House of Lies: A gripping thriller with a shocking twist
Somewhere in Vixenhead, I’m certain the truth lies…A sudden disappearance…When Roz Outlaw's partner Tom mysteriously vanishes, she knows his life is in danger. Tom has been distracted lately, afraid, as though he is being hunted…A desperate search…With the police showing little interest Roz knows it falls to her to find Tom. But as Tom's secrets are uncovered nothing can prepare Roz for the dark lies and twisted truths she finds. She thought she loved Tom, but quickly realises she has been living with a stranger – a man with murder in his past.A house of evil.The key to unlocking Tom's past lies in his childhood home – Vixenhead. A house of wickedness that keeps its secrets well hidden. Can Roz find Tom before it's too late or will the evil within Vixenhead claim her too…
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First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers 2017
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E. V. Seymour asserts the moral right
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ISBN: 9780008240851
Ebook Edition © March 2017
Version 2017-07-04
Table of Contents
For John
The father of our children.
In the beginning
Dawn breaks and the body of the boy is almost imperceptible in its still-grey light. There are no obvious marks upon him, no apparent cause of death. His eyes are closed, lids tinged Delphic blue. His body, which is small for his age, curls in the way it once did in his mother’s womb. Safe and warm. Now dreams he once dreamt lie smashed around him like falling stars. Not for him a future of bright city lights or rural anonymity. No rough and tumble with the lads. No jibes thrown or hurled in boozy pumped-up heat of the moment. No lover awaits him. No marriage or hope of becoming a good old boy and passing on a legacy through his children and their children. For him there is no tomorrow. From this moment on he will be forever in the dark.
Present Day
It kicks off the moment Tom spots his photograph in our county magazine.
“For God’s sake, how the hell did that happen?”
It all began with a party at Lily Gin’s, a popular cocktail bar off the Promenade. Free booze. Ear-bleeding beat. Everyone hollering. The local newspaper I work for has a sister magazine that held a joint bash there for advertisers and the great and good of Cheltenham. Their way of saying ‘thank you’. A roaming rookie photographer snapping folk glad-handing is the source of Tom’s ire. It’s strange because he isn’t confrontational or quick to anger. Not chilled, like me, but quiet and mostly silent with an undertow of edge that I find a bit Darcy-like and dead exciting. Tom blowing his stack isn’t a thrill at all; it’s worrying.
Personally, I think how nice he looks. “It’s a great snap.” It really is. The picture isn’t posed. We are deep in conversation. Slightly turned away from the camera, the scar at his temple that makes him look dangerous and sexy is more prominent than usual; dark-blonde beard neatly trimmed; his nose with a slight kink at the bridge, full kissable lips close to my cheek. For once we are captured together, which makes a change. Anyone viewing my photo album for the past few years could be forgiven for thinking I’m single.
“Fuck’s sake, you know I hate having my photograph taken.”
To the point of phobia, but as it was clicked, with Tom unawares, by some newbie photographer, I can’t see what the problem is. Sleek, monumentally happy and relaxed, Tom is whispering something in my ear that makes me smile, although I can’t for the life of me think what it was, mostly because I’m now half into my dress, trying to get ready for work.
“It’s only the county mag,” I point out, finally zipping myself up.
“Yours,” he says, fury in his eyes, as if I am personally liable. I don’t bother to point out the inaccuracy of his accusation.
“For goodness’ sake, I’m not the editor, Tom. You know very well I don’t write a thing for the magazine these days.” Still, he glowers. “Look, I’m sorry,” I say, spreading my hands, thinking that I really should be heading out. It was all right for Tom to chunter on. He’d got a day off from the restaurant where he works as a chef.
