The Silent Wife

THE SILENT WIFE RUTH HARROW Published by Inkubator Books www.inkubatorbooks.com Copyright © 2023 by Ruth Harrow Ruth Harrow has asserted her right to be identified as the author of this work. ISBN (eBook): 978-1-83756-149-0 ISBN (Paperback): 978-1-83756-150-6 ISBN (Hardback): 978-1-83756-151-3 THE SILENT WIFE is a work of fiction. People, places, events, and situations are the product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead is entirely coincidental. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in any retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher. CONTENTS Inkubator Books Prologue 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 Chapter 43 Chapter 44 Chapter 45 Chapter 46 Chapter 47 Chapter 48 Chapter 49 Chapter 50 Chapter 51 Chapter 52 Chapter 53 Chapter 54 Chapter 55 Chapter 56 Chapter 57 Chapter 58 Chapter 59 Chapter 60 Chapter 61 Chapter 62 Chapter 63 Chapter 64 Chapter 65 Chapter 66 Chapter 67 Chapter 68 Epilogue Inkubator Newsletter DEAR SISTER About the Author Also by Ruth Harrow JOIN THE INKUBATOR MAILING LIST You will be the first to learn about new releases plus the many FREE and discounted Kindle books we offer! bit.ly/3dOTSW2 PROLOGUE Autumn colours scream at me as I make my escape. Well-dressed tourists avert their eyes as I pass. They pretend not to notice the mascara I know is running down my face. But I don’t care. The horror of the attack I’ve just torn myself from is still too fresh. Adrenaline rushes through me. The feel of her hands is strong as if they are still upon my shoulders, tearing into my hair. I reach up a hand to smooth it down and wipe my cheeks with my trembling fingers. If only I could stop shaking. I force my hands steady as I rearrange my scarf. My makeup is surely ruined. I know I should go back and clean myself up. But I can’t. Not now. I push on, further along the riverbank. Eventually, my feet carry me far from human eyes, whether averted or lingering. I feel safely out of sight beneath the cover of the overhead trees. No one knows I am here. I know I’ve gone too far when the heels of my boots switch from paving slabs and sink into the muddy riverbank. It’s only now that I stop. But I am glad my feet have taken me automatically to this place. It holds happier memories from my childhood from feeding the swans. Back then, I was more than just a shell going through the motions of daily life. Ruining of others. I’ve made so many mistakes. A pair of ducks, a mated pair perhaps, drift in the water towards me, hoping for food. The green head of the male bird shines bright through the leaves in the fading warmth of the sun. Tears stream down my face again, and I rummage in my pocket for a tissue. Then I hear a rustling other than my own. A shadow moves behind me. I spin around. My eyes widen with recognition. Now I understand I haven’t really escaped. My misdeeds have caught up with me. Now I am going to pay. 1 My phone buzzes in my pocket for the second time in the last ten minutes. My fingers ache on the steering wheel, but I don’t dare reach for my phone on the motorway. The last thing I need is to attract any unwanted attention at work. If I lost my licence, that would be disastrous. That could be the thing that tipped the balance against me once and for all. I’m already holding on by my fingertips as it is. My boss, who also happens to be my mother-in-law, is actively looking for an excuse to let me go, I just know it. And I have no backup plan, which seems silly at my age. I’m pushing forty, and I’m on the brink of a career catastrophe. No wonder I find it hard to motivate myself to turn up at work in the mornings. If I think about the state of the rest of my life, I start wondering why I even drag myself out of bed at all. A tangled mess of steel railing catches my eye beside my lane. Someone has sped into it. Did they survive an impact at that speed? Who could say? I try to picture my boss’s reaction if she was told I smashed a company car through the crash barrier. These days, she would, no doubt, be more concerned about the vehicle. My phone vibrates again, and I swear under my breath—this caller is persistent. Take the hint, whoever you are. But they don’t. The call continues to ring. A motorcyclist suddenly cuts across me, spraying gravel over the windscreen. The sound is so loud and abrupt that I actually scan the glass for cracks or chips. There don’t seem to be any. The rider is now weaving in and out of the traffic far up ahead. The stress of the potential vehicle damage pushes the phone call out of my head. It is several hours later before I notice I’ve got a voicemail. I pull into the tiny parking bay of a local florist to deliver a box of blank cards. Any annoyance I felt earlier is forgotten when I see the caller’s name. It’s Sarah. My sister. She rarely calls me these days. I can’t remember the last time she bothered. It’s always down to me to get in touch