Amanda Brittany is the best selling author of psychological crime thrillers Her Last Lie, Tell the Truth & Traces of Her.
I Lie in Wait is out NOW.
Her debut, Her Last Lie, is being made into a film supported by Creative Scotland, and it has raised over £8400 for Cancer Research UK from Amanda’s eBook royalties in memory of her sister.
Amanda lives in Hertfordshire, UK with her husband and two crazy, cute dogs. When she's not writing, she loves spending time with her family and friends, travelling, walking her dogs, reading & sunny days§. She also has a soft spot for snow, which features in Her Last Lie & I Lie in Wait.
She has studied psychology and criminology, has a diploma in creative writing, and a BA(Hons) in English Literature.
She also writes psychological suspense novels as A J Brittany with Karen Clarke. Their debut The Secret Sister is out NOW, and there second book will be out in February 2021
Website: www.amandabrittany.co.uk
You can follow her on:
Twitter: @amandajbrittany
Facebook: www.facebook.com/amandabrittany2
Instagram: @amanda_brittany_author
Buy Lie In Wait here.
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Prologue
Now
Me
‘Maddie? Maddie, is that you?’ It is. I know her voice. She’s in the next room. ‘Maddie! Maddie, please help me!’ I tug at the chain trapping my wrist to the bedstead. It cuts into my flesh. Makes fresh wounds.
‘We’re heading back to Drummondale House on Friday,’ she’s saying. ‘It’s the anniversary of Lark and Jackson’s disappearance.’
‘Maddie, please!’ I yell. Why can’t she hear me?
‘Robert feels there may be something we missed that night. I’m not sure what to think, but I’ll keep you updated. Wish us luck!’
‘You’re wasting your time, Maddie,’ you say. And of course, you are right.
The sound of your laptop snapping closed brings me back to reality. Maddie isn’t there at all. You were listening to her vlog.
I close my eyes, fatigue washing over me, my usual thoughts carrying me to nightmares: How did I let this happen? How could I have been so stupid?
*
I have no idea how long I’ve slept, but I’m now alone, and the place is in darkness. I shuffle up the bed, ears pricked on alert for the sound of tyres rolling over the ice-packed ground. My sore, watery eyes pinned on the window, waiting for a glimpse of your car’s headlights to cut across the grubby glass. But it’s silent, and I wonder if you’ve gone back there – back to Drummondale House.
Chapter 1
Present Day
Amelia
He took her. Jackson Cromwell – my mother’s lover. He took my teenage sister. He took Lark from us. I know he did. And sometimes, looking back – eyes wide open – I wonder if I should have reacted when I saw the way he looked at her, the way he flirted.
It’s the anniversary of her disappearance this Friday. Twelve long months of not knowing where Lark is – whether she’s alive or dead.
My ex-partner William couldn’t cope with my outpourings of grief following my sister’s disappearance. It couldn’t have been easy for him listening to me repeat the same tragic words, desperate to explore my feelings, desperate to cope with what had happened. I went from numb to feeling too much, to numb again, all with the aid of too much wine.
In fact, I still hadn’t come to terms with her loss when, seven months later, my mum died. Imagine a car wreck – well that was me in human form.
But a few weeks after her funeral, life took an upward turn. I discovered I was pregnant. For three months a tiny baby had been growing inside me and I’d been too swept away by grief overload to realise. It was a miracle, and for the first time in ages, bubbles of happiness fizzed.
‘It can’t be mine,’ William said, when I broke the news over his favourite meal of guinea fowl and gnocchi.
‘Of course it’s yours,’ I said, placing the little stick telling me the best news ever onto his side plate, and trying to smile despite his tactless comment.
‘That’s got your pee on it, Amelia,’ he said, pushing it away. ‘Are you positive it’s mine?’
‘OK, for one . . .’ I held up my index finger ‘. . . I’ve only slept with you in all the time I’ve known you. And two . . .’ I burst into tears.
William jumped up, grabbed a serviette – he always insisted we had them on the table, as I had, still have in fact, a habit of getting ‘stuff’ on my face when I eat – and thrust it into my hand.
‘OK, great, I’m going to be a dad,’ he said, and left the room. He’d barely touched his gnocchi. I guess the pee on the stick hadn’t helped.
So this portrays William in an awful light. But, in fairness to him, he’d been through my hell with me, and was no longer ‘Fun-Loving Will’ the man with the amazing smile who I met on a night out with the girls three years ago. He was a faded, tired version. In fact, I couldn’t recall the last time he’d smiled. He wanted out of our relationship, but, at the time, he didn’t have the heart to leave a woman weighed down by a bucket-load of tragedy. And now, a baby – our baby – would trap him forever.
*
Things improved after that. We began picking up the scattered pieces of our relationship, and I tucked the loss of my mum and sister into a little velvet box at the back of my mind, determined to move on with my life – our lives. It’s what Mum and Lark would have wanted, I told myself. And I desperately wanted to make William happy.
But that small snatch of happiness lasted no time at all. My life, the life I thought was back on a safe, even road, plummeted into another deep dark ditch, and I wasn’t sure I’d be able to climb out this time. After awful stomach cramps I prayed were IBS, I lost our baby at five months pregnant.
So, it’s been a tragic year – a year of heartache and loss. I’ve heard people say bad things come in threes. But how does anyone stay strong when said bad things hit one after the other? One! Two! Three! Wham! Bam! Slam!
Lark vanished.
Mum died.
