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Copyright
Published by AVON
A Division of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd
1 London Bridge Street
London SE1 9GF
www.harpercollins.co.uk
First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2020
Copyright © Sam Carrington 2020
Cover design by Andrew Davis © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2020
Cover photograph © Daniel Brothers/GettyImages (background); Shutterstock.com (sign)
Sam Carrington asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
A catalogue copy of 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 ebook 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.
Source ISBN: 9780008331399
Ebook Edition © October 2020 ISBN: 9780008331405
Version: 2020-10-21
PRAISE FOR SAM CARRINGTON
‘Sam Carrington has done it again. One Little Lie is a twisty, gripping read. I loved it.’
Cass Green, bestselling author of In a Cottage In a Wood
‘Expertly written … with plentiful twists and unforgettable characters. An insightful and unnerving read.’
Caroline Mitchell, bestselling author of Silent Victim
‘A kick-ass page turner … I was knocked senseless by the awesome twist.’
John Marrs, #1 bestselling author of The One
‘I LOVED Bad Sister. Tense, convincing and complex, it kept me guessing (wrongly!)’
Caz Frear, bestselling author of Sweet Little Lies
‘This book is not only gripping, but it explores the mother/daughter relationship perfectly, and ends with a gasp-out-loud twist’
Closer
‘I devoured this story in one sitting!’
Louise Jensen, bestselling author of The Sister
‘How do you support victims of crime when you live with unresolved mysteries of your own? Psychologist Connie Summers is a fascinatingly flesh-and-blood guide through this twisty thriller.’
Louise Candlish, Sunday Times bestselling author of Our House
‘Keeps you guessing right to the end’
Sue Fortin, author of Schoolgirl Missing
‘I read One Little Lie in one greedy gulp. A compelling thriller about the dark side of maternal instinct and love – I couldn’t put it down!’
Isabel Ashdown, author of Beautiful Liars
‘A gripping read which moved at a head-spinning pace … I simply couldn’t put this book down until I reached the dramatic and devastating conclusion.’
Claire Allan, USA Today bestselling author of Her Name Was Rose
‘I was fascinated by the cleverly written threads linking the psychologist, police, criminal and victim. Utterly original and thought provoking … This cries out to be made into a TV series.’
Amanda Robson, Sunday Times bestselling author of Guilt
‘Engrossing psychological suspense about the effect of a murder on the mother of a teenage killer. Sam Carrington had me hooked!’
Emma Curtis, bestselling author of One Little Mistake
Dedication
For my dearest friend, Trace
We grew up together, we’ll grow old together, and together we’ll laugh through it all
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Praise for Sam Carrington
Dedication
Prologue
Chapter One: Amber
Chapter Two: Amber
Chapter Three: Barb
Chapter Four: Amber
Chapter Five: Amber
Chapter Six: Amber
Chapter Seven: Barb
Chapter Eight: Amber
Chapter Nine: Barb
Chapter Ten: Amber
Chapter Eleven: Amber
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen: Amber
Chapter Fourteen: Barb
Chapter Fifteen: Amber
Chapter Sixteen: Amber
Chapter Seventeen: Amber
Chapter Eighteen: Barb
Chapter Nineteen: Amber
Chapter Twenty: Amber
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two: Amber
Chapter Twenty-Three: Amber
Chapter Twenty-Four: Barb
Chapter Twenty-Five: Amber
Chapter Twenty-Six: Amber
Chapter Twenty-Seven: Amber
Chapter Twenty-Eight: Amber
Chapter Twenty-Nine: Barb
Chapter Thirty: Amber
Chapter Thirty-One: Amber
Chapter Thirty-Two: Amber
Chapter Thirty-Three: Barb
Chapter Thirty-Four: Amber
Chapter Thirty-Five: Amber
Chapter Thirty-Six: Amber
Chapter Thirty-Seven: Amber
Chapter Thirty-Eight: Barb
Chapter Thirty-Nine: Amber
Chapter Forty: Amber
Chapter Forty-One: Amber
Chapter Forty-Two
Chapter Forty-Three: Amber
Chapter Forty-Four: Barb
Chapter Forty-Five: Amber
Chapter Forty-Six: Amber
Chapter Forty-Seven: Amber
Chapter Forty-Eight: Amber
Chapter Forty-Nine: Amber
Chapter Fifty: Barb
Chapter Fifty-One: Amber
Chapter Fifty-Two
Chapter Fifty-Three: Amber
Chapter Fifty-Four: Amber
Chapter Fifty-Five: Amber
Chapter Fifty-Six: Amber
