Don’t Say a Word: A gripping psychological thriller from the author of The Good Mother. A. Bird L.

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      I remain hugely grateful to everyone who has helped bring this novel – and those before it – into the world.

      My long-time editor Clio Cornish, whose encouragement, honesty and insight gets those first drafts into shape; my stalwart agent Amanda Preston of LBA for those flashes of creative genius that can really draw a book together; my husband for tolerating all the late-night plot conundrums (and to both him and my son for providing the light outside the dark world of thrillers); to the bloggers and readers who cheered me on – who knew how much the occasional tweet could do for a writer’s day! – your support means so much to me. Thank you.

      I’d also like to mention a couple of the many charities who do valuable and important work in the worlds where Jen finds herself: Centrepoint, who give homeless young people a future; and Refuge, who support women and children against domestic violence. This novel may impact readers’ minds – their work can save people’s lives.

Prologue

      The doorbell rings. Josh runs towards it.

      ‘No, wait, sweetie, remember!’ I shout after him.

      ‘It’s fine, Mum, it’ll just be the postman!’

      ‘No, Josh, let me!’

      I run up behind him. But he’s already taking off the chain, opening the door. Please let it be the postman.

      Yes, it is. False alarm. I see the retreating uniform of a blue shirt and baseball cap. Stop, beating heart. Not every morning is a drama. I kiss Josh on the forehead.

      ‘OK, Josh, it was the postman. But next time it might not be, all right? So let me open the door.’

      I lead us back to the kitchen to resume breakfast-making activities, musing at how, even in a situation like this one, ten-year-olds can find post so engrossing – no bills to pay, I guess.

      But then I realize Josh isn’t following. I turn round.

      His face is white.

      ‘You’ve got a postcard,’ he says. ‘From Chloe Brown.’

      The peanut butter jar drops from my hand.

      ‘Josh, let me see.’

      He hands me the postcard, wide-eyed.

      Yes, there’s the name. Chloe Brown. Printed clearly, so there’s no mistaking it. The message just says: ‘See you soon.’

      I turn over to the picture. It’s a small boy, on a bike. My stomach twists. I flip back to the name again. And that’s when I see. There’s a stamp, but no postmark. Where the postmark should be, it’s written: ‘By hand.’

      ‘Mum, I don’t think it was really the postman. I think it was …’ He trails off.

      We both know who it was. And that Josh isn’t safe.

Chapter 1

      TWO WEEKS EARLIER

      This is me. I should probably stop telling myself this now. But those old habits, they’re tricky to shake, right?

      Brush brush brush. This is me. Brush brush brush. Jen Sutton. Maybe I should focus on my teeth a bit more, less on the life reminders. Perhaps that would stop the hygienist telling me off – ‘You must brush near the gum, Ms Sutton. See how easily I can make your teeth bleed.’ If she knew how much trouble it had taken to register for that surgery, the time I had to wait, the rigmarole … Well, perhaps she wouldn’t be so gleeful when the blood oozes out. Just give me and Josh a sticker and get on with it.

      ‘Mum!’ There’s a yell from outside the bathroom. ‘Where’s my swimming stuff?’

      Oh shit. Of course. Tuesday. Swimming.

      Spit the toothpaste into the sink and jam my toothbrush into the jar next to Josh’s. Another win for the plaque.

      ‘I’ll just get it, sweetie!’

      Quickly spritz on some scent. Then: swimming stuff, swimming stuff … I could berate Josh, tell him he should have reminded me, that he’s old enough now to sort it out for himself. But no. I’m not being that mother. Josh will feel secure and loved and nurtured always. And him being ten now, all it means is, ten years since … Well obviously. Then.

      The woman I try not to think about.

      Deep breath. It’s OK. She can’t get us here.

      ‘Mum! Are you coming?’

      OK. Focus on the now. I think I washed the swim kit. Pretty sure I washed it.

      ‘Mum, you have got it, haven’t you? We’re going to be late. I’ve got to see Chris about the trains before the bell.’

      ‘It’s OK, I’ll give you a lift.’ Maybe he can explain what he means about trains when we’re in the car. Probably something else I’ve got to make. Sorry – help him make.

      I take the opportunity to ruffle his hair as I come level with him – it looks so adorably curly this morning. Josh rolls his eyes at me and ducks slightly. ‘You always give me a lift. I don’t know why you pretend I might cycle there one day – on my own, shock horror!’

      The search for the swimming trunks and towel (and oh, crap – goggles!) stops momentarily. Since when were ten-year-olds so wise? Does he see right through me? That every day there is some kind of excuse why I have to run him to school, not let him walk or ride the fifteen minutes with his friends?

      But he doesn’t know why. It’s fine. That’s key. If he thinks I’m mad or overprotective or scatty, I’m OK with that. Normal boring-mum annoyance. Nothing more. And I love the routine. Every second spent with my son, at home, in the car. Why would I give that up? Even if spending time with him were the only factor.

      I poke my head into Josh’s room, hoping (dreading) I might see a still-festering swim kit curled up on the floor.

      Nope.

      ‘Mum, if I’m not there he’ll give the trains СКАЧАТЬ