Cross Her Heart: The gripping new psychological thriller from the #1 Sunday Times bestselling author. Sarah Pinborough

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       13

      LISA

      This has not been my day.

      The thought is so comical I let out a snort of a hysterical giggle. It’s the kind of thing the old me would say. Before all this. Before Daniel. Back when I was funny. The laugh turns to a choked sob and although it’s still hot, I pull my duvet up to my chin like a child scared in the night.

       You and me together, stealing into the night.

       Is that a deal, is that a deal? We can make it all right.

      Round and round in my head all day.

      There was no respite at work either. Marilyn was off sick with one of her migraines and didn’t text back when I checked on her, which left me with more unease – something’s going on with her she’s not telling me about – and then Julia had gone out this afternoon for a first client meeting and come back smug and flushed and with cakes for everyone. It made me think of the money again and I missed Marilyn.

      I had a meeting with Simon to finalise some job specifications, and found myself saying yes to having dinner with him when Ava’s exams are over, because I was too weak – too weak at the knees – to say no. It was easier to say yes. Less confrontational. That’s what I told myself. It was easier. It’s not true though. I said yes because I wanted to. Because I’m lonely. Because he makes me throb in ways I thought were lost to memory. Because being near him is like peeling back layers of delicate crepe paper wrapped around a treasure you’ve packed away somewhere to keep safe and forgotten about.

      Alive. He makes me feel alive again.

      But I got home and there was the broken picture and the missing photo and my first thought was That will teach me to try to be happy and my stomach cramped in that way from then. Sharp, acid pains as if two sides of my gut have been glued together and someone is trying to tear them apart again. I’d had to wait five minutes, doubled over, before I could call Ava down because I could barely breathe, let alone speak.

      Above me, in the grey of the night, the ceiling swirls like dangerous eddies in a river. I want it to suck me up and drown me and break me into nothing.

      It wasn’t Ava or her friends who smashed the picture of us and took the other of her. After I confronted her and she stormed upstairs, I feverishly searched all the bags the girls had dumped in the kitchen, no doubt while ransacking the cupboards for snacks. There was no glass, no picture frame, nothing. Neither did I find anything in the kitchen bin or the larger ones in the garden. I even forced myself to check the recycling container where I’d thrown the not-Peter Rabbit. Though I knew it had been emptied days ago, I still half-expected to see the sodden, dirty toy looking balefully back up at me. He wasn’t there. Neither was any hastily hidden evidence of broken or stolen pictures.

       Drive away with me, drive away, baby, let’s take flight …

      Maybe I am going mad.

      When the girls were leaving – all tight clothing, nothing hidden there – I asked Jodie if she wanted to stay for tea. She’s the one I know least, and although she’s older I didn’t like the thought of her going back to an empty house and a microwave meal. Also I didn’t want to fight with Ava any more. I thought maybe my edginess was what was making her moody and if I showed willing with her friends she’d calm down. But as it was Jodie scurried out fast, head down, and I felt worse about whatever Ava must have been saying about me.

      I made us dinner, my hands on autopilot and my mind numb, but my gaze kept stealing off down the corridor to the empty spaces on the hall table and so we sat in near silence, her still rankled at my accusation, and me in the grip of some paranoid fear. It was, in the end, a relief when Ava took her plate and went to the sitting room to watch something on MTV and I was left to sit staring at my own reflection in the kitchen windows.

      One photo missing, one broken. Was one left broken to draw attention to the missing one? Is it a message of some kind? A picture of my little girl taken, and the one of the two of us looking happy, smashed. It doesn’t take a genius to figure out what that means, does it?

      Ava. My baby. I must keep her safe.

      My breath is hot and sour against the covers as I try to stay the right side of hysteria. I checked all the doors and windows. There was no sign of anyone breaking in. The kitchen door was locked. How could someone have got in and out without leaving a trace?

      Maybe it was Ava. The thought is a tiny buoy to cling to in the dark ocean of fear. Maybe the evidence is hidden in her room somewhere. It’s the only place I haven’t been able to search. Maybe it was Ava, I repeat over and over but I’m not convincing myself. I keep seeing her face on the stairs. She was confused. She didn’t know what I was talking about.

      My eyes burn, tired, despite my racing mind. They want to close, to rest, to sleep, but I can’t allow it. I dread the dreams. I can’t face Daniel, not tonight.

      And I know he’ll come, because I can’t let him go. How can I ever let him go?

       You have to learn to live in the present. Focus on every day. On Ava.

      I thought it was crazy bullshit the first time a therapist said it to me, and I’ve tried, God knows I’ve tried, but it remains impossible. The past is my shadow, always there, clinging to me.

      Maybe I should ring Alison. She’d listen to me. Listen to what? my inner voice sneers. I have an odd feeling? A photo has gone missing? I heard a song on the radio? I know what she’d say. I’ve rung her too many times recently. She probably thinks I’m crazy. It’s only my imagination. Take deep breaths. Let it go. I should cancel dinner with Simon. Maybe then all this will stop. It was stupid to think I could go on a date. I should know better.

      I’m withdrawing, a snail pulling back into its shell.

       We’re gonna live wild and free, on the road, you and me,

       It’s a deal, a done deal, now drive away baby …

      Maybe it’s nothing. Maybe I am just going mad. Maybe I broke the photos. Maybe it’s me who’s broken.