Chapter Fifty-Seven: Barb
Chapter Fifty-Eight: Amber
Chapter Fifty-Nine
Chapter Sixty: Barb
Chapter Sixty-One: Amber
Chapter Sixty-Two: Amber
Chapter Sixty-Three: Amber
Chapter Sixty-Four: Amber
Chapter Sixty-Five: Barb
Chapter Sixty-Six: Amber
Chapter Sixty-Seven
Chapter Sixty-Eight: Amber
Chapter Sixty-Nine: Amber
Chapter Seventy: Amber
Chapter Seventy-One: Barb
Chapter Seventy-Two: Amber
Chapter Seventy-Three: Amber
Chapter Seventy-Four
Chapter Seventy-Five: Amber
Chapter Seventy-Six: Barb
Chapter Seventy-Seven: Amber
Chapter Seventy-Eight: Amber
Chapter Seventy-Nine: Amber
Chapter Eighty
Chapter Eighty-One: Barb
Chapter Eighty-Two: Amber
Chapter Eighty-Three: Barb
Chapter Eighty-Four
Chapter Eighty-Five: Amber
Chapter Eighty-Six: Amber
Chapter Eighty-Seven: Amber
Chapter Eighty-Eight: Barb
Chapter Eighty-Nine: Amber
Chapter Ninety: Barb
Chapter Ninety-One: Amber
Chapter Ninety-Two: Amber
Chapter Ninety-Three: Barb
Chapter Ninety-Four: Amber
Chapter Ninety-Five: Amber
Chapter Ninety-Six: Amber
Chapter Ninety-Seven: Barb
Chapter Ninety-Eight: Amber
Chapter Ninety-Nine
Chapter One Hundred: Amber
Chapter One Hundred and One: Amber
Chapter One Hundred and Two: Barb
Chapter One Hundred and Three: Amber
Chapter One Hundred and Four: 8 Months Later: Amber
Acknowledgements
Keep Reading …
About the Author
By the Same Author
About the Publisher
Prologue
No one will find out.
Those were the words I’d spoken. It was what I’d believed then, that day. The day after. The week after. Every time.
Until now.
Now I know them to be a lie.
I had no idea what would happen, though.
Everyone makes mistakes.
It was just unfortunate that several of them came to light all at one point in time.
And the lies, untruths – whatever you want to call them – had a knock-on effect.
One event started it. One I hadn’t known about – couldn’t possibly have been aware of, even.
When a butterfly flaps its wings in Brazil, it can cause a tornado in Texas.
The lie that upturned my life like a tornado and started this particular chain of events got out of control; gathered speed. It attempted to destroy everyone in its path.
I hadn’t wanted to become one of its victims. I had to ensure the storm missed me. Took someone else instead. In the end, it hadn’t been up to me to choose who; fate had already decided.
I’m sorry it had to be you, Amber.
Chapter One
Amber
‘I’m not saying you’ve made a mistake, exactly …’
Barb’s tone cuts through me; it drips with contempt. Of course she’s saying I’ve made a mistake. She’s told me this very thing almost daily for the past ten months. I’m tired of trying to fight my corner alone. I’ve enough to be thinking about without my mother-in-law constantly on my back.
Soon-to-be ex-mother-in-law.
‘Good, because I haven’t,’ I say, without daring to make eye contact with her over my kitchen table. I’m not scared of Barb, and on another day I might well bite, but I can’t risk being drawn into this same argument again right now – I need to shut it down. I get up and walk purposefully out of the kitchen, leaving her sitting, back straight as a rod, bone-china cup lifted to her thin lips. The cup she insists I keep just for her. ‘Come on, boys, we’ll be late!’ I shout up the stairs.
‘I’ll help you with the boys, Amber. I can take them to school.’ Barb’s now honey-drenched voice drifts out into the hallway. My spine stiffens.
‘No, you’re all right. Thanks though,’ I call back. I smile as I say it, so that my own tone sounds light. ‘You can stay and finish your tea if you like; let yourself out.’ I turn to grab the boys’ coats off the bannister post.
‘Christ!’ I gasp, almost crashing into Barb as I spin back around. She’s standing directly behind me; I could’ve easily knocked her delicate five-foot-two-inch frame over. I hadn’t even heard her move. She can certainly be stealthy when it suits her.
She gives me a half-smile. ‘Sorry, didn’t mean to startle you.’ Her watery, pale, blue-grey eyes seem brighter today; there’s a sparkle I haven’t noticed since the day she found out Nick and I wanted to split. Well, since I wanted to. That’s when her “you’ve made a mistake” speech first began. It’s progressed since then. Now she’s telling me at every opportunity that putting the house on the market and wanting to start afresh, with a new partner, is adding to my list of errors in judgement.
