three children.
For more information visit Clare's website www.claremackintosh.com or find her at www.facebook.com/ClareMackWrites or on Twitter @ClareMackint0sh #ILetYouGo #ISeeYou #LetMeLie #AftertheEnd
--Questo testo si riferisce a un'edizione fuori stampa o non disponibile di questo titolo.Dalla quarta di copertina
Number One bestselling author of Richard & Judy reader's favourites I See You and I Let You Go, Clare Mackintosh returns with the sensationally gripping Let Me Lie. The police say it was suicide. Anna says it was murder. They're both wrong. One year ago, Caroline Johnson chose to end her life brutally: a shocking suicide planned to match that of her husband just months before. Their daughter, Anna, has struggled to come to terms with their loss ever since. Now with a young baby of her own, Anna misses her mother more than ever and starts to ask questions about her parents' deaths. But by digging up the past, is she putting her future in danger? Sometimes it's safer to let things lie . . . Discover the sensational, gripping new page-turner and NUMBER ONE Sunday Times bestseller from Clare Mackintosh, award-winning author of breakout bestsellers I See You and I Let You Go --Questo testo si riferisce alla paperback edizione.
Dalla seconda/terza di copertina
Number One bestselling author of Richard & Judy reader's favourites I See You and I Let You Go, Clare Mackintosh returns with the sensationally gripping Let Me Lie. The police say it was suicide. Anna says it was murder. They're both wrong. One year ago, Caroline Johnson chose to end her life brutally: a shocking suicide planned to match that of her husband just months before. Their daughter, Anna, has struggled to come to terms with their loss ever since. Now with a young baby of her own, Anna misses her mother more than ever and starts to ask questions about her parents' deaths. But by digging up the past, is she putting her future in danger? Sometimes it's safer to let things lie . . . Discover the sensational, gripping new page-turner and NUMBER ONE Sunday Times bestseller from Clare Mackintosh, award-winning author of breakout bestsellers I See You and I Let You Go --Questo testo si riferisce a un'edizione alternativa kindle_edition.
Estratto. © Riproduzione autorizzata. Diritti riservati.
CHAPTER
ONE
Death does not suit me. I wear it like a borrowed coat; it slips off my shoulders and trails in the dirt. It is ill fitting. Uncomfortable.
I want to shrug it off; to throw it in the cupboard and take back my well-tailored clothes. I didn't want to leave my old life, but I'm hopeful for my next one-hopeful I can become someone beautiful and vibrant. For now, I am trapped.
Between lives.
In limbo.
They say sudden good-byes are easier. Less painful. They're wrong. Any pain saved from the lingering good-byes of a drawn-out illness is offset by the horror of a life stolen without notice. A life taken violently. On the day of my death I walked the tightrope between two worlds, the safety net in tatters beneath me. This way safety; that way danger.
I stepped.
I died.
We used to joke about dying-when we were young enough, still vital enough, for death to be something that happened to other people.
"Who do you think'll go first?" you said, one night when the wine had run dry and we lay by the electric fire in my rented Balham flat. An idle hand, stroking my thigh, softened your words. I was quick to answer.
"You, of course."
You aimed a cushion at my head.
We'd been together a month; enjoying each other's bodies, talking about the future as though it belonged to someone else. No commitment, no promises-just possibilities.
"Women live longer." I grinned. "It's a well-known fact. Genetic. Survival of the fittest. Men can't cope on their own."
You grew serious. Cupped my face in your hand and made me look at you. Your eyes were black in the half-light; the bars of the fire reflected in your pupils. "It's true."
I moved to kiss you but your fingers held me still; pressure on my chin as your thumb pushed against bone.
"If anything happened to you, I don't know what I'd do."
The briefest chill, despite the fierce heat from the fire. Footsteps on my grave.
"Give over."
"I'd die, too," you insisted.
I put a stop to your youthful dramatics then, reaching to push aside your hand and free my chin. Keeping my fingers tangled with yours, so the rejection didn't sting. Kissing you, softly at first, then harder, until you rolled backward, and I was lying on top of you, my hair curtaining our faces.
You would die for me.
Our relationship was young; a spark that could be snuffed out as easily as coaxed into flames. I couldn't have known you'd stop loving me; that I'd stop loving you. I couldn't help but be flattered by the depth of your feeling, the intensity in your eyes.
You would die for me, and in that moment, I thought I might die for you, too.
