Your Guilty Lies (ARC) Read online

  Your Guilty Lies

  A completely gripping psychological thriller packed with twists

  Ruth Heald

  Books by Ruth Heald

  The Mother’s Mistake

  Your Guilty Lies

  Available in Audio

  The Mother’s Mistake (Available in the UK and US)

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  1

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  2

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  3

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  4

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  5

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  6

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  7

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  8

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  9

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  10

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  11

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  12

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  13

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  14

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  15

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  16

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  17

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  18

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  19

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  20

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  21

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  22

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  23

  Chapter 49

  Epilogue

  The Mother’s Mistake

  Hear More from Ruth

  Books by Ruth Heald

  A Letter from Ruth

  Acknowledgements

  Prologue

  I crawl to the top of the stone stairs. Every bone in my body hurts, but I have to get out of here. I have to get help. I have to find Mum.

  My vision blurs. I can see the two figures just above me, shadows in the doorway. Their backs to me. About to leave. About to lock the door behind them and leave me all alone.

  I stand shakily, ready to follow them out of the dark.

  They are angry with me, angry with each other. But I can’t focus on their words. My vision is blurry and my ears ring. I feel panic building inside me, filling me up so there’s no space left to even breathe.

  Then the hands come towards me, palms facing outwards. I see them coming but I can’t move out of the way. My broken body won’t cooperate. They reach out and push me as hard as they can.

  I tumble backward. I’m flying for a second. My last moment of freedom before I land and feel my head crack against the first stone step. My legs are above me, tumbling over me, my arms folding at impossible angles beneath me.

  And then my world goes completely black.

  One

  I stare down at the two blue lines on the pregnancy test.

  This can’t be happening.

  Closing my eyes, I sink down heavily onto the floor. I slump against the bath, tipping my head back until it rests on the cold acrylic edge, still wet from a flatmate’s shower.

  I shake the test but the lines remain. Confident and straight.

  ‘Katie – are you in there?’ A knock on the bathroom door startles me. ‘Katie – I’m desperate here. There’s only so much more pressure my bladder can take.’

  Amy. My flatmate and best friend.

  I look back down at the pregnancy test, hoping the lines have disappeared. They haven’t.

  I stand up unsteadily, feeling slightly sick. Morning sickness? The thought makes me feel sicker still. Am I really pregnant?

  Shoving the test into the waistband of my skirt, I glance at my reflection in the mirror. I’m still in my barista uniform, milky stains down the front of the shirt. My thick brown hair’s still tangled from my nap. I can’t even take care of myself. How could I take care of a baby?

  ‘Katie! What are you doing in there?’

  I take a deep breath and open the door. Amy rushes past.

  Looking back, I see the wrapper of the pregnancy test resting on top of the toilet and make a dive past Amy to grab it.

  ‘What’s that?’ Amy asks, her eyes wide.

  ‘Nothing,’ I say, screwing it up in my hand.

  ‘Oh my god – you’re not?’ The look in my eyes must confirm her suspicions. ‘What are you going to do?’

  * * *

  Three minutes later, Amy is in my room, perched on the edge of my bed, her arm around my shaking body.

  ‘Everything will be alright,’ she reassures me.

  I tell her all the reasons I shouldn’t have a baby. I don’t have a career, or any savings; I don’t own my own place. I don’t think Ian will want the baby. We’re not even in a serious relationship.

  Amy stops me mid-sentence. ‘But do you want the baby?’ she asks.

  It’s only a split second before the answer is clear to me.

  ‘Yes,’ I whisper, shocked.

  ‘Well, then you’ll make it work,’ she says confidently.

  I’m about to ask her how when my phone buzzes. It’s Mum. She’ll be here in half an hour.

  I kick myself for offering to cook for her and my sister. Right now dinner with the pair of them is the last thing I need.

  ‘Don’t worry, I’ll help you,’ Amy says, fully aware of the huge anxiety Mum elicits in me.

  Amy’s worked in pub kitchens before and she powers through chopping the vegetables for the casserole, while I faff around pulling herbs out of the cupboard. I keep forgetting where things are. My mind’s a jumble. I gag as I cut the chicken. I throw the ingredients haphazardly into the casserole dish and shove it in the oven.

  I haven’t even tidied up. I go to the front door and trace the path my mother will take through the flat, trying to see it through her eyes. There’s an old rusty freezer by the front door that belongs to my flatmate Cliff, full of fish fingers and chicken nuggets. Muddy tyre tracks mark a path through the hallway, where Mike dragged his bike through earlier. I notice the unidentifiable stains on the walls, the cobwebs in the corners and a lonely Christmas paper chain out of reach, just below the high ceiling. It’s been there at least three years. No wonder Mum hates coming here.