Barb and this precious house. If I could sell it back to her, I would, but she’s no longer in the position. She seems to hold it against me, even though it was her idea for Nick and I to buy her out so we could live in the family home and bring our children up here. She chose the assisted-living complex because she was “thinking ahead”. She bought the best bungalow there, because her apparently arthritic knee joints meant stairs were becoming more troublesome. No one twisted her arm.
To prevent the added stress of court hearings, Nick and I sat down and hammered out the financial side, coming to our own arrangements. The family home was included in this. It was agreed the best option was for me to stay here with the boys until it was sold, then split the proceeds equally. He is amicable – and secretly I think he’s relieved – that we’re apart and I’m going to be leaving Devon. He can put all his efforts into his job then without my constant moaning about how the police force is his priority and he’s not spending enough time with me and the boys. This plan suits him, even if his mother disagrees.
As I wait for Finley and Leo to get their shoes on and gather their rucksacks, I go outside. I stand back from the front step and turn to look at the house. Its cream-rendered exterior is a little tired-looking but I’m hoping to get away with leaving it unpainted. It doesn’t look shabby next to the identical houses either side, anyway, so I don’t think it’s an issue. I do like it, and had the circumstances been different, I could’ve carried on living here. It is a great place to bring the boys up and, despite it being a terraced property, a good size.
However, there hasn’t been the slightest sniff of interest. It’s possible it’s to do with the proposed new development in the fields behind, even though planning hasn’t been granted yet and won’t be if the villagers have their way. The houses on this estate were built in the early Seventies, and even back then there was controversy about it. But Apple Grove – an estate of forty houses arranged both sides of the road in a large, elongated semi-circle – isn’t as bad as two hundred brand-new homes, which is the planned size of the new one. That scope of development would put a great deal of pressure on the village’s amenities; the school has certainly not got the capacity for an influx of new pupils.
So, I think it’s a safe bet it won’t go ahead, despite a couple of properties – one being my next-door neighbour on the right, Maggie – already selling to the developer. Apparently, they need to take part of the long back gardens of the houses along my side of the road, but as they have progressed from offering to buy a part of the land, and it’s now the entire property they want, I’m guessing their longer-term plan is to demolish the houses too. I don’t understand why people would sell to them. It’s so selfish. I will most definitely not be considering any offer from those developers. I might well be desperate to move, but I have morals.
I glance at Move Horizon’s For Sale sign, which is standing just inside the dwarf garden wall, and make a mental note to contact Carl later for an update; he’s gone rather quiet. I don’t like quiet. To me, it means he’s not working hard enough on my behalf, which is the opposite of the promises he made in his bigged-up speech when he was trying to get me to sign up with him. Typical estate-agent speak; I shouldn’t have bought into it, but I got swept along as I need to sell this house quickly and his, according to Barb, is one of the most successful estate agencies locally.
‘Is Nanna coming to live with us when we go to Kent?’ Leo asks as we hurry along the pavement towards Stockwood Primary School, Finley hanging behind as usual so none of his friends see him walking with me and his little brother – being eight seems to be an awkward “in-between” stage for him.
‘No, sweetie. What makes you ask that?’
‘It’s what Nanna said.’ He sniffs, wipes his nose with his coat sleeve, then starts kicking a stone along in front of him. I hesitate before answering. Surely Barb wouldn’t have put this idea into his head.
‘Maybe you heard her wrong?’ I offer, ignoring the prickling sensation at the base of my neck and the urge to fire twenty questions at him in the middle of the street. I smile so he doesn’t think I’m accusing him of lying. Lately, if I query anything he says, he gives me a pouty stare, crosses his arms and says I never believe him. I don’t remember Finley being like this at six, but then he wasn’t as sensitive to things as Leo is. I take a deep breath, waiting for his response.
‘Nope. I didn’t.’ He stops walking and lifts his head to mine, daring me to challenge him.
‘Oh, okay. Well, Nanna was telling me how she will miss you boys very much. I don’t think she would’ve said that if she’s thinking of coming with us. Do you?’
Leo sets off again, his head bowed. ‘That is strange,’ he mutters.
Yes, it certainly is. And I believe Leo.
What on earth is Barb playing at?
Chapter Two
Amber
I tentatively open the front door and creep inside – anticipating seeing Barb still sitting at the kitchen table, or worse, flitting around the place, tidying – something she often used to do if left unattended for any length of time. She means well, and to be fair, in the days when the boys were toddlers, I was grateful for her help, seeing as I don’t have family nearby. But for the last couple of years I’ve tried to discourage it.
