No Good Lie

No Good LieA psychological thriller Claire StibbeBookpreneur BlurbThe darkest secrets hide in plain sight. When Freya Thorne finds a woman’s body on the beach, she is swept back into the nightmare of the past. She knows the similarities to her daughter’s tragic death cannot be coincidence, but nobody will believe her. Letters arrive with chilling threats. This stalker knows more about Freya than any stranger could. Weird sounds disrupt her nights, and she knows someone’s been in her house. As the stalker draws Freya into a terrifying game, she uncovers more questions than answers. Her life is being threatened, and she doesn’t know who to trust. Someone has been pulling her strings, and that someone is determined she must suffer. Because Freya broke a promise. And promises aren’t meant to be broken. Great for fans of Perfect Stranger and Only Mine. Follow Claire Stibbe hereTo join Claire's FREE Readers' Club sign up here Copyright © 2023 by Claire Stibbe ISBN Bookpreneur 978-0-9982027-9-2 All rights reserved.Book cover design by Jane Dixon-Smith No portion of this book may be reproduced in any form without written permission from the publisher or author, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. Thank you for buying an authorized edition of this book. You are supporting writers and allowing Bookpreneur to continue publishing books for every reader. Claire Stibbe's PublicationsThe Detective Temeke Crime SeriesThe 9th Hour, Night Eyes, Past RitesEasy Prey, Dead Cold, Silent AdmirerPsychological ThrillersInto The Silent SeaNo Good LiePlay Him, Play Her Contents Dedication 1. FREYA 2. EDWARD 3. FREYA 4. FREYA 5. FREYA 6. FREYA 7. EDWARD 8. FREYA 9. FREYA 10. FREYA 11. FREYA 12. EDWARD 13. FREYA 14. FREYA 15. FREYA 16. FREYA 17. FREYA 18. EDWARD 19. FREYA 20. FREYA 21. FREYA 22. FREYA 23. FREYA 24. EDWARD 25. FREYA 26. FREYA 27. FREYA 28. FREYA 29. EDWARD 30. FREYA 31. FREYA 32. FREYA 33. FREYA 34. FREYA 35. EDWARD 36. FREYA 37. FREYA 38. EDWARD 39. FREYA 40. FREYA 41. FREYA 42. FREYA 43. FREYA 44. EDWARD 45. FREYA 46. FREYA 47. FREYA 48. FREYA 49. EDWARD 50. FREYA 51. FREYA 52. FREYA 53. FREYA 54. FREYA 55. FREYA 56. FREYA 57. Seven Weeks Later Acknowledgments About the Author To Jeff, for every thingand Jamie, my miracle 1FREYAIF I HADN’T MET him, everything would have been different. A thick head of dark hair, an infectious grin. Now I can’t shake the feeling that someone might have seen us. I have a routine before I leave the house at 7.00 am: keys and phone in yoga pants, torch in backpack. I check the street from the kitchen window, and again from the front door. Always focusing on personal safety, always on the lookout. It’s worth getting up before dawn, because it’s my own chunk of quiet time where I can run through the streets unseen. Some people sleep in, squint at the alarm clock and rush for the bus and I’ll bet they’re berating themselves for missing the best part of the day. A salt wind blows in from the open door and an owl screeches, sending a rhythm of warning hoots. Jack says I rarely smile unless I’m running, otherwise my features are blank and unreachable, and he can never tell what I’m thinking.There's the tree with the sign that says HAVE YOU SEEN ME? The poster is half lit by the lantern outside number 26. Elisabeth Sanders. Long black hair and a perfect smile. A daily reminder, as if she’s saying, I’m still lost. I’m still out there. A slash of light between the curtains of a neighbour's house. Gayle Daniels is frowning at me. Being the daughter of an MP you’d expect her to be a snob. But she’s not. Like me, she keeps herself to herself. If we meet at the post box, we rarely talk which suits me just fine. People tolerate me, but they are genuinely fond of Jack. He’s the extrovert, always stopping to say hi. While I wave a tight-lipped greeting and run along the pavement as fast as I can.I pass the last house on the corner, every light on inside. Then come the glass fronted flats with the strong scent of juniper, the type that sticks. I run downhill to the promenade, lamplight slicing through a sea mist. Exercise is good for the body and mind. An hour a day helps me to manage my stress. I handle incoming calls for the Bournemouth Daily Echo, which matches the reputation of larger newspapers although the pay may lag several notches behind. Given my lack of qualifications, I class myself as the lowest of the low. If we ever move out of this building and into smaller satellite offices, I’ll probably lose the job altogether. The ringing of my phone shatters the silence and stops me short. It could be Liv asking me to come in early. It could be Jack. The screen lights with a series of numbers. No name. This is the calm before the storm. Then a second text streaks across the screen. Everything that happens now is entirely for your benefit. We both know it’s the right thing to do. Is it a wrong number? Or is someone messing with me? I’m guessing the first. I ignore it and set off again. Today, despite the good weather, there’s an air of grimness. The clouds are ruffled like a giant quilt above the rooftops and there’s a creeping north-easterly wind that burns my cheeks. An ache shifts from the base of my throat to my stomach and I wonder if all this running takes me away from the memories and the guilt. There’s been something in Jack’s voice lately, a harsh burn of anger. I always remain silent. There is