The Serial Killer's Wife by Alice Hunter (best romantic novels to read .txt) 📗

newsreader’s voice becomes ever more serious, I think it’s possibly not the best type of distraction. A walk around the outskirts of the village would be a better option and the fresh air would be good for me and Poppy. If, of course, we aren’t stared at. Everyone in Lower Tew must be aware of Tom’s arrest. It’s humiliating.

I rarely give a thought to my previous life in London, but right now I have a craving for the anonymity being in the huge capital offered. Yes, I had friends and colleagues who knew me, and knew a bit about what was going on in my life, but there wasn’t widespread interest in my business. Mostly, nobody was bothered about what I was or wasn’t doing. Lower Tew is the opposite. Although, hearing about the regular deaths in the city – on the news bulletin now there are reports about the fatal stabbing of a teenager, the body of a sex worker being found, and yet another a hit-and-run – I do know I’m lucky to be here, in the relative safety of a village. I have to forgo anonymity for a safer environment for Poppy. We made the right decision moving here, regardless of my current ‘celebrity’ status.

I pray the focus is taken off me by the end of the day. But mud sticks, as they say. Is the fact Tom was arrested going to be forgotten, even if he’s not charged? I imagine if they charge someone else, then it might. If not, the finger of suspicion may always point at my husband. Poppy’s life here might always be blighted by this.

Will we have to move again?

Chapter 29

BETH

Now

Poppy walks with a comical wobble – the bright yellow anorak that matches my own is tight around her little body and her wellies reach to her knees; both constrict her movement. The rain has been falling heavily overnight so there’s an abundance of decently sized puddles, and I’ve let her walk a little ahead of me so she can be first to reach them. The joy on her little face as she jumps and splashes in the water-filled dips in the lane brings tears to my eyes. I must protect her, no matter what.

She begs me to join in – and for a glorious moment, I forget the surrounding gloom and just enjoy being with our bright, beautiful three-year-old as we race to each puddle and scream when the water erupts around us.

Then the clouds in my mind descend once more, and the burning, knotted ball of anxiety lying dormant in my stomach awakens.

Six hours to go.

To anyone watching us, we would seem perfectly happy right now – and indeed, Poppy is – but for me, the knowledge of what might come holds this brief happiness hostage. I look up at the dark-grey clouds, heavy with rain, rolling across the sky, threatening to break at any moment. I can’t help but think it symbolic.

‘Time to go home, my Poppy poppet,’ I say. She doesn’t whinge; just holds up her hand for me to take in mine. I think she’s tired. I certainly am. We turn around and head back through the village, thankfully seeing no one. I couldn’t cope with polite conversation; or worse, people avoiding me altogether. The only person I wouldn’t mind bumping into is Adam. At least I know he hasn’t judged me over this mess. Yet.

Five hours to go.

Warm and cosy, back in the security of our home, Poppy and I snuggle on the sofa and watch Twirlywoos. It’s about the only level of telly programme I can take right now. Poppy is enthralled by the brightly coloured bird-like characters, and while she is quiet, I find my eyelids closing under the weight of my exhaustion.

Four hours to go.

A ringing sound startles me out of my nap. Poppy is no longer beside me. I leap up, momentarily dazed and disorientated. I relax as I see her sitting cross-legged on the carpet, inches from the television screen, her face upturned. Was it my mobile? Or the house phone? It’s stopped, anyway. I rub at my eyes, lick my dried lips and tell Poppy I’m getting us a drink. My body aches as I walk into the kitchen; everything feels stiff from falling asleep on the sofa. I glance at the kitchen clock. Five fifteen – I nodded off for longer than I thought. I may as well start cooking something for dinner.

Less than three hours to go.

I try my best to read Poppy’s story with the voices she loves Tom using. She laughs, and I know it’s because I’m making a hash of it, but she doesn’t tell me that this time. I tuck her in, leave a nightlight on and kiss her goodnight. My heart sinks as she asks again when her daddy is coming home. In a short while, I’ll know myself. I’m counting down the minutes.

One hour to go.

My mobile rings. It’s too early to hear from Maxwell, but adrenaline shoots through my veins nonetheless. The pounding in my chest begins to subside when I see the caller ID.

‘Hey, Adam. Everything all right?’

‘I rather think it’s me who should be asking you that question. Have you heard anything yet?’

‘I’m expecting a call at around eight. Their time is up then. But I guess they could charge or release him at any time, so—’

‘Oh, gosh, yes. I should free up the line, sorry,’ he says. ‘I have such terrible timing.’ I can sense his embarrassment and I feel bad for him.

‘No, really, it’s fine. If I’m honest, I could do with the distraction – today has dragged enough, but this last hour is going in reverse, I swear. It’s killing me,’ I say.

‘I can imagine. Time has a habit of doing that when you are desperate for it to whizz by. Then, when you want to breathe and take stock, or enjoy a moment – keep it going for as long as possible –