I just never thought either of us would have to.
CHAPTER
TWO
Anna
Ella is eight weeks old. Her eyes are closed, long dark lashes brushing apple cheeks that move up and down as she feeds. One tiny hand splays across my breast like a starfish. I sit, pinned to the sofa, and think of all the things I could be doing while she feeds. Reading. Watching television. An online food shop.
Not today.
Today is not a day for the ordinary.
I watch my daughter, and after a while her lashes lift and she fixes navy eyes, solemn and trusting, on me. Her pupils are deep pools of unconditional love, my reflection small but unwavering.
Ella's sucking slows. We gaze at each other, and I think how motherhood is the best-kept secret: how all the books, all the films, all the advice in the world, could never prepare you for the all-consuming feeling of being everything to one tiny person. Of that person being everything to you. I perpetuate the secret, telling no one, because whom would I tell? Less than a decade after leaving school, my friends share their beds with lovers, not babies.
Ella's still gazing at me, but gradually the focus in her eyes blurs, the way morning mist creeps over a view. Her lids drop once, twice, then fall closed. Her sucking-always so ferocious at first, and then rhythmic, relaxed-slows, until several seconds elapse between mouthfuls, and she stops.
I lift my hand and gently press my index finger onto my breast, breaking the seal between my nipple and Ella's lips, then pull my nursing bra back into place. Ella's mouth continues to move for a while; then sleep takes her, her lips frozen into a perfect O.
I should put her down. Make the most of however long she will sleep. Ten minutes? An hour? We are a long way from any kind of routine. Routine. The watchword of the new mother; the single topic of conversation at the postnatal coffee mornings my health visitor bullies me into attending. Is she sleeping through yet? You should try controlled crying. Have you read Gina Ford?
I nod and smile and say, I'll check it out; then I gravitate toward one of the other new mums. Someone different. Someone less rigid. Because I don't care about routine. I don't want to leave Ella crying while I sit downstairs and post on Facebook about my "parenting nightmare!"
It hurts to cry for a mother who isn't coming back. Ella doesn't need to know that yet.
She stirs in her sleep, and the ever-present lump in my throat swells. Awake, Ella is my daughter. When friends point out her similarities to me, or say how like Mark she is, I can never see it. I look at Ella, and I simply see Ella. But asleep . . . when Ella's asleep I see my mother. There is a heart-shaped face hiding beneath those baby-plump cheeks, and the shape of their hairlines is so alike I know that, in years to come, my daughter will spend hours in front of a mirror, attempting to tame the one tiny section that grows differently from the rest.
Do babies dream? What can they dream of, with so little experience of the world? I envy Ella her sleep, not only because I am tired in a way I never experienced before having a baby, but also because when sleep comes, it comes with nightmares. My dreams show me what I can't possibly know. Supposition from police reports and coroner's court. I see my parents, their faces bloated and disfigured from the water. I see fear on their faces as they fall from the cliff. I hear their screams.
Sometimes my subconscious is kind to me. I don't always see my parents fall; sometimes I see them fly. I see them stepping into nothing and spreading their arms and swooping low above a blue sea that sends spray into their laughing faces. I wake gently then, a smile lingering on my face until I open my eyes and realize that everything is just the way it was when I closed them.
Nineteen months ago, my father took a car-the newest and most expensive-from the forecourt of his own business. He drove the ten minutes from Eastbourne to Beachy Head, where he parked in the car park, left the door unlocked, and walked toward the cliff top. Along the way he collected rocks to weigh himself down. Then, when the tide was at its highest, he threw himself off the cliff.
Seven months later, consumed with grief, my mother followed him, with such devastating accuracy the local paper reported it as a "copycat suicide." I know all these facts because on two separate occasions I heard the coroner take us through them, step by step. My parents died seven months apart, but their linked deaths meant their inquests were held the same week. I sat with Uncle Billy as we listened to the gentle but painfully thorough account of two failed coastal rescue missions. I stared at my lap while experts proffered views on tides, survival rates, death statistics. And I closed my eyes while the coroner recorded the verdict of suicide.
I learned lots of things on those two days, but not the only thing that mattered.
Why they did it.
Assuming they did do it.
The facts are inarguable. Except that my parents were not suicidal. They were not depressed, anxious, fearful. They were the last people you would expect to give up on life.
