The Widow

Valerie Keogh

Description

‘Keogh is the queen of compelling narratives and twisty plots’ Jenny O'Brien

The brilliant new psychological thriller from bestseller Valerie Keogh.

'A wonderful book, I can’t rate this one highly enough. If only there were ten stars, it’s that good. Valerie Keogh is a master story-teller, and this is a masterful performance.' Bestselling author Anita Waller.

Grieving or guilty?

When Allison’s wealthy and charming husband Peter is found dead, she appears distraught, devastated….delighted?

Because despite an apparently picture-perfect marriage, Allison knows it was all built on a bed of lies.

And as the truth regarding Peter’s life and death are revealed, Allison must try to keep her own dark past buried.

Because if Peter was keeping secrets, then his widow is too…

Don't miss the brand new thriller by Valerie Keogh! Perfect for fans of Sue Watson, Shalini Boland and K.L. Slater.
Reader Reviews for The Widow

'This has me gripped! Totally unpredictable and interesting. Read it!' ★★★★★ Reader Review

'I loved the tension & unexpected twists and turns of this book' ★★★★★ Reader Review

What people are saying about Valerie Keogh...

'This is an amazing book, just buy it, and sit back and enjoy the ride. A massive five shiny starts from me.' Bestselling author Anita Waller

'This deliciously twisty story kept me up late at night, desperate to know the outcome. A definite 5 stars.' Bestselling author Keri Beevis

Sujets

• Policier & Thriller
• Policier
• Thriller
• Fiction
• Suspense
• Family Life
• Crime
• General
• City Life
• The Women
• Psychology
• Woman
• General officer
• Domestic
• Psychological thriller
• Suspenso
• Women
• Thrillers
• Psychological
• Mashups

Informations

• Publié par: Boldwood Books
• Date de parution: 01 novembre 2022
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781804154649
• Langue: English

Extrait

THE WIDOW


VALERIE KEOGH
CONTENTS




Part I


Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10


Part II


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

Chapter 62

Chapter 63

Chapter 64

Chapter 65

Chapter 66

Chapter 67

Chapter 68

Chapter 69

Chapter 70

Chapter 71

Chapter 72

Chapter 73

Chapter 74

Chapter 75

Chapter 76

Chapter 77

Chapter 78

Chapter 79

Chapter 80

Chapter 81

Chapter 82

Chapter 83


More from Valerie Keogh

Acknowledgments

About the Author

Also by Valerie Keogh

The Murder List

About Boldwood Books
For my niece
Niamh Elliot
with love
PART I
1

My parents loved each other. They were always hugging, holding hands, touching. If separated in a crowd, they’d exchange passionately adoring glances. Parted by distance, they’d pine and make frequent phone calls. They rarely used their given names, the plain John and Eve everyone else used; instead it was ‘darling’, ‘honey’, ‘sweetheart’ and other various nicknames, the most nauseating of which was ‘sex bomb’ for her, ‘stud’ for him, these last only used in the privacy of their home.
Where I lived.
Their love was exclusive, inward-looking, nothing remaining for anyone else, not even the children these self-obsessed people had brought into the world. The children they’d named Allison, Beth and Cassie but dismissively referred to as A, B and C or, as I overheard my mother calling us once… the ‘alphabet sprogs’.
We weren’t mistreated, not really. Hard to mistreat someone you barely acknowledged being alive. We offspring of these two were fed, and clothed, but little money was spent on procuring either.
Our eyes were opened when we went to school and, as the eldest of the three sprogs, I was first to suffer for the sin of being ‘different’.
I was the child the other children laughed at; my thin, spindly body clothed in well-worn, badly fitting, charity-shop clothes. The child who from self-preservation became a skilled, believable liar.
Lies to save face – the ones when I insisted I wasn’t hungry as classmates unwrapped their lunchtime sandwiches, my mother’s attitude being if I didn’t want to eat the meagre bread and jam provided free by the school, I could do without. Jam sandwiches, no butter so that the bread was soggy, the resultant mess unappetising. Maybe I’d have eaten it, hungry as I was, if taking one of those vile offerings hadn’t pushed me further down in the already low estimation of my classmates.
Lies to protect me from my mother’s ire when a teacher asked if I’d eaten breakfast the morning I fainted. Even at a young age I was aware that although my parents didn’t care about their children, they did care about how they were perceived by authority.
Lies to cover my petty thieving, the bars of chocolate, packets of crisps, anything I could slip into my pockets or my scuffed, raggedy schoolbag.
I was the child other children laughed at.
The child who gazed about her and wondered why her life was so incredibly sad.
2

