Last One To Lie

LAST ONE TO LIE JACK STAINTON ALSO BY JACK STAINTON A Guest To Die For You’re Family Now Mother This novel is entirely a work of fiction and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. An imprint of Windmill Streams Publishers Last One To Lie Copyright © Jack Stainton 2023 All rights reserved. ASIN: B0C3HSMQZ8 All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of both the copyright owner and the publisher of this book. This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser. For Nia, Paul, Manon & Cari AUTHOR’S NOTE Thank you for reading ‘Last One To Lie’ This is part three of ‘The Family’ Trilogy - three novels based around the central character, Matthew Walker. They can either be read as individual stand-alone books, or in chronological order. Either way, I hope you enjoy! CONTENTS Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8 Chapter 9 Chapter 10 Chapter 11 Chapter 12 Chapter 13 Chapter 14 Chapter 15 Chapter 16 Chapter 17 Chapter 18 Chapter 19 Chapter 20 Chapter 21 Chapter 22 Chapter 23 Chapter 24 Chapter 25 Chapter 26 Chapter 27 Chapter 28 Chapter 29 Chapter 30 Chapter 31 Chapter 32 Chapter 33 Chapter 34 Chapter 35 Chapter 36 Chapter 37 Chapter 38 Chapter 39 Chapter 40 Chapter 41 Chapter 42 From the Author Reviews A Guest To Die For 1 LISA The day I’d been dreading finally arrived. The day he departed, rendered me disconsolate and afraid. Was it because I would miss him or more the fact I would be alone with George? Any unexpected noise or movement still made me jolt. Endless sleepless nights followed by skittish days protecting my beautiful baby boy from the evils of the world. But at least I’d found help, somehow able to cope, albeit on a day-to-day basis. It was the prescribed medication which allowed Matt to leave us that day. Ironic really, given it was my idea to move away from Scotland. Not that Matt took much persuasion, but that’s an entirely different matter. Fighting back tears, realising it would set George off too, the prospect of Matt getting on the train and travelling miles away threatened to tip me over the edge. This was the first time we would be apart, ever since… Oh, that cabin. It was never far from the forefront of my mind. That filthy, damp, blood-curdling cabin. Deep in the woods, where life is suffocated by the dark and deafening silence. And the doll they placed in the corner of the room, staring and tormenting. As soon as I realised they would take my baby away, they deliberately stuck that thing there, mocking me; the closest I would come to ever holding my child. Those evil bastards, I hoped they’d all rot in hell. Matt seemed anxious for the train to arrive. Despite him embracing us, I sensed he’d been glancing over my shoulder, along the platform, eager for his trip to commence. Why so restless? He was leaving his son for the first time, for goodness sake. George was only six months old, and I was aware of how much Matt doted on him. The way they played, how he made him laugh. Sometimes, I would listen outside the bedroom door. The things he said, the visions he painted. ‘I’ll keep you safe,’ he would vow. ‘You’re going to have a lovely life, son. A life full of dreams.’ It never failed to make my eyes well and my heart heavy. Matt was a great dad and I couldn’t wish for a better father for my baby George. But still, I questioned whether Matt loved me too. Could he be clinging onto our relationship for the sake of our child, or for what we’d both been through, as if he somehow owed it to me? To us? I often considered confronting him, long before we stumbled upon our new house in my dream village, but the perfect moment never presented itself. Perhaps it never would. And that day, as we waited for the train, I truly considered if we were doing the right thing. Yes, he’d found himself a great job — a sales director, no less — but it made me uneasy, especially when he informed me he would stay in that bloody apartment in Earl’s Court. “Can’t you commute?” I asked. It was on the day they offered him the new position, yet again threatening to dampen his already low spirits. He didn’t volunteer a response. Perhaps he considered my question too stupid, beneath him and not warranting a reply. I only asked by way of a test. Of course, I understood a ninety-minute train journey into the city, followed by a second train out of the city, twice a day, every day, would be too much, but I harboured dreams he would sooner be with me and George, especially in our new house. If only he offered a little compassion, something to eradicate my nerves, anything to make me believe. Shit! I suddenly realised I knew nothing about his precious apartment. We never discussed it, at any length at least. He told me he rented there. It was how he landed his new job because he worked for the same estate agents before, but apart from that, I didn’t know the first thing about it. Why hadn’t I asked him before? Simple questions: How big is it or how far from the tube station? Damn it, I had no