"Mental illness isn't always obvious," Mark says when I raise this point, his voice giving no hint of impatience that the conversation is, once again, circling back to this. "The most capable, the most upbeat, people can have depression."
Over the past year I've learned to keep my theories to myself; not to give voice to the doubts that lie beneath the surface of my grief. No one else has doubts. No one else feels unease.
But then, maybe no one else knew my parents the way I did.
The phone rings. I let the answerphone pick up but the caller doesn't leave a message. Immediately I feel my mobile vibrate in my pocket, and I know even before I look that it's Mark calling.
"Under a sleeping baby, by any chance?"
"However did you guess?"
"How is she?"
"Feeding every half an hour. I keep trying to start dinner and not getting anywhere."
"Leave it-I can do it when I get home. How are you feeling?" There's a subtle change of tone that no one else would notice. A subtext. How are you feeling today, of all days?
"I'm okay."
"I can come home-"
"I'm fine. Really."
Mark would hate to leave his course halfway through. He collects qualifications the way other people collect beer mats or foreign coins; so many letters they no longer fit after his name. Every few months he prints new business cards, and the least important letters fall off the end into oblivion. Today's course is The Value of Empathy in the Client-Counselor Relationship. He doesn't need it; his empathy was evident the second I walked through his door.
He let me cry. Pushed a box of tissues toward me and told me to take my time. To begin when I was ready, and not before. And when I stopped crying but still couldn't find the words, he told me about the stages of grief-denial, anger, bargaining, depression, acceptance-and I realized I hadn't moved past first base.
We were four sessions in when Mark took a deep breath and told me he couldn't treat me anymore, and I asked if it was me, and he said there was a conflict of interest and this was terribly unprofessional but would I like to have dinner sometime?
He was older than me-closer to my mum's age than my own-with a confidence at odds with the nerves I now saw hovering beneath the surface.
I didn't hesitate. "I'd love to."
Afterward he said he felt guiltier about interrupting my counseling than about the ethics of dating a patient. Former patient, I pointed out.
He still feels uncomfortable about it. People meet in all sorts of places, I remind him. My parents met in a London nightclub; his met in the frozen food section at Marks & Spencer. And he and I met in a seventh-floor apartment in Putney, in a consultation room with leather chairs and soft woolen throws, and a sign on the door that read Mark Hemmings, Counselor. By Appointment Only.
"If you're sure. Give Ella-bella a kiss from me."
"Bye." I hang up first, and I know he has the handset pressed against his lips, the way he does when he's deep in thought. He'll have gone outside to make the call, forgoing coffee, or networking, or whatever thirty counselors do when they're released from the classroom. In a moment he'll rejoin the others, and he'll be lost to me for the next few hours, as he works on his empathy for a made-up problem. Pretend anxiety. A fictional bereavement.
He'd like to work on mine. I don't let him. I stopped seeing a therapist when I realized all the talking in the world wasn't going to bring back my parents. You reach a point where the pain you feel inside is simply sadness. And there's no cure for that.
Grief is complicated. It ebbs and flows and is so multifaceted that unpacking it makes my head hurt. I can go for days without crying, then barely be able to breathe for the sobs that rack my body. One moment I'll be laughing with Uncle Billy about something stupid Dad once did; the next I'll be filled with rage for his selfishness. If Dad hadn't killed himself, Mum wouldn't have done, either.
The anger is the worst part of all of this. The white-hot fury, and the guilt that inevitably follows.
Why did they do it?
I've gone over the days preceding my dad's death a million times; asked myself if we could have done anything to prevent it.
Your dad's missing.
I'd frowned at the text, looking for the punch line. I lived with my parents, but I was away overnight at a conference in Oxford, chatting over morning coffee with a colleague from London. I excused myself to call her.
"What do you mean, missing?"
Mum wasn't making sense. The words came slowly, as though she was dredging them up. They'd had an argument the night before; Dad had stormed off to the pub. So far, so normal. I had long since accepted the storminess of my parents' relationship; the squalls that would pass over as quickly as they blew in. Except this time Dad hadn't come home.
"I thought he might have slept at Bill's," she said, "but I'm at work now and Bill hasn't seen him. I'm out of my mind, Anna!"
I left the conference straightaway. Not because I was worried about Dad, but because I was worried about Mum. They were careful to keep the causes of their arguments from me, but I'd picked up the aftermath too many times. Dad would disappear-off to work, or to the golf course, or to the pub. Mum would hide in the house, pretending to me she hadn't been crying.
