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

lie, like every good parent, and say I took him to have his water changed.’

I cover my hand with my mouth to prevent the giggle, but it’s too late.

‘Oh, thank you very much. Laughing at my misfortune.’

‘Adam – that’s the worst lie ever!’

‘I know, I know. I hang my head in shame.’ He does just that and I start laughing again.

‘Most parents would lie by replacing the deceased goldfish with a brand new one?’

‘I’m not good at lying. I couldn’t think anything up on the spot. Rubbish, aren’t I?’

It’s a simple statement, but it holds so much significance. I put my hand on his arm. ‘It’s a good thing, you know.’

‘What? A dead fish?’

‘No, Adam. That you find lying hard.’

‘Doesn’t everyone?’

I shake my head. Is he that naïve? ‘I’m afraid not.’

‘Oh? You sound as though you’re speaking from experience.’

It’s my turn to hang my head in shame now. Real shame. For some unfathomable reason, I find myself wanting to tell him. Suddenly, I’m eager to unburden my guilt to someone. It’s a huge risk, though. I’ll be opening myself up for judgement. Putting a new friendship under enormous strain. But in this moment, it’s something I feel needs to be done.

I stop walking and Adam does the same, his eyes narrowing, searching mine for a clue as to what I’m about to say.

‘I don’t really know where to start, or how to say this.’

‘Maybe you shouldn’t, then,’ Adam says, concern flickering over his face, pinching his features. I can hear an uneasy edge to his tone. I hesitate. I should backtrack. Maybe I’ve got Adam wrong after all.

Then he looks to the girls and back to me. ‘Sorry,’ he says. ‘Go on. It’s okay – you can trust me.’

I hope he’s right.

‘I’ve got a confession to make,’ I say.

Chapter 61

TOM

Now

If I close my eyes, I can still see her face the moment the life drained from it. The memory isn’t one hundred per cent accurate now – years of thinking about that night, turning it over in my mind, recalling the sensations I experienced when I realised what I’d done – they’ve altered the original slightly. It’s like re-watching an old favourite movie that’s been digitally remastered in high definition: the images are sharper, the colours are brighter, but over the years I’m likely to have embellished the incident – edited it. It had been dark – I couldn’t really have seen her face clearly enough to watch the life slip away from it. And the fact she ended up in the water, drowning, means I didn’t actually witness her dying breath as I imagine it in my head. All my fantasies must’ve mixed in with the real events and become part of my memory.

Phoebe was my first.

You never forget your first, do you? It’s said you never truly get over them either. Phoebe assumed our meeting had taken place by chance, but I’d seen her around campus. I’d watched her during our first year at uni with her fresher mates: confident, loud, excitable; her long honey-coloured hair hanging loosely around her shoulders; her impish face alight with curiosity; full of life. She fascinated me right from the off. But I kept my distance and our paths didn’t cross that year.

It wasn’t until the second year – freshers’ week – in a club in town that fate gave a helping nudge. She’d lost her friends. Lord knows how; I’d been watching and they had stuck together like glue for most of the night. We were both drunk when she came back to mine, and we shagged like our lives depended on it. As dawn broke, I made love to her again, this time sober: slowly; sensually.

At first, anyway – then it became clear she enjoyed the wilder side. Rough sex was her thing too. I couldn’t have been more satisfied that night: she blew my mind. She’d left before the sun rose fully; before I was even awake. No ‘it’s been great’; no goodbye. No promises we’d meet up later. But I knew she would want me again. I bet no one had screwed her like I had.

‘Hey, Phoebe,’ I’d said casually when I saw her out at a club later that week. I’d told her it was the one my mates and I went to regularly, so I knew she’d turned up there hoping to bump into me. But her face hadn’t shown her usual enthusiasm. She’d given me a look of disdain, which I hadn’t expected or appreciated.

‘Oh hey, you good?’ she’d said, before walking off without waiting for my response. I’d lingered at the end of the bar until I saw her heading to the toilets on her own, then I’d chased after her.

‘Thought we could hook up again after?’ I’d said to her. She’d frowned, and her pretty features had puckered into an ugly expression.

‘Um, no,’ she’d said, in a tone that smacked of repulsion. Like it was the most ridiculous suggestion of all time. ‘Oh, come on. You and I both know it was a drunken one-night-stand … er …’ she’d hesitated, opened her mouth to say my name, but then didn’t bother – clearly she’d forgotten it. Perhaps I hadn’t told her, I’d tried to convince myself. She’d walked off, leaving me standing there like a twat. My face burns now as I remember.

The slag.

Phoebe had spent the rest of the night hanging off some bloke – snogging him openly, just to belittle me. I hadn’t wanted her to know she was getting to me, so I found my own bit of fun. Got drunker and drunker to cover up my humiliation.

I’d left the club before her, but I didn’t go far. I waited for her along the path by the river that I guessed she’d take back to her accommodation. Luckily, she hadn’t left with the guy she’d been with, and her friends had done another disappearing act – what kind of friends were they anyway? I’d jumped out in front