It’s quiet, though; no sounds bar the deep grumbling hum of the fridge that needs replacing. I relax, letting out my held breath. Good, she’s gone. I need to hurry up and get myself sorted or I’m going to be late for work. They’ve been good at Stewart Optician’s – knowing I now have to do all the school runs, they’ve allowed me some flexibility to the usual working hours. But I don’t want to push my luck because if the house sells, I’ll be giving notice and likely landing their small family-run business in the shit. I haven’t informed Henry and Olive Stewart of my intention to leave Devon yet; they don’t know the house is on the market – none of the staff have ever been to my house so they wouldn’t recognise it in the estate-agent window. The way it’s going, the move might not happen for ages, so I can’t risk them finding out and immediately seeking a replacement and then “letting me go” before I’m ready.
The doorbell rings as I’m in the en-suite bathroom slapping my make-up on; there’s not enough concealer and camouflage lately to cover up the dark circles under my once wrinkle-free, bright blue eyes. I’m still two years off the dreaded four-O, but I fear it will only get worse. I sigh and reach for my phone, pressing the SmartRing app.
‘Hello,’ I say into my phone, my attention flitting from the mirror to the slightly blurry image of the back of a DHL delivery driver standing on my doorstep. He whirls around, presumably confused as to who is speaking to him. ‘Just leave it on the doorstep; I’ll get it in a sec,’ I say.
Finally realising the voice is coming from the bell to the left of the door, he steps closer to it and shouts, ‘Needs a signature.’
Dammit. I stop caking on my foundation to sweep the mascara wand haphazardly over my lashes, rush to the door, sign for the parcel and leave it on the hall table. It’s for Nick. He obviously hasn’t bothered to update his address yet. I’ve no time to tidy the mess I’ve just made in the bathroom, which means today is bound to be the day Carl brings someone for a viewing. I throw my handbag over my shoulder and head out the door, locking it behind me. Carl has a set of keys so that he can conduct viewings in my absence. It’s been almost two months and, as yet, I don’t think he’s needed them – if there have been visits, he’s failed to inform me.
Hopelessness soars at the realisation it might be weeks before we get any interest. Now it’s been decided I’ll be getting a place with Richard, I’m impatient and just want us all to be in our new home together, starting our new chapter.
I thought it would be easier than this.
But I also thought my marriage would be forever.
I don’t remember feeling quite so intense about Nick as I do about Richard. A warm sensation envelops me at the mere thought of him and I pause on my doorstep to send a quick “good morning, gorgeous” text. I don’t wait for a response; he’s probably already at work. I head to my car, which I always manage to park directly outside of the house. The lovely thing about Apple Grove is most people stick to parking in their own spot, and as the semi-detached properties have driveways it means I’m rarely unable to park. I think it’s one of the unspoken rules of the neighbourhood.
‘Morning, Amber!’ a voice calls. I don’t need to turn to know it’s Davina. Sadly, the unspoken rule of not bothering your neighbours at every opportunity has yet to infiltrate Davina’s brain.
I throw my hand up, giving a brief wave before ducking quickly into the car, slamming the door and starting the engine. I can only imagine her expression. She’ll think I’m being rude, which I guess I am, but if I even utter good morning, she’ll take that as a sign I want to converse with her. And I don’t have twenty minutes to spare to listen to her village gossip or bat away her questions about Nick. Since he left, she’s been itching to get the inside info; find out why. I glance in my rear-view mirror as I drive away and note Davina’s slumped posture as she walks back towards her house – on the opposite side to mine and up a little.
It’s not as if we’re friends; she merely lives in the same road. We don’t have a thing in common: she’s older than me by about fifteen years for one – and as far as I know, she hasn’t any children. Her only interest seems to be in other people’s business, which has always riled me. I don’t really know much about her as she only talks about others, never herself. The woman can rub me up the wrong way just by looking at me with her small, beady eyes. Eyes I sense are on me whenever I leave my house. Still, I feel a niggling tug of guilt for my abruptness.
It doesn’t last beyond the junction.
Once on the main road, I lean forward and press the phone icon on the car display, then tap Carl Anderson’s name. The phone is picked up on the second ring.
‘Good morning!’ Carl’s always-cheerful voice fills the car. ‘Just the lady I wanted to talk to.’
‘Oh?’ I say. His upbeat tone momentarily lifts my spirits. ‘You have an interested party?’
‘Um …’ Carl gives a little cough. ‘Not exactly …’
I’m about to butt in, but Carl must sense it and he quickly continues.
‘But. I do have a plan,’ he says. I envisage him smiling that wide, toothy grin – the obvious fake one reserved for blindsiding clients – and running his fingers through his thick mass of golden-blond hair, which I am sure he must dye as I find it hard to believe a man in his late forties lacks even a single grey. An audible sigh escapes my lips.