It was all over by the time I got home. Police in the kitchen, their hats in their hands. Mum shaking so violently they'd called a paramedic to treat her for shock. Uncle Billy, white with grief. Laura, Mum's goddaughter, making tea and forgetting to add milk. None of us noticing.
I read the text Dad had sent.
I can't do this anymore. The world will be a better place without me in it.
"Your father took a car from work." The policeman was about Dad's age, and I wondered if he had children. If they took him for granted. "The cameras show it heading toward Beachy Head late last night." My mother let out a stifled cry. I saw Laura move to comfort her, but I couldn't do the same. I was frozen. Not wanting to hear but compelled to listen all the same. --Questo testo si riferisce alla paperback edizione.
ONE
Death does not suit me. I wear it like a borrowed coat; it slips off my shoulders and trails in the dirt. It is ill fitting. Uncomfortable.
I want to shrug it off; to throw it in the cupboard and take back my well-tailored clothes. I didn't want to leave my old life, but I'm hopeful for my next one-hopeful I can become someone beautiful and vibrant. For now, I am trapped.
Between lives.
In limbo.
They say sudden good-byes are easier. Less painful. They're wrong. Any pain saved from the lingering good-byes of a drawn-out illness is offset by the horror of a life stolen without notice. A life taken violently. On the day of my death I walked the tightrope between two worlds, the safety net in tatters beneath me. This way safety; that way danger.
I stepped.
I died.
We used to joke about dying-when we were young enough, still vital enough, for death to be something that happened to other people.
"Who do you think'll go first?" you said, one night when the wine had run dry and we lay by the electric fire in my rented Balham flat. An idle hand, stroking my thigh, softened your words. I was quick to answer.
"You, of course."
You aimed a cushion at my head.
We'd been together a month; enjoying each other's bodies, talking about the future as though it belonged to someone else. No commitment, no promises-just possibilities.
"Women live longer." I grinned. "It's a well-known fact. Genetic. Survival of the fittest. Men can't cope on their own."
You grew serious. Cupped my face in your hand and made me look at you. Your eyes were black in the half-light; the bars of the fire reflected in your pupils. "It's true."
I moved to kiss you but your fingers held me still; pressure on my chin as your thumb pushed against bone.
"If anything happened to you, I don't know what I'd do."
The briefest chill, despite the fierce heat from the fire. Footsteps on my grave.
"Give over."
"I'd die, too," you insisted.
I put a stop to your youthful dramatics then, reaching to push aside your hand and free my chin. Keeping my fingers tangled with yours, so the rejection didn't sting. Kissing you, softly at first, then harder, until you rolled backward, and I was lying on top of you, my hair curtaining our faces.
You would die for me.
Our relationship was young; a spark that could be snuffed out as easily as coaxed into flames. I couldn't have known you'd stop loving me; that I'd stop loving you. I couldn't help but be flattered by the depth of your feeling, the intensity in your eyes.
You would die for me, and in that moment, I thought I might die for you, too.
I just never thought either of us would have to.
CHAPTER
TWO
Anna
Ella is eight weeks old. Her eyes are closed, long dark lashes brushing apple cheeks that move up and down as she feeds. One tiny hand splays across my breast like a starfish. I sit, pinned to the sofa, and think of all the things I could be doing while she feeds. Reading. Watching television. An online food shop.
Not today.
Today is not a day for the ordinary.
I watch my daughter, and after a while her lashes lift and she fixes navy eyes, solemn and trusting, on me. Her pupils are deep pools of unconditional love, my reflection small but unwavering.
Ella's sucking slows. We gaze at each other, and I think how motherhood is the best-kept secret: how all the books, all the films, all the advice in the world, could never prepare you for the all-consuming feeling of being everything to one tiny person. Of that person being everything to you. I perpetuate the secret, telling no one, because whom would I tell? Less than a decade after leaving school, my friends share their beds with lovers, not babies.
Ella's still gazing at me, but gradually the focus in her eyes blurs, the way morning mist creeps over a view. Her lids drop once, twice, then fall closed. Her sucking-always so ferocious at first, and then rhythmic, relaxed-slows, until several seconds elapse between mouthfuls, and she stops.
