The Night Olivia Fell
They said it was an accident. Her mother knows they’re lying. But the truth comes with a price…A fast-paced and action packed psychological thriller that is full of twists and turns you won’t see coming. The Night Olivia Fell is the most gripping suspense mystery you’ll read this year.IT’S EVERY PARENT’S WORST NIGHTMARE.Abi Knight is startled awake in the middle of the night to a ringing phone and devastating news – her teenage daughter, Olivia, has been in a terrible accident.Abi is told that Olivia slipped and fell from a bridge into the icy water below, and now she lies silent, dependent on life support.But then Abi sees the angry bruises around Olivia’s wrists and learns that her sensible daughter is in fact three months pregnant . . .WOULD YOU BELIEVE IT IF THEY TOLD YOU IT WAS AN ACCIDENT?
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CHRISTINA McDONALD worked as a freelance journalist for several newspapers in Ireland and Seattle, including The Sunday Times, Dublin, The Connacht Tribune, Galway, The Galway Independent, The Seattle Post Intelligencer, and Colures Magazine. She later moved to London and started a digital copywriting company where she worked as a consultant and writer for brands such as British Telecom (BT), Travelex, Wood Mackenzie, Pearson Publishing, TUI Travel, Expedia and USAToday.com. She now lives in London with her husband, two sons and their Golden Retriever. The Night Olivia Fell is her debut novel.
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First published in Great Britain by HQ in 2019
Copyright © Christina McDonald 2019
Christina McDonald 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.
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Ebook Edition © February 2019 ISBN: 9780008307677
For Richard, always and forever
Also for every single parent out there doing the most difficult jobalone; but especially for my mom, the strongest and most inspiringsingle mother I know. Thank you.
‘You want the truth? I’m –’ My admission was cut off by a streak of blazing hot pain as something exploded against the side of my head. My brain barely registered the blow, my vision a dusky blur of red, pain searing into my skull and down my jaw. I felt my body spin with the force of it.
I reeled backward until my legs whacked against the low cement wall and I tumbled over, my body hurtling sideways across the ledge. A dark fog pressed against my outer vision, and before I knew it I was falling, plunging into empty space.
I hit the river on my back, my eyes fastened on the bridge’s soaring spires illuminated by a flickering streetlamp.
Then the shadowy water tipped me under.
ABI
october
I woke abruptly, dreams tumbling from me in cottony wisps. I couldn’t remember falling asleep, but the lamp on my bedside table had been switched off, the only light a full, glowing moon outside my window.
The phone was ringing.
‘Olivia?’ I murmured, hoping she’d get it so I wouldn’t have to. My daughter was one of those people who could wake up and fall asleep as if flipping a switch.
I rolled over and peered at my alarm clock. The red lights blinked 4:48 a.m. Nobody called at this time of night with good news.
I bolted upright and grabbed the phone, the feather duvet sliding from my body, leaving my bed-warmed arms cold and exposed.
‘Hello?’
‘Hello, is this Abigail Knight?’ The voice – a man’s – was low and tight, coiled like a viper about to strike.
‘Yes.’
‘This is Portage Point Hospital. It’s about your daughter, Olivia. I’m afraid there’s been an accident.’
× × ×
I ran down the hall to Olivia’s room, cold wings of fear fluttering in my stomach.
Her door was shut and I threw it open thinking, irrationally, that she’d sit up in bed blinking her eyes at me sleepily. I imagined, hoped, that she’d be angry at me for invading her teenage space. She’d throw a pillow at me, and I’d laugh weakly, clutching my chest with one hand as my heart rate returned to normal.
‘I had a terrible dream,’ I’d say.
‘I’m fine, Mom,’ she’d reply, looking at me with all the scorn a seventeen-year-old could muster. ‘You worry too much.’
But her room was silent and empty, her bed a jumble of blankets. Dirty clothes spilled from the laundry basket in her half-open closet. Sheaves of paper were scattered in a disorganized jumble on her dresser.
I lurched out of the room, down the stairs, and into my car.
Last night, at the Stokeses’ barbecue, she’d been fine.
But, no. I shook my head, really remembering. No, she