I lost my baby.
I’m not going to lie; I wondered what I’d done in a previous life to deserve such sorrow.
I tried so hard not to be that woman who everyone felt sorry for. ‘Poor Amelia – nothing goes right for her.’ ‘Oh, Amelia, love, it could only happen to you.’ Or worse, the woman people crossed the road to avoid, fearing her misery was catching. But it was impossible. I was that woman wallowing knee-deep in self-pity, and I hadn’t got a clue where to find the strength to pick myself up; still haven’t. In fact, I fully understand how some women lose their mind following a miscarriage, as I’m pretty close to losing mine right now.
With the loss of our baby, my life with William was over. He’d seen the worst of me – not a pretty sight. Couldn’t take any more. Wasn’t strong enough. He said, as he touched my cheek gently a week after our loss, his fingertips drying my skin, ‘I can’t do this anymore, Amelia.’ He’d lost his baby too, he said – he was in pain too, he said – but I know he never felt the same kind of screwed-up agony I felt.
He stayed around for two months after that, spending a lot of time at his mum’s, or crying on the shoulder of an ex-girlfriend. He never did tell me her name. Did he think I would knife her on a lonely street?
For a while it was as though my baby – the little girl I had so many plans for – was still with me. But eventually, with time, I accepted there was an empty place inside me where I once felt her flutter – a timid butterfly trying out her wings for the first time. I’d felt so sure she was happy. I’d held my belly so often, talked to her, sung to her. But we can never be sure when happiness will be snatched away from us. I know that now.
*
‘Amelia, have you got the contract for Jennings and Jennings?’
I look away from the office window, and up at Malcolm. My boss is out of breath, and needs to lose a few pounds before he keels over. His tone, as always, is anxiety-tinged, his face stretched into a shiny-cheeked smile. He won’t make old bones at this rate.
‘You need to shave off that ridiculous moustache, Malcolm.’ I’ve wanted to say that for years, if only to help him find his soul mate. No wonder he’s single. ‘You look like Hitler.’
His eyes widen, as much as they can in their puffy sockets, as he touches the hairy culprit under his nose. ‘You need more time away from the office, Amelia.’
‘I need forever,’ I say. I haven’t even turned on the computer and it’s almost midday. I’ve spent most of this morning gazing out at the grey day. Thinking. ‘Can you give me forever, Malcolm?’ I ask, in a maudlin tone – that’s pretty much my only tone right now.
‘Take more time out if you need it. You’re no use to us here.’
‘Cheers for that.’
‘I think you know what I’m saying, Amelia.’ He strides off, in his creased shirt and too-short trousers.
I’ve got to go home, or hide in the loos for the rest of the day. I fidget in my swivel chair. I won’t get paid if I go home. I’ve had way too much time off already. The thing is, I can’t afford the apartment now anyway, not since William left. I need to do something – something else, something to make life worth living again. But then how can I do that without Mum, without Lark, without William, without my precious unborn child?
I look out of the window once more. The tall buildings of London surround me, and The Gherkin feels so close. I’m tempted to open the window and lean out – try to touch it. I would fall, of course. Tumble to my death, and possibly make headlines in The Metro. But then nobody would care. Not a single soul would miss me – except perhaps my dad, and possibly my brother Thomas.
I roll my chair back over the plush carpet, put the photo of William in the bin, and my Thor figure, that Thomas bought me a few years back because I told him I love Chris Hemsworth, in my bag. I grab my jacket, rise, and head for the door, throwing one look over my shoulder at the rabbit warren of desks. Nobody looks my way. I’m right. Nobody will miss me.
Outside, I dash towards London Bridge Underground, pushing through the crowds. I won’t cry, I tell myself. I’m all cried out.
*
‘William, it’s me. Pick up, please.’ I’m pissed, sobbing into my phone, my cat curled on my knee, her purr giving me comfort. Drunk-me is far too needy, and I seem to turn to her too often lately. ‘Call me, please. I need you right now.’ It’s the tenth time I’ve called and it’s only seven o’clock. Ten times he’s ignored me.
I throw my phone across the room. It hits a photo of us in Rhodes. It clatters on the dresser. The glass cracks. Were we even happy then? I know it was difficult when Mum got cancer, and everything that followed was impossible – William struggled with me struggling, which made me struggle even more.
I look at the empty wine bottle, before burying my head in my hands until the tears stop. And then it hits me. I need my dad, to feel the comfort of his arms around me. But I can’t take off to Berwick-upon-Tweed and leave my cat – who now looks up at me as though she knows what I’m thinking. ‘But if I stay here, sweetie, I’ll go crazy,’ I say, tickling her soft ears.
Later, after crying on my neighbour’s doorstep – a kindly twenty-something with pink hair – she gives me a much-needed hug. ‘You’ve been through hell, Amelia,’ she says. ‘Of course I’ll look after your cat. Take as long as you need.’
‘Thanks so much,’ I say, wishing I knew her name – but it’s far too late to ask her what it is; we’ve been chatting for months.
I return to my flat and call Malcolm, realising, after apologising profusely for letting him down at such short notice, that he sounds relieved I’m taking time off.
‘Great. Super,’ he says. ‘Brilliant!’
‘I’ll be taking an early train to Berwick-upon-Tweed and probably won’t be back for a while. Is that OK?’
‘Of course, Amelia. Please, please don’t hurry back.’
I end the call, flop down on my bed, and close my eyes.
(C) Amanda Brittany 2020