You Left Me

YOU LEFT ME SHE WANTS JUSTICE. WILL SHE SETTLE FOR REVENGE? SUSAN WILKINS CONTENTS Free 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 Epilogue Free Books Leave a review Detective Jo Boden Case Files Books by Susan A message from Susan Acknowledgements For Sue Kenyon, who makes it all possible. FREE BOOKS SIGN UP Sign up to my newsletter to receive your free, exclusive copies of The Shout, a Detective Jo Boden story, plus The Right Side of the Line, a Detective Megan Thomas novella. PROLOGUE I might be mad. I’m not sure. But everything feels a little skewed. A tad off kilter. Also, there’s the stuff in my head; I’m not stupid. I know it’s not normal. Some people say, ‘I heard this voice. I just obeyed it.’ Voices are nothing. I have a whole movie in my head. I know what I have to do. And I’ve imagined in technicolour detail all the ways I can do it. The more I visualise it, the more real it becomes. I’m rehearsing the actions, making sure my mind and body are in synch. So, it is premeditated. Can that still count as madness? I haven’t lost my capacity for analytical thinking. I know you can’t research the ins and outs of this on the internet, because afterwards they’ll take your computer and phone, track all the sites you’ve visited and use it against you in court. But who’s going to remember a middle-aged woman, who walked into a posh kitchen shop in Covent Garden in London two months ago and bought a five-inch Sabatier boning knife, paying for it with cash? When I did that, was I sane? A Carbon-Steel knife has exceptional cutting power, but you must never put it in the dishwasher, that’s what the sales assistant told me. I didn’t tell him that if everything goes according to plan, I intend to throw it in the river. But am I fooling myself? Probably. But I don’t want to let you down. Not again. I can’t. Part of me knows I’m playing with all this, because it helps distract me from the pain and the grief. This part keeps telling me I’m not a criminal. This is all just a silly fantasy. Nothing’s going to happen. Of course it isn’t. Then there’s the other part of me. The dark side. And she’s definitely getting stronger. And more insistent. 1 Friday, 3.45pm Claire Naylor feels the sweat running down her spine. She lets her gaze drift towards the window. Even with the blinds half-closed, the scorching sun still breaks through, making the classroom unbearably hot. In front of her, thirty Year Sevens are hunched or slumped over their tables. Everyone is waiting for the same thing. The bell. It’s the end of the school day, and nearly the end of the summer term and the school year. The kids are supposedly doing a written quiz, something light to keep their attention. The usual end of term trips have been scrapped this year because the budget is shot, not to mention the worst heatwave for thirty years. But the kids are quiet. The blistering heat has shut them up. As she watches and waits, Claire wonders how useful her history classes have been to them and the futures they face. ‘It’s all dead kings and no women, innit?’ said one of the more belligerent and outspoken girls. This term they’ve been studying the Industrial Revolution. Spinning Jennies, Stephenson’s Rocket, it washed over them like code from another planet. Some were diligent and took notes; they tended to be the ones whose parents badgered them, who wanted to see them get up and out. The school policy is that phones being used during lesson time should be confiscated. But Claire has given up on that; it’s too disruptive. The past is irrelevant to these kids, teachers are irrelevant. Only the latest hot social media influencer commands their attention. The sudden piercing electronic wail echoes down the corridors and the kids erupt into life with the rattling of chairs and thumping of feet. ‘No pushing and shoving!’ shouts Claire, as they barge en masse towards the narrow doorway. In less than two minutes, they’re all gone and the room settles to the quiet and the dust motes dancing in the sunshine. Claire collects up the quiz papers from the tables and the floor. Someone has drawn a cartoon penis being inserted into what Claire presumes is supposed to be a mouth. Year Seven! They’re twelve years old for Chrissake! Judy, the teacher from next door, puts her head round the door. She’s beaming and sweating. They’re a similar age, middle forties, both with a lot of classroom time under their belts and the battle scars to prove it. But Judy is a relentlessly cheery soul, which annoys Claire. ‘Thank God it’s Friday,’ she says. Claire just nods, hoping she’ll go away. ‘Have you got anything planned this weekend?’ She’s persistent, Claire’ll give her that. ‘Because we’re having a barbecue. My old man’s obsessed. Thinks if he can char a few sausages and chicken wings, it means he can cook. But quite a few people are coming. It should be a laugh.’ Claire scans her. She means well. They all mean well. Come for a drink after