I Lie in Wait

Amanda Brittany lives in Hertfordshire with her husband and two dogs. When she’s not writing, she loves spending time with family, travelling, walking, reading and sunny days. Her debut novel Her Last Lie reached the Kindle top 100 in the US and Australia and was a #1 Bestseller in the UK. It has also been optioned for film. Her second psychological thriller Tell The Truth reached the Kindle top 100 in the US & was a #1 Bestseller in the US. All her ebook royalties for Her Last Lie are being donated to Cancer Research UK, in memory of her sister who lost her battle with cancer in July 2017. It has so far raised over £7,500.

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“Brittany is a superb writer, highly skilled at keeping you gripped, staying up late to uncover the secrets.”

Also by Amanda Brittany

Her Last Lie

Tell the Truth

Traces of Her

I Lie In Wait

AMANDA BRITTANY

HQ

An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd.

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

First published in Great Britain by HQ in 2020

Copyright © Amanda Brittany

Amanda Brittany asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

E-book Edition © August 2020 ISBN: 9780008362874

Version: 2020-8-03

Table of Contents

Cover

About the Author

Readers LOVE Amanda Brittany

Also by Amanda Brittany

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Prologue: Present Day

Chapter 1: Present Day

Chapter 2: Present Day

Chapter 3: Present Day

Chapter 4: Present Day

Chapter 5: A Year Ago

Chapter 6: A Year Ago

Chapter 7: A Year Ago

Chapter 8: Present Day

Chapter 9: Present Day

Chapter 10: Present Day

Chapter 11: A Year Ago

Chapter 12: A Year Ago

Chapter 13: A Year Ago

Chapter 14: A Year Ago

Chapter 15: Present Day

Chapter 16: Present Day

Chapter 17: Present Day

Chapter 18: A Year Ago

Chapter 19: A Year Ago

Chapter 20: A Year Ago

Chapter 21: A Year Ago

Chapter 22: Present Day

Chapter 23: Present Day

Chapter 24: Present Day

Chapter 25: Present Day

Chapter 26: Present Day

Chapter 27: Present Day

Chapter 28: A Year Ago

Chapter 29: Present Day

Chapter 30: Present Day

Chapter 31: Present Day

Chapter 32: A Year Ago

Chapter 33: Present Day

Chapter 34: Present Day

Chapter 35: A Year Ago

Chapter 36: Present Day

Chapter 37: Present Day

Chapter 38: Present Day

Chapter 39: Present Day

Chapter 40: A Year Ago

Chapter 41: A Year Ago

Chapter 42: Present Day

Chapter 43: Present Day

Chapter 44: Present Day

Chapter 45: Present Day

Chapter 46: Present Day

Chapter 47: Present Day

Chapter 48: Present Day

Chapter 49: Present Day

Chapter 50: Present Day

Chapter 51: Present Day

Chapter 52: Present Day

Chapter 53: Present Day

Chapter 54: Present Day

Epilogue: Three months later

Acknowledgements

Extract

Dear Reader …

Keep Reading …

About the Publisher

For Kev, with love.

Prologue

Present Day

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.

Chapter 2

Present Day

Amelia

I caught the early train from London and it’s now 10 a.m. I’m relieved to be here, standing on the doorstep of the house I grew up in, waiting for Dad to answer the front door.

‘Surprise!’ I cry, as he opens the door. I dive in for a hug, breathing in his familiar aftershave, almost knocking him over, despite him being six foot.

‘Amelia!’ he says as I release him and step back, noticing he’s dyed his hair black and seems to have sprouted a moustache – moustaches are clearly invading my world. I’m close to telling him it does nothing for him, and the black hair makes him look as though he’s fallen headfirst into a barrel of tar, when he adds, ‘What are you doing here, love?’

He seems happy to see me, but there’s something else. Something I can’t quite put my finger on.

‘Well I’m pretty much waiting for you to invite me in.’ I rub my gloved hands together as a blustery wind catches my hair and blows it across my face like flames. ‘It’s bloody cold out here – snowed all the way from the station.’

‘Yes, sorry.’ He opens the door wider.

My throat closes as I look down the narrow hallway, and memories of Lark and Mum flood in. This is the house where I spent my childhood and teens. A four-bed modern detached that looks out over a huge expanse of grass leading to the River Tweed. A once crazy, noisy, happy house, that now feels far too quiet. Only Dad and Thomas live here now, and I’m guessing my brother is in his bedroom – once the dining room where we all shared happy meals, now extended to accommodate my brother’s needs.

Dad’s stepped to one side. ‘Come on, love, you’re letting the cold in,’ he says rubbing his hands together, bringing me back to the moment. I will myself to move, heave my rucksack off my back, and edge past him. He closes the door behind us.

