Through Her Eyes

THROUGH HER EYES NJ MOSS Copyright © 2023 NJ Moss The right of NJ Moss to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by him 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: 978-1-5040-8293-8 CONTENTS Love best-selling fiction? Also by NJ Moss Part I 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 Part II 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 Part III 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 You will also enjoy: Acknowledgements Love best-selling fiction? A note from the publisher 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 NJ MOSS All Your Fault Her Final Victim My Dead Husband The Husband Trap The Second Wife PART 1 “Half of the time I don't know what they're talking about; their jokes seem to relate to a past that everyone but me has shared. I'm a foreigner in the world and I don't understand the language.” ― Jean Webster CHAPTER ONE I once made a comment at a burn-victim support group, about how ruined we all were – sobs were making my voice crack, so melodramatically, as if their pain was lesser than mine – and they all hated me for it. It was the only time I attended: shortly before I fled the remnants of my regular life. They were right to hate me. Who am I to brand them with that? But I’m allowed an opinion of myself. I know what other people see: the desert-like landscape of my face, dunes of scars, or maybe that’s pretentious metaphor bullshit. Maybe that’s the wannabe novelist – the failed novelist. The half-successful journalist. Now, I stare into the mirror, and a ghoul stares back at me. People can say anything they want, but that’s what I see. My mind does unfair things, bringing the old me into being, a mask over my real face. I see the wide brown eyes and the smile and my skin that sunburned so easily. Ha, burned. Goddamn it. I’m crying again, my eyes stinging. I should know better. It was years ago. I have a motorhome and money; it’s easy to disappear through England, interacting only when I have to. I’m not running from anything. Which is a lie, obviously. I am running. I’m not sure where. I, I, I… I am sick of myself. Other people interest me. They are a window into a different reality, one that has nothing to do with flames or rage or pain. Or maybe it does, but that’s fine. It’s not mine. This is how I end up parked down the street in a mid-level neighbourhood. These are the sorts which have big houses, big gardens, but also a sense of hunger; some of the owners are reaching above their pay cheques, and others are bravely pulling themselves all teeth and guts into this upper-middle class world. Driving through here last week, this very neighbourhood on the outskirts of Bristol, the house looked appealing to me; it has a metal fence surrounding it, but it’s short. The walkway appeared to be crumbling slightly. The door had a ramshackle look about it. There were no visible alarms. The house is big, a juicy-looking thing, bursting with secrets. As I turn the corner, approaching my objective, I think about my other prizes. I’ve seen sex, lovemaking – two different things – and so much more: casual acts of affection, of cruelty, a family saying goodbye to their dog, a proposal, a tense conversation after which a wife left her wedding ring on the table. It’s like journalism, but only for me. I don’t write it down. I document it all in my mind, little pieces of these people. The fence is easy enough to climb. Despite my general otherness, I take pride in keeping a fit body. I never used to, back when I was carefree and young and didn’t know how evil the world could be. Hopping down from the fence, I stalk across the large garden. No security light blinks on. There are lights on in the house; it’s late, almost midnight, but the three downstairs lights scream yellow. The wind brushes against my face. It has become socially acceptable to wear a mask in England ever since the pandemic, and that helps me: I can cover half my face, pull a hat down low, and nobody notices or cares. Not that I enjoy it. But here, there is no mask. Just the wind and my purpose. I kneel near the bushes, short of a pool of kitchen light. I can see the sink from a side view, and partially the doorway beyond it. As still as a patient