When I first walked into Jake and Megan’s immaculate home, I felt totally at ease. Sitting in the crisp white living room, they held hands and talked lovingly about their baby girl, Fern.
As the weeks passed, I began to think I’d made a mistake in taking the job. Jake was overly friendly from the start, watching my every move and always offering to drop me home, even though it was out of his way. And Megan seemed to take pleasure in telling me off in front of her husband, blaming me for things I hadn’t done.
The first time I heard the Haringtons arguing behind the door to their bedroom, I heard my name mentioned, and then they went silent. I should have left right there and then.
Now, as I stand accused of something terrible, my whole past is revealed and the Haringtons admit to knowing every detail about why I was sacked from my last job. We all have secrets, but little do they realise, I know theirs too…
With twist after twist, this is perfect for fans of The Housemaid, The Perfect Marriage and The Girl on the Train. A gripping thriller you don’t want to miss!
Bestselling Author, Sheryl Browne, writes taut, twisty psychological thriller. A member of the Crime Writers’ Association and the Romantic Novelists’ Association, Sheryl has several books published and two short stories in Birmingham City University anthologies where she completed her MA in Creative Writing. Sheryl has also obtained a Certificate of Achievement in Forensic Science and – according to readers – she makes an excellent psychopath. Sheryl’s latest psychological thriller HER HUSBAND’S HOUSE comes to you from BOOKOUTURE. Her previous works include the DI Matthew Adams Crime Thriller series, along with contemporary fiction novels, The Rest of My Life and Learning to Love.
To find out more about Sheryl. go to www.sherylbrowne.com
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To find out more about Sheryl. go to www.sherylbrowne.com
Sign up to be the first to hear about new releases from Sheryl Browne here: https://www.bookouture.com/
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PROLOGUE
The word guilty hits me like a punch to my stomach and I feel myself reel. This isn’t supposed to happen. My lawyer said they would either have to convict me of murder or acquit me. He was confident they couldn’t return a guilty verdict; that there wasn’t enough evidence. My chest constricts painfully. ‘I didn’t do this.’ Bile burns the back of my throat and I choke the words out. Papers are being shuffled, gazes cast down, as if business is over. They’re going to take me back down to the cells. My life is over. I would rather it was over than be considered capable of this. Reality hits me as the officers flanking me close claustrophobically in on me. ‘This is wrong,’ I protest shakily. No one is listening. ‘You’ve got it wrong.’ My gaze swivels feverishly to the people who’ve condemned me. Some glance away. Some look uncomfortable. Some shoot daggers of pure hatred right through me. I don’t understand. What just happened? A lurch of terror clutches my insides and I look desperately at the man who assured me I would walk away. His face ashen, he averts his eyes, and hope dies inside me. Tell them. I gulp back the stone clogging my throat. He has to do something. The judge accepted the verdict but I don’t believe they proved it was me. They don’t know. Anything. At first they said she’d died of asphyxia due to an asthma attack. Then they said her airways hadn’t been narrowed or inflamed and concluded it was a subdural haematoma that had caused an underlying injury and pressure on the brain. The prosecution said the bleed had been caused by her being violently shaken. The forensic neuropathologist said he didn’t believe that she could have died from violent shaking. He said there was no spinal cord or neck damage, no bruising to her back or ribs to show she’d been grabbed. In his opinion, her brain injury could have been sustained by a blow to the head, but that could have occurred weeks before. The key word was could. They hadn’t known. It was the testimony of the person I’d trusted most in the world that had condemned me. He’d said he saw me bang her head on the side of her cot. How could he have? How could he have done that, given evidence against me as if I meant nothing to him? He knows me, knows that I could never be capable of such an atrocity. They asked me if I had shaken her. I had to tell the truth, but surely, I reasoned, they would see that it had happened instinctively. ‘She’d been crying,’ I told them. ‘And then she went quiet. I was scared for her. She wasn’t moving.’ I looked desperately around for understanding and found none. ‘I wasn’t sure she was even breathing. I shook her to try to wake her. She was in my arms,’ I added quickly as the jurors all breathed in sharply as one. ‘Her head was in the crook of my arm. I was trying to help her.’ My attempts to make them see fell on deaf ears. I even demonstrated how I’d held her that one time I had shaken her, glancing down at the ghost of her nestled close to me. As I looked up to see appalled faces, I knew that the jury was becoming hostile, a term my lawyer had used. I wish I hadn’t gone to the nursery so incensed. Wish to God I hadn’t drunk so much wine. The jury knew I had. Witness testimony confirmed I had. Soon the police were digging into my history, unearthing my past, my secrets and my lies. I had lied – I’d had no choice. I didn’t lie about this, though. I didn’t
