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

lungs – again and again, until she is able to speak.

‘What the fuck was that?’ she screams, rubbing at her throat.

He smiles.

‘Seriously, don’t ever do that again. Why didn’t you stop?’

‘Sometimes I don’t know how to,’ he says with a shrug, as he removes himself from her and sinks down on the bed. ‘You enjoyed it though. Every bit as much as I did.’

As her breathing regulates, she thinks about his words.

No. There’d been no enjoyment for her.

For the first time, she’d been afraid.

A few more seconds and she might not have recovered.

He gets up and heads to the bathroom. She hears the shower start up.

This is the last time she should allow him to go that far.

She can no longer trust him.

Chapter 32

TOM

Now

This is a living nightmare. How the hell can they say they’ve enough evidence to bring charges? They haven’t even found a body, it’s fucking ridiculous. And Maxwell just sat there, taking it all in. Said nothing. Did nothing. Pathetic.

The duty officer’s face looks as though a swarm of bees has stung it. I stare at him blankly as he reads the charges. The words, ‘You will be remanded in police custody until you are taken for your court appearance,’ go unprotested by Maxwell and, despite my shock and disbelief, by me. Their meaning slowly sinks in.

I’m not going home.

I’m not going to see Beth or Poppy.

Not making bail is partly my fault, I know. Maxwell did say that remaining silent about my whereabouts on Tuesday would go against me – that it added another strand for the police to investigate – but I had no choice. That’s probably why bail was denied, not because of the evidence they have. Maybe they think I’m a flight risk.

Christ. I could go to prison for life.

Don’t think that way.

Maxwell will build a solid case in my defence. Beth will help him. It will be all right in the end. This is a short-term predicament. I can’t possibly be found guilty of murder. Placing me at Katie’s last known location, linking me with some random emails, the word of her poxy friends and her dad – her dad, who had barely anything to do with her in life – might be enough for the CPS to allow the police to charge me, but it won’t be enough for a jury. It won’t stick. Beyond reasonable doubt. That’s what they have to prove. They have to prove I actually committed the offence, and they won’t have jack shit. And I have Beth; she’ll throw me a lifeline.

But she can’t provide an alibi.

They haven’t got a body, though. They have no idea about time of death, so I don’t need an alibi.

These thoughts consume me as panic rises. My chest tightens, my hands tingle.

‘I don’t feel well,’ I say, doubling over. I’m probably having a heart attack.

‘Come on, fella,’ a voice says, as hands reach under my armpits and I’m pulled upright and dragged to a nearby chair. ‘Put your head between your legs – you’re faint is all. No need to panic.’

Easy for him to say. His entire life isn’t unravelling in front of him like mine is.

Why the hell has this happened now?

Chapter 33

BETH

Now

‘She must’ve known, surely?’

The whisper may as well have been a shout.

With Poppy’s hand firmly grasped in mine, shoulders back, head held high, I stride past the group of mums standing outside the nursery entrance. Inwardly, my gut twists and I feel sick, but I won’t let them see how concerned I am. I spent most of yesterday in a confused state, fretting about the repercussions of Tom being charged. Trying to second-guess how the yummy mummies would react. How the new development will affect Poppy. I’m glad I had Sunday to pull myself together but now, hearing the whispered accusation, panic begins to surface again.

I go inside and search out the friendly face of Wanda, one of the nursery assistants I know Poppy has a bond with.

‘Good morning, Poppy,’ Wanda beams as she heads towards us. I breathe a sigh of relief she’s here. Poppy is reluctant to let go of me, and I wonder if she’s sensing my anxiety.

‘We’ve not had a great night,’ I say, quietly. Wanda coaxes Poppy to let go of my hand and take hers instead.

‘Give us a second, Mrs Hardcastle. I’ll be back.’ She offers a sympathetic smile, then takes Poppy to the book corner where the triplets are sitting, speaks in hushed tones to the teacher in charge, then returns to me.

‘She’ll be fine. No need to worry,’ she says, knowingly.

‘I’d be so grateful if you could keep a close eye on her today, though. And please call me if she doesn’t want to stay.’

‘Of course, of course. I had a very quick word with Zoey – she’s a little busy right now, but she suggests you stay behind at pickup to have a chat?’

‘Thank you, yes, that would be helpful.’

‘Good,’ Wanda says. ‘We can work together to make sure Poppy isn’t negatively impacted here at nursery.’

‘I hope so,’ I say, relieved. It’s the strangest conversation – nothing is said, yet an understanding is reached, meaning she knows already. I imagine there will be a few of these types of conversations over the coming days. Weeks. Months even. With this realisation, my pulse stutters and I make a hasty retreat before my body reacts further.

The mums are still huddled together like a coven; they’ve moved outside the gate now and I won’t be able to pass by without acknowledging them. The ‘she must’ve known’ comment echoes in my mind, and now, as I near them, another snippet carries through the air.

‘You can’t be married for that long and not know.’

For a split second, I speculate that they’re talking about something entirely unrelated. Perhaps it’s my own emotional instability making me certain that people will gossip, jump to conclusions and immediately believe the accusation. Maybe I’m paranoid. They could be talking about anyone