I lift my hand and gently press my index finger onto my breast, breaking the seal between my nipple and Ella's lips, then pull my nursing bra back into place. Ella's mouth continues to move for a while; then sleep takes her, her lips frozen into a perfect O.
I should put her down. Make the most of however long she will sleep. Ten minutes? An hour? We are a long way from any kind of routine. Routine. The watchword of the new mother; the single topic of conversation at the postnatal coffee mornings my health visitor bullies me into attending. Is she sleeping through yet? You should try controlled crying. Have you read Gina Ford?
I nod and smile and say, I'll check it out; then I gravitate toward one of the other new mums. Someone different. Someone less rigid. Because I don't care about routine. I don't want to leave Ella crying while I sit downstairs and post on Facebook about my "parenting nightmare!"
It hurts to cry for a mother who isn't coming back. Ella doesn't need to know that yet.
She stirs in her sleep, and the ever-present lump in my throat swells. Awake, Ella is my daughter. When friends point out her similarities to me, or say how like Mark she is, I can never see it. I look at Ella, and I simply see Ella. But asleep . . . when Ella's asleep I see my mother. There is a heart-shaped face hiding beneath those baby-plump cheeks, and the shape of their hairlines is so alike I know that, in years to come, my daughter will spend hours in front of a mirror, attempting to tame the one tiny section that grows differently from the rest.
Do babies dream? What can they dream of, with so little experience of the world? I envy Ella her sleep, not only because I am tired in a way I never experienced before having a baby, but also because when sleep comes, it comes with nightmares. My dreams show me what I can't possibly know. Supposition from police reports and coroner's court. I see my parents, their faces bloated and disfigured from the water. I see fear on their faces as they fall from the cliff. I hear their screams.
Sometimes my subconscious is kind to me. I don't always see my parents fall; sometimes I see them fly. I see them stepping into nothing and spreading their arms and swooping low above a blue sea that sends spray into their laughing faces. I wake gently then, a smile lingering on my face until I open my eyes and realize that everything is just the way it was when I closed them.
Nineteen months ago, my father took a car-the newest and most expensive-from the forecourt of his own business. He drove the ten minutes from Eastbourne to Beachy Head, where he parked in the car park, left the door unlocked, and walked toward the cliff top. Along the way he collected rocks to weigh himself down. Then, when the tide was at its highest, he threw himself off the cliff.
Seven months later, consumed with grief, my mother followed him, with such devastating accuracy the local paper reported it as a "copycat suicide." I know all these facts because on two separate occasions I heard the coroner take us through them, step by step. My parents died seven months apart, but their linked deaths meant their inquests were held the same week. I sat with Uncle Billy as we listened to the gentle but painfully thorough account of two failed coastal rescue missions. I stared at my lap while experts proffered views on tides, survival rates, death statistics. And I closed my eyes while the coroner recorded the verdict of suicide.
I learned lots of things on those two days, but not the only thing that mattered.
Why they did it.
Assuming they did do it.
The facts are inarguable. Except that my parents were not suicidal. They were not depressed, anxious, fearful. They were the last people you would expect to give up on life.
"Mental illness isn't always obvious," Mark says when I raise this point, his voice giving no hint of impatience that the conversation is, once again, circling back to this. "The most capable, the most upbeat, people can have depression."
Over the past year I've learned to keep my theories to myself; not to give voice to the doubts that lie beneath the surface of my grief. No one else has doubts. No one else feels unease.
But then, maybe no one else knew my parents the way I did.
The phone rings. I let the answerphone pick up but the caller doesn't leave a message. Immediately I feel my mobile vibrate in my pocket, and I know even before I look that it's Mark calling.
"Under a sleeping baby, by any chance?"
"However did you guess?"
"How is she?"
"Feeding every half an hour. I keep trying to start dinner and not getting anywhere."
"Leave it-I can do it when I get home. How are you feeling?" There's a subtle change of tone that no one else would notice. A subtext. How are you feeling today, of all days?
"I'm okay."
"I can come home-"
"I'm fine. Really."
Mark would hate to leave his course halfway through. He collects qualifications the way other people collect beer mats or foreign coins; so many letters they no longer fit after his name. Every few months he prints new business cards, and the least important letters fall off the end into oblivion. Today's course is The Value of Empathy in the Client-Counselor Relationship. He doesn't need it; his empathy was evident the second I walked through his door.
