Trust Me: A gripping debut psychological thriller with a shocking twist!
‘A brilliant debut, this tense and original story deserves to be read!’ B A Paris best-selling author of Behind Closed Doors‘Gemma Metcalfe turns the screw until the tension is almost unbearable. A fast-paced debut with a twist that made me gasp.’ Mark Edwards best-selling author of The Devil’s WorkOne phone call. Two lives. Their darkest secrets.Lana needs to sell a holiday, fast. Stuck in Tenerife, in a dead end job, she never expected a response quite like Liam’s.Thousands of miles away a phone rings. Liam never intended to pick up, he’s too busy choosing the quickest way to die. But at least someone should know the truth before he goes, even if that someone is a stranger.As time runs out both are drawn to the other, expressing thoughts they never imagined they would share.When you’re about to die will your secrets even matter? ‘Trust Me is a brilliantly fast paced read, with a unique premise…add to that a spectacular twist, and I couldn't turn the pages fast enough.’Lisa Hall, author of Between You and Me“It's a well written thriller that had me hooked from the gripping prologue and gasping out loud when I read a jaw dropping, unexpected twist towards the end.” Nicki Richards“I couldn't stop reading, because I just needed to see what secrets will be spilled next!!! I loved the way the story jumped between the present and the past, it was done seamlessly, and added extra juice to the storyline. It was a great read and highly recommended.” Tanya Brough
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One phone call. Two lives. Their darkest secrets.
Lana needs to sell a holiday, fast. Stuck in Tenerife, in a dead-end job, she never expected a response quite like Liam’s.
Hundreds of miles away, a phone rings. Liam never intended to pick up – he’s too busy choosing the quickest way to die. But at least someone should know the truth before he goes, even if that someone is a stranger.
As time runs out, each is drawn to the other, expressing thoughts they never thought they would share.
When you’re about to die, will your secrets even matter?
Trust Me
Gemma Metcalfe
GEMMA METCALFE
is a Manchester-born author who now lives in sunny Tenerife with her husband, Danny, and two crazy rescue dogs, Dora and Diego. By day, Gemma can be found working as a primary-school teacher, but as the sun sets, she ditches the glitter and glue and becomes a writer of psychological thrillers. An established drama queen, she admits to having a rather warped imagination, and loves writing original plots with shocking twists. The plot for her debut novel, Trust Me, is loosely based on her experiences as a call-centre operative, where she was never quite sure who would answer the phone!
For Auntie Kath – who always loved to read.
Contents
As she stepped through the door, her first thought was how deadly silent it was.
Especially given the circumstances.
‘Hello, where is everyone?’
The long, narrow hallway was encased in darkness, thanks to the bulb blowing a few days previously. She fumbled around in the dark with the toggles of her coat in an attempt to take it off, her fingers stiff with cold thanks to the buckets of icy rain which had pissed all over her on the journey home. Finally freeing herself, she attempted to hang the coat on the rail, but the lack of light meant it fell to the floor with a thud.
‘Hello?’ she shouted again into the darkness, her voice catching in her throat for a reason she couldn’t quite put her finger on. ‘Anyone in?’
Nobody answered.
Gripping hold of the banister rail, she gingerly made her way upstairs and towards the bathroom. Opening the door, her teeth chattered hard as she flicked on the light with her elbow, too scared to use her hands in case she got an electric shock. Leaning over the bathtub, she wrung out her heavy, soaked, blonde hair, while sniffing up loudly in an attempt to stop her nose dripping like a tap.
It was then that she heard a noise.
Opening the bathroom door, she let the light seep out, illuminating the stairs and hallway.
What happened next would change her life for ever.
Running into the living room, she saw him – curled up in a ball, a pool of blood by his side. Perhaps due to the shock, or her hysterical screaming, she didn’t notice the mobile phone; nor did she hear the pleading voice on the other end of the line.
PRESENT DAY
Lana, Tenerife, 9.30 am
‘What is the first rule of sales?’ asks my manager, Damien, a pathetic, bald-headed, little Scouser who has a surprisingly large forehead and an even larger ego.
‘Well?’ he demands when nobody speaks, a manic grin plastered on his face thanks to the bag of cocaine he’s no doubt just shoved up his hooter. He cracks his knuckles twice, looks around the room for an answer. We stare ahead uninterested, dodging eye contact.
Through the window of the office – a characterless, white, walled box packed to the brim with computers and sweaty bodies – I catch a glimpse of paradise. Tenerife looks especially beautiful this morning: pale-gold sand meets crystal-blue sea, blending effortlessly into a cloudless sky; lazy morning sun beats down on half-naked bodies like warm honey; couples arm in arm, forgetting for at least one week about the damp, cold weather and depressing recession, which are destined to greet them off the plane home. I swivel around in my chair ninety degrees and can just about make out the harbour in the distance: rich people’s yachts bobbing up and down with the fresh morning breeze; excited babies being rocked on their mothers’ knees, their chubby faces covered in bubble-gum ice cream. Damien says I have the best desk in the office, next to this window. He calls it ‘the window of opportunity’. He likes his play on words does Damien – that’s one of the many reasons why I think he’s a prat!
‘Lana!’ he often barks, while looming over my desk with his Armani tie swinging in my face and his beer breath wafting up my nostrils. ‘If looking through that window doesn’t inspire you to sell holidays, you might as well go and look in the job-centre window, instead.’ Then he laughs hysterically before giving way to a smoke-induced coughing fit, like the wit he possesses needs to splutter out before he spontaneously combusts.
