The Quiet Space Between Us

THE QUIET SPACE BETWEEN US N.A. COOPER Copyright © 2023 N.A. Cooper The right of N.A. Cooper to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988. First published in 2023 by Bloodhound Books. Apart from any use permitted under UK copyright law, this publication may only be reproduced, stored, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means, with prior permission in writing of the publisher or, in the case of reprographic production, in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency. All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. www.bloodhoundbooks.com Print ISBN: 978-1-5040-8343-0 CONTENTS Love best-selling fiction? Also by N.A. Cooper 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 Acknowledgements You will also enjoy: A note from the publisher Love best-selling fiction? LOVE BEST-SELLING FICTION? Sign up today to be the first to hear about new releases and exclusive offers, including free and discounted ebooks! Why not like us or follow us on social media to stay up to date with the latest news from your favourite authors? Facebook Twitter Instagram ALSO BY N.A. COOPER Ripple Effect Unravelling Alice For my husband CHAPTER ONE It was early morning – too early for the birdsong she usually woke to. The silence blew towards her off the land, coming from places she couldn’t recall. She could see her breath turn to mist in front of her, suspended in the cool air that surrounded the meadows. She stretched her back and yawned, twisting to one side and then the other until she heard the gentle crack she’d been searching for. She’d woke early to see the Pink Moon – the full moon for April – which sat bright and low in the sky, almost touching the horizon. It was named after the moss-pink phlox which indicated the beginning of spring, but this morning it was the simple milky white she was used to and she couldn’t help but feel cheated. It anchored her, the moon, to the month and the passing of time. It hadn’t always been that way, but there was so little left for her to cling on to now. She sat cradling a mug of camomile tea on the uneven doorstep of the house, looking out across the fields. There was a light dusting of frost clinging to the grass which, when illuminated by the watery moonlight, looked quite beautiful but not at all like spring. She was aching for the long winter to pass; the cold somehow accentuated her loneliness, especially in a place like this. It made the empty spaces feel even emptier, harsher, bereft of any comfort or warmth to ease her pain. She pulled her robe closed tighter across her chest and brought her mug to her lips, enjoying the warmth of the steam on her face before she drank. Somewhere in the distance she could hear a long, shrill screaming sound – far away at first then growing steadily closer until it was directly above her. A barn owl looking for prey, its wings spread wide, gliding on a light breeze. Ida remembered the first time she’d heard the high-pitched screeching sound – she’d panicked, thinking someone was coming. As far as she was concerned, owls hooted and people screamed. She’d stood on the little stoop with a pair of binoculars in the hazy light of the dawn, pointing them first across the fields and then up into the trees which stood on the other side of the dip. It had sat in one of the sycamores for quite some time, allowing her to get a good look at it until, spotting something Ida wasn’t able to see, it dived to catch its dinner. It had taken her heart a while to calm and she’d swiftly added it to the list of sounds she kept in a notebook by her bed, joining the howling noise of the wind when it blew through the hills, the barks and howls of the foxes and the bleats and grunts of the wild deer – to name a few. When she heard something that panicked her and her brain refused to think logically, she would find comfort in her list because the sounds she heard were almost always on there. The edges of the paper were curled now and some of the writing was disturbed by creases, but it was still there – comforting in black and white. It had been a while since she’d added anything new. There were few surprises after so many years, but one thing that continued to amaze her was the power of her imagination – in the worst imaginable way. It’s a cruel and brutal thing to experience, being unable to trust yourself and your judgement. Sometimes, even when she knew something to be true, even when faced with indisputable evidence that it was just a bat or a rabbit, a fox or a rat, she managed to catastrophise and spiral until she could no longer be sure about anything. She didn’t trust herself, that was the simple truth of it, and the one person she did trust was hardly ever here – not that she could blame him for that. It had always seemed remarkably unfair to Ida that she was forced to spend so much time by herself – her own worst critic. Her mind was her keeper, it had stopped her from doing so many things while forcing her to do others. She didn’t fight it anymore,