The Role Model: A shocking psychological thriller with several twists by Daniel Hurst (read aloud TXT) 📕

items of furniture that have been passed down to me by other family members, moved somewhere else to collect dust. There’s also a whole array of gardening items in here, like a lawnmower, a large pair of hedge clippers and a bag of fertiliser. But it’s the item hanging on the rusty nail at the far end of the garage that I am heading towards now.

Lifting it off from where it hangs, I feel the weight of it in my hands. It’s a little heavier than I remember it being and certainly heavier than how it feels in my nightmare. But it’s a good tool, and it’s definitely the best one for the job.

Turning off the light and closing the garage door, I walk around to the back of my car and open the boot before checking that there are no glimpses of light in between any of the curtains in the homes opposite my house.

Confident that there are none, I place the spade in the boot before carefully closing the lid.

10

CHLOE

I’ve been staring at the ceiling ever since I crawled into bed five minutes ago. Mum has told me to try and get some sleep, but there’s no way that’s going to happen.

I know if I close my eyes, then I will see Rupert’s face. I wonder how long it will take until the vivid image of him lying there with his eyes wide open will fade in my mind.

A few days? Weeks? Months?

Or will I be carrying it with me for the rest of my life?

Maybe I should Google it. That’s where I get the answers to all the other questions I have, so why should this be any different? I pick up my phone from where it lies on the mattress beside me and click the internet tab, and I’m only seconds away from typing out a question relating to a dead body when I pause.

What if the police ever find Rupert and discover that I was with him the night he died? It wouldn’t do me much good if they were to go trawling through the search history on my phone and see that I have been reading articles about bodies, guilt and fear. That would look suspicious, and I’m sure Mum wouldn’t be thrilled to learn that all her hard work might have gone to waste by my silly use of an online search engine.

With that in mind, I backtrack from the internet and instead open my messages, which reveals to me the last text conversation I was involved in. The message Mum sent to Zara is staring back at me from my screen, and I re-read it again, almost in a state of disbelief at the person who crafted most of it. Mum has really done a good job of making it sound like I was nowhere near the park with Rupert tonight. Along with the little bit of editing that I did to make it read more like it was written in my voice, I think Zara will buy it.

Hey babe. So sorry. Way too much vodka tonight. I might have spewed while I was on the way to meet you at the park. Kinda got it all down my dress. Gross. I had to call my mum to pick me up. Sorry for bailing. I’m in bed now. Good night? xx

It’s been fifteen minutes since the message was sent, and so far, Zara hasn’t text me back. But I know she has read it because I can see the notification in the bottom corner of the message that tells me she has opened it. The fact that she hasn’t replied isn’t doing much good for my anxiety levels right now.

It could just be that she is mad at me for not joining her at the park. I probably would be too if she had disappeared on me. It could be that she is still at the park with a load of people from the party, and she is having too much fun to type out a reply. I hope that is the case. But there is a part of me that knows her failure to reply could be for another reason. Perhaps she doesn’t believe me. Maybe she knows I’m lying.

What if she knows I was really at the other park with Rupert tonight?

I try to calm down by reminding myself that there is no good reason why she wouldn’t believe me. She certainly saw me drinking enough at the party to believe that I threw up over myself and had to go home to save myself any embarrassment. But I do wish she would text me back and set my mind at ease.

Putting my phone back down on the mattress beside me, I snuggle down deeper under the duvet as I return some much-needed warmth to my frigid bones. It’s good to no longer be out in the cold, although I’m aware that Mum isn’t so lucky. She is still out there now, back at the park, standing in those woods.

Digging Rupert’s grave.

Am I surprised that Mum didn’t just call the police? A little, but then I am all she has. I always knew she would do anything to protect me, and this proves it. Maybe I knew what I was doing when I called her first instead of an ambulance or the police.

Maybe I hoped she would somehow be able to make everything easier for me.

I wonder how different things could have gone if she had got the police involved. I wouldn’t be lying in my warm bed now, that’s for sure. I’d most likely be sitting in an interview room at the police station being questioned by a couple of gnarly officers who tried to poke holes in everything I told them. I’d possibly have had to spend the whole night at the station, either in that interrogation room or perhaps in a cell if they felt like there was more to the story than I was telling them.

Even