The Woman at Number 19

J A Baker

Description

*** THIS SUMMER'S MUST-READ PSYCHOLOGICAL THRILLER ***

Esther lost her husband, Julian, and her children, Harriet and Dexter, in a car accident and is struggling with her grief.

Spurred on by her own loneliness and a need to make amends for not being able to save her own children, Esther takes it upon herself to watch the woman who lives at number 19..

But when unexplainable incidents begin to happen in Esther’s house, she begins to fear for her own safety.

Meanwhile, over at number 19, the woman’s behaviour is becoming more explosive and unpredictable.

As Esther starts to lose her grip on reality, her world begins to unravel.

Just who is this strange woman at number 19?

And why is Esther so obsessed with her?

J.A. Baker is the internationally bestselling author of psychological thrillers, including The Other Mother and Local Girl Missing.

The Woman at Number 19 is a twisting and utterly compelling psychological suspense, perfect for fans of authors like S.E. Lynes, K.L. Slater and Lucy Dawson.

Please note this is a re-issue of The Woman at Number 19.,

Sujets

• Policier & Thriller
• Policier
• Thriller
• Mashups
• Psychological
• Women Sleuths
• Hard-Boiled
• Amateur Sleuth
• Thrillers
• Women
• Suspenso
• Psychological thriller
• Domestic
• Woman
• Psychology
• Disaster
• British Isles
• The Women
• Crime
• Family Life
• Suspense
• Noir
• Fiction

Informations

• Publié par: Boldwood Books
• Date de parution: 29 mai 2023
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781805491453
• Langue: English

Extrait

THE WOMAN AT NUMBER 19


J. A. BAKER
To Amy and Charlotte, the people who made this book possible. This one’s for you, ladies!
Remembrance of things past is not necessarily the remembrance of things as they were…
MARCEL PROUST


A clear conscience is the sure sign of a bad memory…
MARK TWAIN


I don’t know what’s worse: to not know what you are and be happy, or to become what you’ve always wanted to be, and feel alone.
DANIEL KEYES
CONTENTS



