The Stepson

Diane Saxon

Description

When your whole life becomes one big lie…

The night my mum disappeared, after a panicked 3am phonecall, I knew something was wrong.
The police tried to reassure me. There had to be a logical explanation they said – perhaps she’s taking a break after the tragic death of my father.
But I know my mum.
Or do I?
She would never leave without telling me.
Or would she?
The harder I look, the more I discover deep, dark family secrets I was not privy to.
Worrying secrets I was never meant to know.
Which means my parents have lied to me my whole life.
But why?
Who can I turn to? Trust?
Were they scared of something in their past?
Or were they trying to protect me?
Has mum gone on her own free will?
Or has someone taken her?

Diane Saxon’s compelling new thriller will have you questioning who you can trust to keep your family safe.

Praise for Diane Saxon

'An unputdownable, tense, fast-paced, terrifying plot that deftly twists and turns.' - Danielle Ramsay

‘An intensely dark thriller.’ Ross Greenwood

'Packed full of secrets and lies, and in a town filled with an unsettling atmosphere Saxon succeeds in putting the ‘creep’ in creepy’ - Valerie Keogh

'Gripping... I couldn't put it down.' - Gemma Rogers

'A complex, dark and disturbing thriller, full of intrigue, toxic relationships and jaw dropping twists 5*' Alex Stone

'The final twist was so unexpected that I was taken by surprise.' - Reader Review

'I highly recommend this book you won't want to put it down' - Reader Review

Sujets

• Policier & Thriller
• Policier
• Thriller
• Mashups
• Psychological
• Siblings
• Thrillers
• Coming of Age
• Suspenso
• 21st century
• Psychological thriller
• Domestic
• Sibling
• Mother's Day
• Psychology
• Crime
• Family Life
• Suspense
• Noir
• Fiction

Informations

• Publié par: Boldwood Books
• Date de parution: 19 juin 2023
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781804264867
• Langue: English

Extrait

THE STEPSON


DIANE SAXON
To all of those who have a skeleton in their family closet.
CONTENTS



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


More from Diane Saxon

Acknowledgements

About the Author

Also by Diane Saxon

The Murder List

About Boldwood Books
1
PRESENT DAY – TUESDAY, 6 JUNE, 3.23 A.M.

