Lies Between Us: a tense psychological thriller with a twist you won’t see coming
Will they ever learn the truth?Three people, leading very different lives, are about to be brought together – with devastating consequences . . .John has a perfect life, until the day his daughter goes missing.Maisie cares for her patients, but hides her own traumatic past.Miller should be an innocent child, but is obsessed with something he can’t have.They all have something in common, though none of them know it – and the truth won’t stay hidden for long . . . A gripping psychological thriller for fans of Clare Mackintosh, Shari Lapena and Lisa Jewell.READERS LOVE RONNIE TURNER:‘a compelling and unsettling read that had me hooked from the beginning’‘An excellent debut’‘what a complex and disturbing thriller’‘I would definitely recommend’‘Ronnie has written a twisty and intelligent psychological thriller that will keep you guessing until the very end.’‘Great balls of fire! There is certainly a lot going on in this dark & depraved debut novel! A complex storyline, multiple timelines, and various POV’s to steer the reader on a crazy, twisted but oh-so-thrilling ride! Hats off to the author ’
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RONNIE TURNER grew up in Cornwall, the youngest in a large family. At an early age, she discovered a love of literature and dreamed of being a published author. Ronnie now lives in Dorset with her family and three dogs. In her spare time, she reviews books on her blog and enjoys long walks on the coast. Lies Between Us is her debut novel.
Lies Between Us
RONNIE TURNER
HQ
An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd.
1 London Bridge Street
London SE1 9GF
First published in Great Britain by HQ in 2018
Copyright © Ronnie Turner 2018
Ronnie Turner 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 © October 2018 ISBN: 9780008313029
Version: 2018-09-03
Table of Contents
For my family – Team Turner – who are always cheering me on.
Not all love is pure
Not all love is kind
Not all love is true
Some love is blind
Miller
Let me tell you something I haven’t told you before…
One, two, three, finger by finger, I squeeze down into the soft, pale skin of her neck.
Four, five, six…
She reaches out and grasps and grasps at thin air, small fingers searching for some salvation, even as her young face submerges and her lungs fill with water.
Seven, eight, nine…
It doesn’t take long. I stroke her hair and smile into her frightened brown eyes.
Ten, eleven, twelve… I squeeze down until her arms grow limp and the last moments of life bleed into nothing.
Thursday 19 March, 1992
They come to you in waves, the wives clutching their hands to their chests, the husbands folding their arms in front of their stomachs, heads bowed, all wearing expressions they deem suitable for the occasion. Unbidden, they are trespassers on your grief and it’s as if they’ve pulled their expressions from their wardrobes, along with the black clothing they donned this morning. But their otherwise perfect appearance is bereft of the most crucial component: sincerity.
You and your parents barely notice. You accept their condolences and pats on the back with good grace, but I can see behind the well-mannered veneer to the part of you wanting to be left to the solitude of her absence. I’ve lost count of the times I’ve witnessed them smile, stroke your cheek and mutter to your parents, ‘Brave little soldier.’ You only nod and force a smile onto your lips, awaiting the next chorus of ‘Ohhs’ and ‘Ahhs,’ closely followed by the ensuing pulse of ‘Such a shame, such a terrible shame’.
As they leave, the expressions they wear already slipping, I walk up to your house and ram my nail into the puckered scratch that runs across my forearm, tears of pain slipping down my skin. Smudging them across my face, I knock on the door and wait. When you appear, you take in my appearance and I yours. Despite watching from afar all morning, I hadn’t realised how your posture has slumped, nor how your eyes are rimmed red.
‘I’m sorry, mate,’ I say, and like those before me I pat you on the back and smile; a mechanical act but an acceptable one.
You nod and step aside: an invitation into your home, to share in your grief, but most of all an invitation to comfort you. If only I could, properly. If only I could gather you up in my arms and stroke your short brown hair, kiss each of your fingers and banish the pain. The desire to do all of this, my beautiful boy, is nearly impossible to ignore. But I must. You need your friend. You need the person I’ve given you. You need the illusion. The good-little-boy pretence. The neighbour. Not me. Not the oddity. I realised a long time ago who I needed to be and what I needed to do to achieve in life. You don’t have to look hard to see that ‘good boys’ go further. They get what they want when they are as sweet as me.
