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

life ebbed away in my hands. A calmness I hadn’t felt in a long time. Seven years, in fact. I sat for a long time afterwards just staring at her lifeless body. It was beautiful. If you looked past the bruises, that is.

I knew I had to shake myself free of the trance and figure out my next move. I let myself take one last look into her eyes, then sent another message from her phone.

Hey guys, sorry for radio silence lately! Hope you’re all doing OK. *Long message alert* (You might want to make a coffee …) I’ve been having a rethink about my career, and as you know, I’m keen to become a yoga teacher … so … I’m going to go to India to do it! I realised I’ve been procrastinating enough, and I really want to put everything into doing this – for me! You know, while I’m young and supple I know you’ll all be super happy for me. It does mean a fairly long time without contact though, as I want to fully immerse myself in the experience – no distractions or bloody social media – that sucks the soul right outta you! I’ll keep you updated as and when. Sorry there’s no time for a farewell party – some things need to be done with minimum fuss (and before I chicken out).

Love and miss you all! Take care my wonderful friends. K xxx

PS. Be kind to Tom for me. I put the engagement on hold and although he understands and supports my need to do this, he is pretty gutted.

I really hadn’t meant for it to happen. Of course I didn’t want her dead. But I had wanted her for myself – to myself – with no interference from Isaac or anyone else. I think she’d had fair warning – enough chances to make it right. To put us first. She chose to go against us. She was going to choose him.

It was a shame. I’d had high hopes she was the one.

Although, that said, I’d thought the same about Phoebe too.

Chapter 59

BETH

Now

God, what time is it?

I must’ve drifted off, forgotten to set an alarm. Sleeping during the day isn’t a good idea at the best of times, although I have no idea how I even managed to drop off. Thank God it’s only two thirty. Still time to get my shit together and make myself presentable enough to collect Poppy.

I have several text messages – two from Lucy, wondering if I’m going to bother to turn in today; one from Julia asking if I need her to pick up Poppy again; and one from Adam, confirming the play date he arranged with me when he called earlier.

I’d been shocked to hear from Adam so soon after our last meeting, when he’d suggested he would have Poppy on Friday. He asked for me to have Jess again this afternoon, which means he must trust me. It’s reassuring to know he’s still willing to be friends with me. At this stage, anyway. I imagine he’d change his mind if he knew the truth. Now I’ve faced Tom, I’m hoping I can keep up the façade for everyone else. I might not have known about it until relatively recently, but that doesn’t excuse my decision to keep it to myself. I’m well aware I could help end the pain of Katie’s family and friends, but to do that I’d have to create pain and suffering elsewhere. I can’t in all good conscience swap one for the other. Poppy is my priority. I refuse to hurt her.

And besides, I must play the dutiful wife.

There’s a low, droning noise outside. I concentrate, listening intently. Voices. Lots of voices.

Shit. They’re back.

I peep outside my bedroom window and see them, grouped together like a pack of hyenas. There must be about twenty reporters, or journalists, whatever they call themselves, all itching to get a photo of the killer’s wife. Anxiety shoots through my body. I’m going to have to face them; they might be hanging around until Tom’s trial. God, I hope not, though. Please let a bigger news story break.

I choose my plain blue chiffon top and smart black trousers to go out in. Conservative. I may well be judged for my husband’s crime, but I won’t be judged on my clothes. With a light coverage of foundation, minimal make-up – I need to appear as though I’m distraught yet classy – I edge towards the front door. I can’t even hear their chatter above my pulse whooshing in my ears. Nerves rise inside me; their tingling is more than the usual butterflies. More intense; more painful. Enough to create doubt.

I can’t do this.

They’re going to see through me. I’ll be vilified. Crucified.

And they don’t even know the half of it.

Chapter 60

BETH

Now

It’s now or never, I guess. I’m taking a leaf out of Julia’s book and donning a pair of sunnies – at least they won’t be able to read what’s behind my eyes.

Stand tall. Don’t let them know you’re scared of them.

I burst from the door like a cannonball, shooting up the path to the lane outside the cottage before they even know what’s hit them. But then I hear the clamour of mass movement and clicking camera shutters. As much as I intended to hold my head high, reality and the onslaught of attention hit me and I lower it instead, tucking my chin onto my chest. I keep walking, concentrating on putting one foot in front of the other as I attempt to drown out their shouts with the voice in my mind – the one repeating everything’s okay, you’ll be all right, this will be over soon. I don’t believe it, but it gets me to the nursery gate.

It also gets them here too. I can’t believe they’ve followed me to my daughter’s nursery. How fucking dare they. I turn sharply to face them. I know