  I run the vacuum cleaner over the hallway carpet, working myself up into a sweat. The mud is gone but the place still looks shabby, and I can see the dust along the edges of the carpet and on the skirting boards.

  In the shared washroom, the pale bath mat is covered with dark hairs. The intercom rings as I’m pouring an overgenerous helping of bleach into the toilet bowl. I take the dirty mat and shove it in the cupboard in the hallway on my way to answer the intercom.

  ‘Mum,’ I say. ‘Come up.’ I buzz her in, and I just have time to rush to my room and run a brush though my hair before she knocks.

  When I open the door, Mum’s hand is poised as if to knock again, a delicate silver bracelet dangling from her slim wrist. Her mouth is pinched in concentration as if she’s been bracing herself. Her frown disappears in a split second and we greet each other with matching forced smiles.

  ‘Mum!’

  ‘Something smells nice
,’ she says, slipping off her shoes and entering the flat. My sister, Melissa, follows behind her. I still have my trainers on from work and I self-consciously take them off.

  ‘Chicken casserole,’ I reply as I nudge my flatmate Mike’s muddy football boots out of the way and Mum and Melissa follow me to the kitchen.

  I notice the huge pile of washing-up that’s been left in the sink at the same time as Mum sees it and frowns.

  ‘Drink?’ I offer.

  ‘Just a lemonade,’ says my sister. She hasn’t had any alcohol for nearly ten years, ever since she and Graham first started trying to conceive.

  ‘Wine for me,’ my mother says.

  I pour the drinks, helping myself to some water from the tap and hoping Mum doesn’t ask why I’m not having wine. When I turn to hand her her drink, I notice she’s looking me up and down. I wrap my arm round my stomach self-consciously. If anyone’s going to notice I’m pregnant, it will be Mum. She’s always watched my weight as closely as she’s watched her own.

  I rub the long, jagged scar on my upper arm, a habit from childhood which returns when I’m anxious, particularly when Mum’s around. I brace myself for her questioning, my secret burning inside me.

  ‘Haven’t you had time to get changed?’ she asks.

  ‘Oh,’ I say, surprised. I look down and remember I’m still in my barista uniform. I notice the milk stains and blush.

  ‘No – I forgot,’ I mumble.

  She sighs. ‘I wish you’d leave that place, Katie. You’re thirty-six now, far too old to be serving coffee for a living.’

  ‘I know how old I am, Mum.’

  ‘All that money on music college,’ she says, wistfully. ‘I thought you’d make something of yourself.’

  I wince, her words hurting me more than she can imagine. The work as a barista was supposed to support me until I got my big break. But I’m still auditioning fifteen years later, and the break hasn’t happened. I write songs and do the occasional pub gig on my electronic keyboard, but that’s as close as I get to fulfilling my ambitions these days.

  ‘Mum—’

  ‘All I wanted was for you to achieve what I couldn’t.’

  Mum played the piano professionally before she injured her hand in an accident.

  ‘I think the casserole’s ready,’ I say, although I know it can’t be. Amy and I have only just put it in.

  I get up and check the oven, but Mum continues.

  ‘I hoped you’d have settled down by now, have a career and a family.’

  I hear a sharp intake of breath from Melissa. The career might have happened for her – she’s a partner at a law firm – but the family hasn’t worked out. At least not yet. I feel a stab of guilt that I’ll almost certainly have a baby before she does.

  ‘Mum, I’m happy here,’ I say as I make a show of taking the casserole out of the oven and stirring it.

  ‘But are you? Is this really the way you want to live?’ She makes a sweeping gesture, taking in the whole messy kitchen.

  I feel my emotions well up inside me. My life won’t be this simple for much longer. In nine months everything could change. I shove the food back in the oven.

  ‘It’s no fun being single as you get older,’ Mum carries on.

  She’s been single since Dad died when I was six. I still think of him all the time, how things might be if he was alive. In the photos I have of us, I look like a miniature version of him. We gaze at the camera with matching smiles. I imagine he’d understand me in a way that Mum doesn’t. Perhaps Mum would be happier too if he was still around. I scratch at the scar on my arm.

  ‘You did an amazing job on your own,’ Melissa says to Mum, as I return to the table. I feel a familiar twinge of jealousy. Mum always seems to turn to Melissa for reassurance. After my father died, all I can remember is Mum and Melissa constantly together, hugging and whispering, shutting me out, telling me that I was too young to understand.