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


Acknowledgments

More from J. A. Baker

About the Author

The Murder List

About Boldwood Books
PROLOGUE

She sits in the garden, her face tilted towards the sky. Staring at the cloudless swathe of blue above, her eyes are drawn towards a distant flock of swallows as they swoop and dive in perfect formation, graceful and elegant, like tiny ballerinas dancing on the thermals. She is fascinated by them and watches as they twist and turn effortlessly; sees how their small bodies are perfectly adapted to their environment. She marvels at their speed and agility. It’s one of the most beautiful things she’s ever seen. It makes her feel calm and at peace. Not full of rage and dread, or full of murderous intent: just relaxed and at one with herself and the gentle forces of nature.
The distant song of the blackbird floats closer: a soothing, light chirrup carried on the breeze. It’s like having somebody close by, their warm breath next to her skin as they whisper poetry into her ear. She’s reminded that it’s the small things in life that count, that make her feel human. Being amongst the flora and fauna helps her get by, giving her a brief respite from her thoughts: the torturous ones, the dark, intense ones. The same thoughts that constantly remind her of who she is and what she did.
She blanks those thoughts out, denies any of those memories space in her head. Doesn’t want to think about any of it. Those terrible days. Those awful, unforgivable deeds…
Letting out a trembling sigh, she continues gazing upwards, breathing in the gentle warmth of the sun that kisses her face. A series of smoke trails criss-cross the cobalt sky thousands of feet above. She thinks of how wonderful it would be to be one of those passengers, to be transported somewhere exotic, somewhere beautiful. Somewhere far away from here.
Closing her eyes, she pictures the exquisiteness of it all, the decadence of having people wait on her hand and foot, catering to her every demand, speaking tenderly to her, smiling and asking if everything is to her liking. Making her feel as if she were the most important person in the world. Then her eyes abruptly snap open and she lets out a small gasp.
No.
She will not allow herself to feel that way. If she lets those happy thoughts in, then she will be playing into their hands, allowing herself to feel trapped and desperate by dreaming of another world where she is free. It’s all about making the best of what she has in here. That’s the only way she will make it through, the only way she can carry on living her life as a prisoner. Because for all the fancy terms applied to the reasons for her being held here, that is exactly what she is. She isn’t a patient; she is a detainee, a captive interred here against her will. And if she allows herself to dream about how much better her life would be if she were elsewhere, she knows for sure she will undoubtedly go mad, her mind too brittle and damaged to face the truth, to live up to the realisation that she is trapped, stuck at this place indefinitely until they decide what to do with her. Until they decide whether or not she will ever be able to leave.
So she shuts out dreams of happiness and contentment, the thoughts she has where she can fly like a bird, soaring through the skies like the swallows that feed on the wing, and forces herself to be happy, to make do with what she has in this place. The place she has been forced to call home.
She blinks repeatedly. And what is that? What exactly does she have?
That is a good question.
What she has is a roof over her head, a bed to sleep in at night, food to eat, and her thoughts. At least they are her own. Nobody has control over them. As much as the people here in this place would like to climb inside her head and work out what she’s thinking, what it is that’s going on inside her mind, she can rest easy, knowing she’s the only one who has the key to that particular area of her life. And as long as there is breath in her frail body, it will stay that way.
Her thoughts are all she has. They are hers and hers alone.
She leans down and carefully bends the stalk of a nearby flower towards her face, its silken, golden petals yielding to her touch, the pale, light scent billowing up and enveloping her in a delicate, perfumed haze.
Taking a deep, gratifying breath, she opens her fingers and releases the thin stem before sitting back up. The welcoming arms of spring reach out, temporarily lifting her mood. Soon it will be summer. She smiles, her face tight, unaccustomed to feelings of happiness. Summer reminds her of good times, better times. A time when she was loved and content. A time when her family was still together.
And then it’s gone. Her happiness in that moment vanishes like the last gasp of breath from a dying man, and in an instant, a thick mantle of misery descends, shrouding her, suffocating her, slowly killing her as it hooks its talons deep into her soul, tearing and shredding it into tiny pieces. One small memory, one rogue thought is all it takes to burst her bubble of brief contentment – the sound of birdsong, the smell of a garden, the memory of her fragmented family and shattered life. Her life before she came here. The life she lost and will never get back.
Suddenly, she’s consumed by sorrow, by raw, undiluted anguish that rushes up her abdomen, travelling up her throat and forcing its way out of her mouth. She sees them out of the corner of her eye: the people who jump up out of their seats and race across to where she sits, alerted by the noise escaping from her burning lungs. Her scream gains in pitch, a hollow, distorted, wailing sound, growing and growing until it reaches a crescendo. Their faces are full of anger and frustration when they reach her. They don’t like it when she does this, when she allows her demons to escape. They want her to stop, to keep it all under control and not shatter the illusion of equilibrium they have worked hard to create, the delicate balance that separates sanity and madness in this place, and she’s aware that they’ll do anything to make that happen.
But then, they don’t truly understand her plight or how she thinks. They don’t understand that she doesn’t want to stop the noise, or for the dark thoughts to subside and simply vanish into the ether. She wants them all to hear, to be exposed to her burning anger and unending terror, and be subjected to the desperate, hollow shrieks that emanate from the bottom of her gut.
Because this is how she is now and how she will always be from this point on. The spells of happiness and calm she experiences are short-lived. The memories of those painful, murky days are ingrained in her soul, entrenched forever. They’ll never leave, pushing instead any fresher memories and feelings aside, stomping on them and grinding them underfoot.
So now these people need to listen to her, to be sympathetic to her cries and howls, because they’re the ones who made her this way. They’re the people who forced her to see what took place, to realise what actually happened. This is all their fault. They are the ones who made her see what a monster she had become.
And she hates them for it.
She hears them talking to her, their voices distant and distorted, their pleas and whispers for her to calm down simply washing over her like liquid mercury. Their pedestrian persuasive techniques are a waste of time. She won’t respond. She knows it and they know it and yet still they persist. It’s just another hoop to jump through, a ticked box that says they tried with her, that they did their utmost to talk her around, and it didn’t work so they were forced to up their game. To do what she and they both knew they would end up doing from the start.
She continues screaming, roaring into thin air at the injustice of it all. She brings her hands up and uses her long, ragged nails to scratch at her bare skin, tearing them down her arms, tugging and digging until she is covered with blood, sickeningly warm and oleaginous, smeared over her thin, pale flesh.
Still the people plead with her. Still they try. And still she screams and tears at her own skin, ignoring their pleas for her to be silent and to take heed of their words.
Only when their begging and talking doesn’t work do they eventually move towards her. She thrashes about, bucking and bending her body as they pin her down and restrain her. She screams some more, swearing and cursing. They don’t stop. The small gang of people wrap their big, strong arms around her slight body, pulling at her shoulders to stop her from moving. An arrow of pain rips through her spine as her upper body is held fast. It doesn’t bother her. Doesn’t quieten her. She embraces the burning pain that shoots through her body. She des