Allison met Peter at a party given by Lorraine, a work colleague she wasn’t particularly friendly with. The invitation was unexpected and Allison, who wasn’t keen on social gatherings of any sort and work ones in particular, desperately searched for an acceptable excuse to avoid an event where she’d have to make small talk with people she wasn’t keen on.
‘It’s my fortieth. Do come, it’ll be fun.’ Lorraine, clipboard in one hand, a pen in the other with its point pressed to the space beside Allison’s name, gave an impatient huff as she waited for an answer.
Guessing she’d been invited to make up the numbers rather than any real desire to have her company, Allison wanted to say an unvarnished no. She didn’t owe Lorraine anything. They weren’t friends. But, unable to think of a good enough excuse, she found herself nodding and spouting lies. ‘Of course, thank you, I’d love to come.’
For the remainder of the day, all kinds of acceptable reasons to refuse popped into her head. Too late, as these things usually were. It was a week to the party, and she promised herself she’d find an opportunity to tell Lorraine she couldn’t, after all, make it, that something unexpected had come up and how genuinely sorry she was. But the week had flown by and a chance to tell her, even if Allison could have found the words, never occurred.
The night of the party, she took out a dress she’d bought months before and never worn. It had been in the window of an expensive boutique she regularly passed on her way to work. Her social life being non-existent, there was no requirement for fancier clothes than the rather dull suits she bought in M&S, so she’d never gone inside.
But on a particularly grey morning, the colour of the dress had caught her eye… a shade of turquoise she associated with the tantalising seascapes on the covers of holiday brochures. She’d stood staring at it as busy commuters surged by, then turned to join the flow, trying to put it from her mind. It was a busy day with little time for daydreaming but now and then, just for a few seconds, she allowed her mind to drift to the dress. A woman wearing such a divine garment couldn’t be dull; she’d be dazzling, oozing charm; her conversation would be sparkling and witty. She’d be everything Allison wasn’t, everything she longed to be.
It was a Thursday night. Late-night shopping. When she left the office for home that evening, the streets were heaving with shoppers who ploughed onward, laden carrier bags bumping into others willy-nilly as they passed. Allison slowed as she approached the boutique, half-afraid the dress would be gone, half-hoping it would be. If it was still there… she might go inside, try it on. Not buy it, of course, she’d nowhere to wear a dress so elegant.
It was there. She stood with her nose almost pressed to the traffic-dusty glass of the shop window. The dress was more lovely than she remembered and absolute longing consumed her. There was no harm in going inside to look at it, was there?
The interior of the shop was large and lavishly decorated with gold trimmings. The only assistant, a short, attractive woman who moved about on towering stilettos as if floating, was busy with a customer who was holding up a dress in two different shades as if trying to decide which to purchase.
Conscious the suit she was wearing had seen better days, Allison resisted the temptation to hug the large satchel she carried to her chest like a shield. Instead, overcompensating, she swung it in what she hoped was nonchalance, praying it didn’t look as odd as she feared.
When neither the assistant nor the other customer as much as glanced in her direction, she relaxed and looked around. Dresses were hanging on a rail on the far side of the shop. As she crossed, her footsteps on the polished wooden floor seeming over-loud, she scanned the collection, hoping the dress in the window wasn’t the only one.
No, there it was! She reached out to touch it, fingers skimming over the fabric. The colours were more vibrant up close, the material soft and light. She held the skirt of the dress out, picturing herself in it, the fabric swishing around her legs. With a sigh, she let it drop. She didn’t need such a dress, but it didn’t stop her searching for the price tag. Perhaps if it weren’t too expensive…
But it was. Ludicrously expensive, in fact. The assistant was still busy; Allison could simply leave and put this nonsense behind her. Her fingers, however, had other ideas and reached out to touch the dress again. Then, suddenly, she had the hanger off the rail, and she was crossing the shop floor with it in her hand.
After all, it cost nothing to try it on, did it?
But when Allison tried it on, when she twirled and admired her reflection in the triad of mirrors that formed the back walls of the small changing room, when she saw how the dress transformed her from dull to scintillating, she knew she had to have it.
‘How is it?’ the assistant asked through the thin curtain of the changing room.
Allison nodded at her reflection. ‘It’s perfect. I’ll take it.’



* * *
The dress had sat in her wardrobe, unworn, in the months since she’d bought it. Now and then, she’d take it out, getting pleasure from the sheer gorgeousness of it. Reluctant as she was to attend Lorraine’s birthday celebrations, it was an opportunity to wear it.
On the night of the party, Allison hung the dress on the outside of the wardrobe door. An unexpected excitement edged away any lingering reluctance and pushed her into making more of an effort. Normally, she pinned her long brown hair up… a tight chignon for work, a low ponytail at the weekend. That night, she allowed it to dry naturally rather than blow-drying it, and gentle waves framed her face before falling to her shoulders. Against the turquoise fabric of the dress, her hair looked more auburn than mousy brown.
Reaching for her usual make-up, she hesitated. For years, she’d applied the same heavy foundation, eyeshadow, lipstick. It had become as much part of her work uniform as her M&S suits. She ran her fingers over