‘So what brings you all this way?’ he says, following me into the kitchen. He picks up the kettle and gives it a little shake before flicking it on. ‘Nothing wrong, is there?’

Yep, just about everything.

I shake my head and sit down at the round kitchen table. It still has the pretty embroidered tablecloth draped over it that I remember Mum buying over ten years ago.

‘How’s work?’ I ask. Dad loves his job as curator at the local museum, and last time I spoke to him he was working on an exhibition about ancient crimes in the area. It fills his mind, leaving no space to dwell.

‘Good,’ he says. ‘Keeps me busy.’ I rest my case.

I ponder his earlier question, as he heads towards me with two steaming mugs of tea, places them on the table, and sits down opposite me.

So what brings you here?

He doesn’t know I’ve lost my precious baby. I never told him when I found out I was pregnant. I don’t know why – an amalgamation of reasons, probably. I suppose the news was far too good after everything that had happened. Maybe I didn’t want to jinx it. Maybe I was convinced that only bad things happen to me now. Maybe I wanted to tell him face to face. Whatever the reason, he doesn’t need to know now. He doesn’t need my tragic news on top of all the heartache he’s already been through.

‘I’ve broken up with William,’ I say, keeping my voice upbeat and even, as I fiddle with the handle of the mug.

‘Oh, love.’ He turns warm brown eyes on me.

I raise my hand, knowing if we go down the hugs road at this moment, I’ll sob like a baby. ‘But I’m fine.’

He throws me a sad smile. ‘I never liked him.’

I smile. ‘You never met him.’

‘You deserve better.’

‘Well yes, yes I do.’ Another smile, though tears are close. I’ve almost accepted I’m better off without William, but it still hurts like crazy. I need a change of subject. ‘So what the hell have you done to your hair? And what’s with the moustache?’

He laughs. ‘I’m playing Hercule Poirot.’

‘A card game?’

‘You know who Poirot is, you devil. Don’t you come here teasing your poor old dad.’

I laugh. ‘Sorry, I couldn’t resist.’ It’s good to see Dad back performing with the local am-drams. ‘Well I must say I’m relieved. I thought it was your new look. So a French detective, aye?’ I’m teasing.

He straightens his back, and with a pretty impressive accent says, ‘I’ll ’ave you know Poirot is from Belgium.’ He picks up his mug and takes a sip. ‘So are you on holiday from work?’

‘Unpaid leave.’

‘And you’re managing OK?’

I want to tell him I’m not managing at all. That I’m going to have to move out of London because I can’t afford the rent, but instead I say, ‘Fine, I’ve got a bit of money saved.’

‘It will be good for you. You never gave yourself time to grieve after your mum.’

‘Oh I don’t know, I’ve done a ridiculous amount of crying.’ My voice cracks.

‘Oh, love.’

‘Will it ever get any easier, Dad?’

He lifts his shoulders. ‘They say it does, eventually.’

I blow steam from the tea and take a sip. ‘I thought if I came to see you, stayed for a bit …’ I suddenly feel overwhelmed. I haven’t been back here since Mum died, and there are memories of her, of my childhood, everywhere.

‘The thing is …’ He glances at his case by the back door, that I hadn’t noticed.

There’s a beat before my thoughts become words. ‘You’re going away?’ I rub my temples. I don’t want to go home right now. I want to stay here with him. I meet his eyes, knowing he feels awful. ‘Oh God, I shouldn’t have turned up unannounced. I just wanted to surprise you, that’s all.’ It wasn’t strictly true. I needed him. Desperately.

‘Don’t be daft. I’m thrilled to see you, love. But—’

‘I should have called you first.’ Despite him telling me each time we spoke on the phone that he keeps busy, that he’d even joined the local ornithologists, that he’d started acting again, I still imagined him sitting at home broken – like me. And truth is, I know he is broken. He’s just better at plastering over the cracks than I am.

‘You can stay here, Amelia,’ he says. ‘I’m only away for a week, and once I’m back, we can—’

‘No. No it’s fine.’ I rise. Annoyed. Not with him, but with myself. Rattled that I assumed he would be here waiting for me, his life on pause.

‘Sit,’ he says. ‘I’m not leaving for half an hour, and I’m all packed. We have lots to catch up on.’

I lower myself back down. ‘So where are you off to?’ I say, diverting the conversation into unknown territory.

‘Well, that’s the thing.’ He avoids meeting my eyes as he runs a finger over his moustache. ‘I’m hoping you’ll understand why I didn’t tell you.’

‘Didn’t tell me?’ My body tenses.

‘I’ll be staying at Drummondale House.’

‘What?’ It came out high-pitched. ‘Why?’

‘Lark disappeared a year ago this week,’ he says.

‘Christ, Dad. Don’t you think I know that?’

He covers my hand with his. ‘I know you know that, love. I’m not trying to upset you.’