The Good Mother

THE GOOD MOTHER An utterly gripping psychological thriller packed with shocking twists LIZZIE FRY Joffe Books, London www.joffebooks.com First published in Great Britain in 2023 © Lizzie Fry This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places and events are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental. The spelling used is British English except where fidelity to the author’s rendering of accent or dialect supersedes this. The right of Lizzie Fry to be identified as author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988. We love to hear from our readers! Please email any feedback you have to: [email protected] Cover art by Nick Castle ISBN: 978-1-80405-678-3 CONTENTS Love Free Bestselling Fiction? PART ONE Chapter One Chapter Two Chapter Three Chapter Four Chapter Five Chapter Six Chapter Seven Chapter Eight Chapter Nine Chapter Ten Chapter Eleven Chapter Twelve Chapter Thirteen Chapter Fourteen Chapter Fifteen Chapter Sixteen PART TWO Chapter Seventeen Chapter Eighteen Chapter Nineteen Chapter Twenty Chapter Twenty-One Chapter Twenty-Two Chapter Twenty-Three Chapter Twenty-Four Chapter Twenty-Five Chapter Twenty-Six Chapter Twenty-Seven Chapter Twenty-Eight Chapter Twenty-Nine Chapter Thirty Chapter Thirty-One PART THREE Chapter Thirty-Two Chapter Thirty-Three Chapter Thirty-Four Chapter Thirty-Five Chapter Thirty-Six Chapter Thirty-Seven Chapter Thirty-Eight Chapter Thirty-Nine Chapter Forty Chapter Forty-One Chapter Forty-Two Chapter Forty-Three Chapter Forty-Four Chapter Forty-Five Chapter Forty-Six Chapter Forty-Seven Chapter Forty-Eight Chapter Forty-Nine Chapter Fifty Chapter Fifty-One Chapter Fifty-Two Chapter Fifty-Three Chapter Fifty-Four Love Free Bestselling Fiction? The Joffe Books Story A Selection of Books You May Enjoy Glossary of English Usage for US Readers Love Free Bestselling Fiction? Join our mailing list and get a FREE Kindle book from a bestselling author every week! Click here to join our mailing list and also get a free box set of short stories! Follow us on Facebook, Twitter and Instagram @joffebooks PART ONE ‘Mother is the name for God in the lips and hearts of little children.’ William Makepeace Thackeray Chapter One Thank you for choosing this book. Join our mailing list and get FREE Kindle books from our bestselling authors every week! CLICK HERE TO GET MORE LOVELY BOOK DEALS ‘What have you done . . . What have you done?’ My voice is hoarse, a harsh whisper edged with a shriek. I don’t need to repeat myself. I can see it with my own eyes, though my mind refuses to believe it. It has to be some mistake. There’s no way such an ordinary Sunday evening could turn upside down. This can’t be happening. But it is. I can’t stop staring — my eyes are fixed on the bloody horror before me. Sound drops out, like we’ve been plunged underwater. I know I am speaking, but I can’t hear my own words. The fluorescent glare of the kitchen strip light seems to zoom in at me; there’s dark edges to my vision. There’s a dull ache in the back of my head. I feel nauseous, woozy with it. My blood crashes in my ears. I gag as the truth breaks through: there is a kitchen blade buried deep in the left-hand side of his chest, right down to the handle. My husband’s chest. Dean blinks, confused. Eyes wide, he staggers backwards, both hands raised, fingers splayed in a supplicatory gesture. His own gaze is on the blade handle protruding from his flesh. I know what he’s about to do, even before he does it. He must know he shouldn’t? Urgency slices through me. Sound pitches back in as my voice breaks through the muffling barrier of my shock. ‘No no no no, Dean, don’t!’ He pulls the blade out. Instant regret. Dean’s eyes meet mine as his intellectual brain catches up with that primeval part of him that just wanted the knife out. Blood spurts in a terrible gory arc, splashing the yellowed kitchen wall, the black-and-white linoleum, the refrigerator. Me. Dean rocks back on his heels, his eyes fluttering to the back of his head. I rush towards him, like I can catch all six foot, two hundred pounds of him. I can’t. He slumps to the kitchen floor, taking me with him. I knock against a chair, square in the ribs; it clatters to the floor with us. I don’t register any pain, though an anomalous thought springs up: that’ll hurt tomorrow. ‘Oh God. Oh, no. No no no no.’ It feels unreal, like a movie unfolding around us. I try to catch the blood pumping from his chest. It wells up between my fingers. That absurd part of my brain that’s proffering a running commentary on what’s happening draws attention to the warmth of the blood, the sense of the life literally escaping Dean. A frustrated, frightened shriek escapes me as I try and think straight. ‘ShutupShutupShutupSHUTUP!’ I search my panicked mind for first aid solutions. I should know this. What do I do? I finally dredge something up. Put pressure on the wound. A tea towel is trapped underneath the fallen chair. I snatch it, balling it up in my fist and pressing it against Dean’s wound. He tries to scream but can’t breathe. He gasps for air. I can hear the horrible rasping of a punctured lung. His skin is shroud pale, his pallor waxen. Dean claws at me, pulling my long hair like I can drag him back from the throes of death single-handed. ‘Get my phone!’ I scream. Our son, Jack, just stands there. Blood is splashed across his Star Wars onesie. Head tilted, hands at his sides, his face eerily blank. Jack is as still as a statue as he stares at his father on the floor. My own brain on time delay, I take in just one movement from Jack: he rubs his thumbs against the pads of his fingers, a nervous tic of his since toddlerdom. It must be the shock. ‘Jack, sweetheart, get Mummy her phone.’ My