He let me cry. Pushed a box of tissues toward me and told me to take my time. To begin when I was ready, and not before. And when I stopped crying but still couldn't find the words, he told me about the stages of grief-denial, anger, bargaining, depression, acceptance-and I realized I hadn't moved past first base.
We were four sessions in when Mark took a deep breath and told me he couldn't treat me anymore, and I asked if it was me, and he said there was a conflict of interest and this was terribly unprofessional but would I like to have dinner sometime?
He was older than me-closer to my mum's age than my own-with a confidence at odds with the nerves I now saw hovering beneath the surface.
I didn't hesitate. "I'd love to."
Afterward he said he felt guiltier about interrupting my counseling than about the ethics of dating a patient. Former patient, I pointed out.
He still feels uncomfortable about it. People meet in all sorts of places, I remind him. My parents met in a London nightclub; his met in the frozen food section at Marks & Spencer. And he and I met in a seventh-floor apartment in Putney, in a consultation room with leather chairs and soft woolen throws, and a sign on the door that read Mark Hemmings, Counselor. By Appointment Only.
"If you're sure. Give Ella-bella a kiss from me."
"Bye." I hang up first, and I know he has the handset pressed against his lips, the way he does when he's deep in thought. He'll have gone outside to make the call, forgoing coffee, or networking, or whatever thirty counselors do when they're released from the classroom. In a moment he'll rejoin the others, and he'll be lost to me for the next few hours, as he works on his empathy for a made-up problem. Pretend anxiety. A fictional bereavement.
He'd like to work on mine. I don't let him. I stopped seeing a therapist when I realized all the talking in the world wasn't going to bring back my parents. You reach a point where the pain you feel inside is simply sadness. And there's no cure for that.
Grief is complicated. It ebbs and flows and is so multifaceted that unpacking it makes my head hurt. I can go for days without crying, then barely be able to breathe for the sobs that rack my body. One moment I'll be laughing with Uncle Billy about something stupid Dad once did; the next I'll be filled with rage for his selfishness. If Dad hadn't killed himself, Mum wouldn't have done, either.
The anger is the worst part of all of this. The white-hot fury, and the guilt that inevitably follows.
Why did they do it?
I've gone over the days preceding my dad's death a million times; asked myself if we could have done anything to prevent it.
Your dad's missing.
I'd frowned at the text, looking for the punch line. I lived with my parents, but I was away overnight at a conference in Oxford, chatting over morning coffee with a colleague from London. I excused myself to call her.
"What do you mean, missing?"
Mum wasn't making sense. The words came slowly, as though she was dredging them up. They'd had an argument the night before; Dad had stormed off to the pub. So far, so normal. I had long since accepted the storminess of my parents' relationship; the squalls that would pass over as quickly as they blew in. Except this time Dad hadn't come home.
"I thought he might have slept at Bill's," she said, "but I'm at work now and Bill hasn't seen him. I'm out of my mind, Anna!"
I left the conference straightaway. Not because I was worried about Dad, but because I was worried about Mum. They were careful to keep the causes of their arguments from me, but I'd picked up the aftermath too many times. Dad would disappear-off to work, or to the golf course, or to the pub. Mum would hide in the house, pretending to me she hadn't been crying.
It was all over by the time I got home. Police in the kitchen, their hats in their hands. Mum shaking so violently they'd called a paramedic to treat her for shock. Uncle Billy, white with grief. Laura, Mum's goddaughter, making tea and forgetting to add milk. None of us noticing.
I read the text Dad had sent.
I can't do this anymore. The world will be a better place without me in it.
"Your father took a car from work." The policeman was about Dad's age, and I wondered if he had children. If they took him for granted. "The cameras show it heading toward Beachy Head late last night." My mother let out a stifled cry. I saw Laura move to comfort her, but I couldn't do the same. I was frozen. Not wanting to hear but compelled to listen all the same. --Questo testo si riferisce alla paperback edizione.