Sandra Leivesley twitched the curtains open a touch and peeped with one eye through the narrow gap she’d created. Her fingers gripped the material, ready to stitch the edges closed again with the speed of an electric sewing machine.
A car squatted on her drive. The orange glow from a distant streetlight highlighted a dull bloom on paintwork which had possibly been red at one time and gave a hint to how old it was. The engine rumbled for another moment, and then stuttered a gusty death rattle before quivering into silence.
Sandra let out a quiet breath, almost fearful she could be heard. Fairly certain she couldn’t be seen, though, as she’d sneaked through on stealthy toes in the pitch black, certain of her way around the house she’d lived in for thirty years, even in the dark.
Motionless, she waited.
Nothing happened. No one moved. The car doors remained closed.
In the dim orange glow, she could almost believe it was empty.
Abandoned.
Sandra knew better. She narrowed her eyes to zero in on any movement. Nothing. Except the vague definition of a pair of hands casually resting on the steering wheel. One finger moved. Tapped.
The soft cloud of her warm breath puffed over the chilled window to blur the image.
She jerked her face away from the narrow gap, fear gripping her.
Heart racing, she pressed the curtains closed and sank back on her haunches.
The soft mattress gave under her slight weight, and she pushed the palms of her hands down to steady herself.
The pattern of intertwining pink roses and olive-green leaves on the curtains wavered before her tear-filled eyes.
What was she to do?
What would Henry have done? Henry, her husband of thirty-two years, who’d always been there. Her rock. When she fell apart, he’d always stayed solid.
She listened for footfall up to her front door, the quiet crunch of leather on gravel and dried brown leaves that had whipped up in the autumn in piles along the edge of the drive and still resided there as winter gave way to spring, and then teetered on the edge of summer. Leaves Henry would normally have got the leaf blower on.
That had been his job. The garden, the drive, the cars. All abandoned recently.
She waited for the doorbell to ring. Prayed it wouldn’t.
Sandra edged back off the bed and pushed to her feet. She glanced at the clock radio on her bedside table.
3.25 a.m.
The time she woke most nights since Henry had gone. Not so much hormones kicking in. They’d almost subsided except for the occasional rev as they tried to start up, sending sharp tingles and hot flushes.
These days it was more the scrape of guilt scratching the surface in dreams of dread and fear that disturbed her. Fear that surfaced at her weakest moments.
Tonight, it had been the dull throb of that engine on her driveway, sending a soft vibration through their 1960s house to disturb the light sleep she hovered on the edge of.
She checked the clock again.
3.26 a.m.
Too early to phone her daughter. She only lived a ten-minute drive away. One of the newbuilds near Trench Lock. It was so convenient for both of them. Usually.
Lorraine was going to think she’d gone mad. She’d seen the sideways glances her daughter cast when she thought Sandra wasn’t watching. Concern dappled the love in her daughter’s eyes. Ever since Henry had died. Lorraine’s dad.
Sandra covered her mouth with both hands and squeezed her eyes closed to try to block out the memory, but it forced its way in.
His dad.
The creak of a car door swinging wide on rusted hinges halted her thoughts.
‘Oh, no.’
Her breathing quickened.
‘He’s coming.’
Sandra reached for the phone in her dressing gown pocket. The one she’d slipped in when she’d gone to investigate.
She’d known this day would come.
Footsteps approached the front door with the quiet grind of pebbles beneath a heavy sole.
Terror gripped her as she hovered a shaking finger above her daughter’s number.
The footsteps halted.
Sandra held her breath, not daring to take another peek.
Would he think twice? Would he go away?
It was him.
It had to be. Who else would turn up at this time of night, uninvited?
Her heart quickened with a sickening thought. One that slammed in to haunt her as she waited for the knock at the door. The bell to ring.
What if he didn’t need to ring the doorbell? What if he had a key?
She let out a quiet whimper. ‘Oh, God.’
She’d bet her life he had a key.
How stupid. She should have had the locks changed when Henry died. She’d never given it a thought, too absorbed in her own guilt and grief to care. To be aware.
Her tongue thickened in her throat so she could barely swallow as the phone dialled through. Two, three, four times.
‘Hello?’ A gravelly whisper. Her daughter wouldn’t want to wake the children. Sandra didn’t want to either, but who else did she have? No one.
‘Lorraine.’
‘Mum?’ The soft shuffle of bedding as she imagined Lorraine bolting up in bed. ‘What’s wrong?’ The edge of panic crept into her daughter’s voice.
‘He’s here.’
‘What? Mum, speak up. I can’t hear you.’ Irritation snapped through the panic.
‘He’s here.’
‘Who?’
‘Your brother.’
‘My…? What did you say? Mum? Are you drunk?’
It wasn’t an unreasonable question. She had been on occasion when the pain of loneliness since Henry died had crippled her. She’d phoned Lorraine then, but it had always been at a reasonable hour. She’d cried down the phone, but she’d never been so inebriated that she’d not known when to stop. Known when to let her daughter get on with her own life.
A life that hadn’t taken the easy road either.
It was hard.
She’d thought herself so independent. So strong.
Turned out she was wrong. All that independence and strength had seeped out of her when her husband died, to leave her an empty vessel, bobbing on a sea of loneliness.
When Henry had been alive, she’d thought it was her strength that had made them safe. Without him, she knew different.
Henry had kept her safe. Her and Lorraine and their first grandchild. Sweet five-year-old Sophia.
They’d grouped together, a tight-knit unit, when Lorraine’s husband had left her ten weeks before she gave birth to their second child. It seemed he was more enthusiastic about the young childless woman he’d apparently fallen for at work. One who would probably want children of her own in a few years, so they’d thought, until they learned better. Turned out that she already did. A baby due just a few weeks after little Elijah.
Lorraine had seethed. Then she’d settled.
Until her dad had died.
Grief had smashed into Sandra and Lorraine. Shocking. Unreasonable.
Lorraine’s ex hadn’t bothered to come to Henry’s funeral, nor visit his newborn son. Not then and never since.
The tragedies piled up. But the fatal car crash was something Sandra just could not come to terms with. The grief counsellor assured her that it was a natural process. The seven stages of grief. Time would help. But time wasn’t flying on swift wings. It had stuttered to a halt for her somewhere around shock, denial and anger. There would always be the guilt that riddled her entire being. Guilt would never go.
Not so for Lorraine. She’d moved on. With two children, she’d had to. She’d managed to override any sense of depression. Nothing like her mother.
Sandra had nothing but admiration for her daughter.
It didn’t mean she could move on, though.
She wallowed. She had always wallowed.
The horror of a nagging thought scratching at the back of her mind.
A thought she was now convinced was correct.
She wasn’t drunk. Not tonight. She wasn’t paranoid. Paranoia held its basis on a rampant imagination. Her conviction wasn’t imagination.
She was right.
Henry’s car crash hadn’t been an accident. Nor had it been a moment of distraction.
She knew that.
She’d believed otherwise at first. Full of horror at her own actions.
The rising panic dissolved into acceptance. There was nothing she could do for herself, but she could protect her daughter and grandchildren.
Her mind snapped into focus.
‘Listen very carefully to what I have to tell you. I have little time, so just believe me when I say you and the children are in danger.’
‘What? Mum… I don’t understand.’
‘Quiet. Listen. Your dad was first. Now it’s me. I’m so scared, but mostly for you and the children. Because once I’m gone, you’ll be next.’
2
FIFTEEN MINUTES SINCE PHONE CALL

The sense of unease about her mum exploded in a cloud of confusion and terror.
Was she drunk? She’d not sounded it. Her words hadn’t been slurred like they’d been a couple of weeks ago when she’d called with a tearful outpouring of anger and denial. The natural responses to her dad’s death, according to the counsellor. Eventually, she would move on, settle on acceptance. That’s what the woman had told them. Sadly, her mum