  I wish I had clearer memories of Dad. I only have flashes of recollection: Dad listening to me play the piano. His calloused hand holding mine tightly as we walked to school. The slight smell of whisky as he kissed me when he got in from work.

  I top up the drinks.

  ‘How are your book club friends, Mum?’ I ask, trying to change the subject.

  She takes the opportunity to dissect the life choices of her friends’ children. Claire’s daughter is married to a banker and they’re moving to Hong Kong. Sarah’s daughter is running her own fashion business. Molly’s daughter has worked her way up to partner at one of the big accountancy firms. But Grace’s daughter is seeing a married man. And Pamela’s daughter is still living at home, she says with a frown.

  Sometimes I think it must be easy being my mum, seeing everything in black and white, dividing people so neatly into the successes and the failures. Me: failure. My sister, Melissa, with her brilliant job, high-flying husband and own house: success. Except for the failure to produce grandchildren.

  ‘Even Pippa’s daughter has got married now,’ she continues. ‘She gave up her lifestyle travelling the world and settled down. Just in time. They’re expecting their first child in March.’

  My sister smiles tightly and I’m plunged back into my thoughts about the baby. My baby. I can’t really have a baby on my own, can I? For a moment I allow myself to imagine a world where Ian and I stay together, have the baby and live happily ever after. But that hardly seems realistic. I might want the relationship to develop into something more, but I’m sure he sees it as just a fling. What am I going to do?

  The buzzer to the flat rings and I jump. It will probably be for Mike. He’s always having people round to the flat; friends, acquaintances, people he met at the pub.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Katie – it’s me.’

  ‘Ian?’ My stomach turns. Now is not a good time. We haven’t met each other’s families before. We’re not that serious yet. Besides, I need more time to get used to the fact that I’m pregnant. If I see him I might just blurt it out.

  ‘I thought I’d surprise you. I brought the Argentinian Malbec – your favourite.’

  ‘Who’s that?’ Mum asks.

  ‘No one, Mum.’

  ‘Your mother’s here?’ Ian asks. ‘I’d love to meet her.’

  ‘Invite your friend up. I’m sure there’s enough food to go round.’

  I give in, under siege from both sides. ‘OK then,’ I say with a sigh. ‘Come on up.’ I know this is going to be a mistake.

  A minute later, Ian greets me with a big smile, a bunch of flowers and the bottle of red wine.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I see Mum’s eyebrows rise as he kisses me lightly on the lips. She’s taking in every detail: Ian’s smooth dark hair, his chiselled features with slight wrinkles round the eyes. His sharp suit and manicured hands. The expensive wine and flowers. And the fact that he’s closer to her age than mine.

  ‘Come and join us,’ she says.

  ‘I’d love to,’ Ian replies.

  ‘So how do you know Katie?’ Mum asks.

  I’m not quick enough to think of a reply. I don’t want to introduce him as my boyfriend. Not here. Not now.

  ‘She hasn’t mentioned me?’ Ian says with a grin. My mother’s eyebrows shoot higher as he puts his arm round me.

  This is too much for me, and I have a childish urge to run from the room. Ian and I are just casual. But now he’s meeting my mother. And I’m pregnant with his child. None of this was supposed to happen.

  ‘Where did you meet?’

  ‘At work,’ I say quickly, dreading Ian offering up the word ‘online’ to Mum. ‘At the coffee shop. Ian runs his own business and he sometimes comes in.’

  ‘Your own business?’ Mum’s eyes light up and I wonder if this will go some way to compensating for the fact that he is so much older than me.

  ‘I run a property business,’ Ian says. ‘We buy houses, do them up and then sell them or rent them out.’

  Melissa frowns. ‘Doesn’t that
inflate house prices and stop young families getting on the housing ladder?’

  A part of me can see what she means. Melissa and Graham are both lawyers in the city, and Melissa resents the fact that it still took them years of scrimping and saving to afford a small terraced house in the outskirts of London. Despite this, I feel defensive on Ian’s behalf.

  But Ian hardly blinks. ‘It’s not quite like that. We buy houses that need a bit of care. We do them up to make them habitable for people before selling them on. Often people can afford a mortgage but can’t afford big repairs to a house. We do the essential improvements so that young people can buy them.’

  ‘I’m a psychiatric nurse,’ my mother says suddenly, although no one’s asked. Usually she just says she’s a nurse, leaving out the psychiatric part, but when she wants to test someone she gives her full job title. She retrained after my father died.

  Ian nods politely. ‘That must be fascinating.’

  ‘It is,’ she says, disappointed not to get more of a reaction. ‘Do you have a family yourself, Ian?’ I slump down in my chair, embarrassed.