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

what she’s doing and I’m hugely grateful, so I let her carry on. Her being here has also set my mind at ease – my worry has abated that she’d felt too awkward after the drunken night to speak to me again.

With Poppy all set, and after I’ve checked the coast is clear out the back, Julia takes her hand and walks her calmly to the far wall. I’m thinking it’s a bit high for Julia to get up in what she’s wearing, but before I can even suggest getting a stepladder, she’s hitched up her skirt almost to her waist and is heaving herself up the stone wall.

‘Oh, wow,’ I say. ‘You’re more nimble than you look.’

‘Cheeky!’

When Julia gets down the other side, I lift Poppy up and she scrambles to her feet, balancing carefully on top of the wall. My heart is racing – I’m frightened she’ll fall, even though I’m gripping her legs. Julia replaces my hands with hers and lowers her down the other side.

Julia’s head is visible above the wall. ‘What a nightmare,’ I say.

‘It most certainly is. I saw them when I dropped the boys and assumed they’d be at your door. I hope you don’t mind me coming and taking over.’

‘Not at all. Thank you, Julia. I owe you one.’

‘Well, if it involves wine, I think we should skip it,’ she laughs. ‘Okay, I’ll get going before they cotton on. Are you planning on heading to the café?’

‘I’ll see if it dies down. Surely they won’t stay there all day?’

I can’t see Julia’s expression clearly, but her lack of affirmation tells me she thinks they might.

‘If it’s not looking great, text me after lunch and I’ll bring her back for you too.’

‘Thanks so much, Julia.’ I blink rapidly. ‘I can’t believe this is happening.’ I force myself to smile. ‘Have a good game, Poppy! Mummy will see you in a little while.’

‘Shhh, Mummy. I’m hiding,’ I hear her little voice say. I’m glad she really does think this is a game, because I’m not finding it fun at all.

‘Speak later,’ Julia says. ‘And take care. Maybe ring that solicitor and see what he can do.’

I tell her I will. I hear rustling leaves on the other side, footsteps growing fainter. I wait until I can’t hear them at all, then fall back against the wall, tilting my head up to the sun. It’s quiet out here. Perhaps I should stay here all day and avoid reality.

It’s a nice thought, but I know I can’t. I’ve things to organise.

I go inside, ask Alexa to play my uplifting playlist, and cry along to the songs.

Chapter 48

BETH

Now

My own car’s blocked by the mob of journalists, but Tom’s is still sitting outside the gateway. The detectives searched it at the same time as the cottage, but they mustn’t have found anything of interest because it wasn’t impounded. I’m free to drive it. If I want to leave the house without being hounded, I think it’s wise to take it. They can still follow, of course, but at least I’ll be cocooned inside a metal shell. Windows up, doors locked. Safer than walking.

I peer out through the slit in my bedroom curtains. The crowd has thinned out; some of them have clearly got bored and have better stories to chase. Good. The remaining reporters and journalists are relaxed, off-guard, lolling around, their cameras inactive. If I go out the back door and creep around the front, I should be able to get into the car before they notice me. I can avoid the worst of their ‘investigative’ tactics. For today, anyway.

But what about tomorrow? The next day? The next week; month? How long will this go on for? I dig my nails into my palms, hard. Tears sting my eyes. Maxwell seems to think I should be worried about Tom, alone in a cell, anxious about what his future holds. And I am worried about him. The uncertainty of what the police have against Tom is a huge weight on both our shoulders. He must be feeling so isolated and afraid; it’s not unheard of for an innocent person to be found guilty and imprisoned. But I’m afraid too. Right now, I’m the centre of attention – the focus is on me. Tom is safe, at least. He’s not the one dealing with the locals. He doesn’t have to keep showing his face knowing people are talking behind his back. And he’s not the one the journalists are scrambling to get a glimpse of; take photos of. He’s not being followed.

He’s left me to deal with this alone with a three-year-old.

He’s left me.

The thought hits home; it’s a smack in the face. It doesn’t matter how, or why – what matters is he’s abandoned me, just like my father did.

He’s abandoned Poppy.

I run downstairs, snatch Tom’s keys from the pot, sneak out of the back door and dart around the front to the car. I don’t stop to think – I just act. If I hesitate, then they’ll spot me and I’ll have to scurry back inside like a mouse into its hole. I open the passenger side, as that’s closest, and scramble across the seat. I’m on the driver’s side, central locking activated, by the time one of the journos clocks what’s going on. I accelerate hard and speed away, my tyres screeching like a scene from Starsky and Hutch. The journos scatter, probably afraid I’ll mow them down. Let them be afraid. They shouldn’t be in the road in the first place. Idiots.

My entire body shakes as I continue to drive, slowly now, through the village. I don’t want to go to Poppy’s Place – they’ll assume that’s where I’m heading and be there within minutes, and I can’t have Lucy getting stressed out about the attention. I carry on driving, out of the village, taking a right onto the main road. I’ve no idea where I’m going, but I am compelled to keep