Dettagli prodotto
- ASIN : B072JHBT4V
- Editore : Sphere; 1° edizione (8 marzo 2018)
- Lingua : Inglese
- Dimensioni file : 3289 KB
- Da testo a voce : Abilitato
- Screen Reader : Supportato
- Miglioramenti tipografici : Abilitato
- X-Ray : Abilitato
- Word Wise : Abilitato
- Memo : Su Kindle Scribe
- Lunghezza stampa : 402 pagine
- Posizione nella classifica Bestseller di Amazon: n. 179,880 in Kindle Store (Visualizza i Top 100 nella categoria Kindle Store)
- n. 378 in Azione e avventura sul crimine
- n. 867 in Narrativa di azione thriller e suspense
- n. 1,594 in Thriller psicologici
- Recensioni dei clienti:
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4,3 su 5
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Ms. N. Clarke
3,0 su 5 stelle
The ending completely let it down
Recensito nel Regno Unito 🇬🇧 il 19 luglio 2018
I was gripped throughout reading this book - it is the sort of narrative where you stay up til 2am by telling yourself "just one more chapter..." to see what happens! I was enthralled from the start to the last chapter...and then it felt so incredibly rushed and untrue to the storyline that my whole enjoyment of the book was ruined by such a poor conclusion to what had been an epic tale. Really disappointing
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A. Linton
1,0 su 5 stelle
The most frightening thing about this book is the length
Recensito nel Regno Unito 🇬🇧 il 26 febbraio 2019
It's around that time of month again, coming up to payday when I'm looking for something that's readable - and cheap. This book might be cheap but it's certainly not readable - I find it very hard to believe that anyone actually read the whole thing - after a while I just skim read it, skipping huge chunks to get to the meat of the story. The author has maybe enough ideas for a short story, or a novella being generous, but this thing plods on forever - part 1 - part 2, part 3 - to an far-fetched ending which has perhaps one good moment, which takes the reader by rurprise. The usual irritating present tense narration, no character development whatsoever and apart from the odd tense moment most of the novel is simply padding. Anna wanders round her flat, feeds her baby, sits on the couch, cardboard characters have banal conversations with other cardboard characters etc etc. There is a parallel first person narration from someone who is clearly one of Anna's supposedly dead parents, either as a ghostly voice from the grave or a still living person in hiding. (Since there are no actual bodies and the police investigation has been virtually non-existent either is possible). The plot has huge holes - would the police REALLY give any weight to the word of a 'witness' to a suicide via the phone without checking up on her identity? Would Anna REALLY not know which if her parents was the alcoholic? And perhaps worst of all, the parallel narration means that the first big 'shock' of the narrative is no surprise at all to the reader, there is yet another more interesting twist but the reader has to endure pages and pages of boredom to get to it. Definitely another author to add to my 'avoid' list.
Pniffer
5,0 su 5 stelle
Another great novel by Clare Mackintosh
Recensito nel Regno Unito 🇬🇧 il 10 aprile 2018
I gave this five stars because, like her previous novels, Clare writes with good pace, with an intriguing story to tell and some twists along the way. The ending is sound, and I appreciated the topical issues of mental health which were explored, running like a thread throughout the book. Like her, I'm an ex police officer so it's important to me that the story is realistic from a procedural point of view, and also plausible. My only criticism is that there was maybe one twist too many - it made me smile rather than intrigued me. I hope Clare won't feel so obliged to provide shock twists in her future books that they become forced or predictable. For now, she remains one of my favourite authors and I will certainly recommend her to my friends.
Rosie M. Banks
1,0 su 5 stelle
Disappointing
Recensito nel Regno Unito 🇬🇧 il 27 agosto 2018
I enjoyed Claire Macintosh's previous books, but this was long winded and utterly unbelievable. Highfield as it is described could only be a private facility which would be beyond the financial reach of a retired policemen. The story gathered pace with increasing ridiculous twists and while it wasn't difficult to follow it seemed to be trying too hard to create suspense. The last twist was really one too far. I hope Ms Macintosh gets her form back in her next novel.
Char Louise
4,0 su 5 stelle
Twisty thriller
Recensito nel Regno Unito 🇬🇧 il 1 ottobre 2018
*Alert: spoilers throughout* I think I liked this one more than the author’s last novel, I See You, but not quite as much as her first, I Let You Go. The twists and turns are gripping, and although I’d guessed the one about Tom Johnson, I hadn’t guessed the final one about the accomplice and had thought it was someone else. The only thing I think would have worked better was if the reader hadn’t been made aware that Caroline was still alive from pretty much the beginning of the novel; the reader should have been as shocked as Anna when her mother came back, and should have been left wondering if Anna was suffering hallucinations. Whereas, we already knew from Caroline’s chapters that she is alive, which took away that shock factor. Still a very enjoyable thriller, and I also liked the focus given to mental health problems and effects of grief, which are relatable for many people.
