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

Now, I only hope that no one else does, either. With me out of the picture, maybe Julia will get on with her life; find a new best friend and forget all about me, and the secret I shared. My drunken confession to Julia came to me in the early hours of this morning, as I lay next to Adam, staring at him, thrilled to be finally at peace. How I’d told her I thought Adam was a wonderful father, how I’d had a connection with him the very first time we’d met. That it was a shame we weren’t both single. I’d told her how lucky I thought Camilla was. And how jealous I was of her perfect life.

‘Jealous enough to do something about it?’ she’d asked.

‘Of course not,’ I’d lied. ‘But I think I always secretly hoped an opportunity would arise in the future. Now it looks as though that time might have come. Good things come to those who wait.’

I feel absolutely sure I wouldn’t have told her anything more; but then I never imagined telling her that much. And maybe what I said was enough to make her question everything. I can only pray her memory is blurry; dulled by the Prosecco. Even if that wasn’t the case, what can she do? There’s no evidence of foul play.

Chapter 91

BETH

Fifteen months ago

It takes a lot of courage to do something as awful as I’m about to do.

I lay out the fresh cookies and other baked goods along the glass counter at Poppy’s Place, ready to open at bang on nine a.m. I pop the special butterscotch and oatmeal cookie on a plate and place it underneath the counter until she comes in. Then I’ll slip it into a paper bag and ask her to try it when she gets home. It’s made from the recipe we chatted about last week, along with one more ingredient that means I would usually display this type of cookie with a label: contains nuts.

Camilla comes in at ten thirty. She’s been running, by the looks of her – her hair is swept up in a ponytail, a sheen of sweat covers her face and arms. She’s wearing Lycra running shorts and a t-shirt, so tight they show off her every curve. I note the bumbag attached around her waist. She’s ever so slightly out of breath as she approaches me.

‘Morning, Beth,’ she says as she unclips her bumbag and takes a seat at the table closest to the counter. She plonks the bag to one side on the table. Bubbles of apprehension begin rising inside me. Will I really be able to go through with this?

‘Hi, Camilla – good run?’ I catch the wobble of my voice and clear my throat to hide it.

‘Usual. I loathe running,’ she says, ‘but needs must. Can’t keep eating your fabulous cookies if I don’t put in some hard work!’ She flashes me a wide grin.

‘True,’ I say, forcing my lips to turn upwards. ‘No gain without a little pain, eh? Can I get you a latte?’

‘Yes, please. No cookies today, though. I’m trying to be good.’ Camilla taps her belly. It’s as flat as a pancake, but I don’t say so.

I make sure no one is within earshot when I speak again. ‘Perhaps one for the road then? I’ve baked some butterscotch ones especially for you to try.’

‘Oh, using the recipe I mentioned?’

‘The very one.’

‘Well I’ll definitely take a few to go – I’m glad you’ve tried the new recipe. You’ll have to write down the exact ingredients for me so I can have a go at making them, too. Not to try and do you out of business, of course,’ she gives me a coy smile. ‘But Adam adores cookies, and I’m sure Jess will have a nibble too. And it’s safer all round if I bake the nut-free ones.’

The knot inside my stomach intensifies.

‘Let’s see if you like it first! I’ve only got the one today – I’m afraid we liked them a little too much and Tom and Poppy devoured the rest. But of course, if you enjoy it, I’ll be baking them regularly. And no doubt you will be too.’ I hope the reason I only have the one sounds believable. I can’t have her taking more than one and there being evidence left over.

We chat, in between me serving the odd customer, about the girls. About our husbands. It’s a little awkward talking about Tom – I’m still feeling blindsided by his confession – but I try to be as natural as possible. I don’t want to raise any red flags with Camilla; not when I’m so close. When she talks so warmly about Adam, my heart rate increases; a hard lump presses against my throat. I’m nervous for the future. There was a spark when Adam and I first met in here, but that doesn’t mean he’ll find solace in my arms once his beloved wife is dead. I could be doing this for nothing.

On the other hand, I could get exactly what I want, if I’m patient. It’s not a quick fix by any means, but it does give me a way out eventually. That’s the best I can hope for in this hideous situation.

In addition to her latte, I ply Camilla with a freshly squeezed glass of orange juice – a large one, on the house – and sit down beside her again. I need her to visit the bathroom. While her attention is taken by a noise outside, I surreptitiously take the bumbag from the table and place it on the chair beside me. I don’t want her to take it to the bathroom with her if she goes.

This part is out of my control. If she doesn’t leave me alone with her bag, I won’t be able to take her EpiPen out of it. Then, even if she does get a reaction at home alone, she’ll just