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Am I Guilty?: The gripping, emotional domestic thriller debut filled with suspense, mystery and surprises!
Jackie Kabler
Everyone thinks I did it…maybe I did.Gripping, exciting and emotional, this book will grab you from the first page and refuse to let you go until the final chapter!I never thought it would happen to me… One moment I had it all – a gorgeous husband, a beautiful home, a fulfilling career and two adorable children. The next, everything came crashing down around me. They said it was my fault. They said I’m the worst mother in the world. And even though I can’t remember what happened that day, they wouldn’t lie to me. These are my friends, my family, people I trust. But then why do I have this creeping sensation that something is wrong? Why do I feel like people are keeping secrets? Am I really as guilty as they say? And if I’m not, what will happen when the truth comes out…?
Am I Guilty?
JACKIE KABLER
A division of HarperCollinsPublishers
www.harpercollins.co.uk (http://www.harpercollins.co.uk)
KillerReads
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www.harpercollins.co.uk (http://www.harpercollins.co.uk)
First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers 2019
Copyright © Jackie Kabler 2019
Cover design Micaela Alcaino © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd2019
Cover images © Shutterstock.com (https://www.shutterstock.com/)
Jackie Kabler asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.
Ebook Edition © April 2019
ISBN: 9780008328405
Version: 2018-12-12
Table of Contents
Cover (#u8e767239-5008-5ab9-a73d-640db22c3bdc)
Title Page (#u413ddcc7-0f03-5dbd-99a8-2b11f7bab51e)
Copyright (#ua65f4105-c21b-5e37-bd49-5258da493bf0)
Part One (#u67496577-fca7-594a-804b-1043e3fe2f40)
1 : Thea (#u42782e65-c704-5f43-8f5f-d611542126a4)
2 : Flora (#ubde9e4cb-6e39-5785-a834-26f67650590e)
3 : Annabelle (#u1bdb1f5f-7637-54a5-bdbb-09ea18265071)
4 : Thea (#ub5c2c791-699c-5c32-b9c5-7f9aa068781a)
5 : Annabelle (#u592d3359-82b1-5904-a88d-b6798435af25)
6 : Thea (#uf0a355c0-2276-54f1-9a2c-2af61217f984)
7 : Flora (#u4b4d5cbc-1774-5c49-b65b-48c582dd97dc)
8 : Thea (#uf97c7420-acf7-5ba5-8838-67684e3164b8)
9 : Annabelle (#u8f2999f4-261e-5d86-a486-904f6fb95b10)
10 : Flora (#u98a61d73-011c-51a1-ad71-7b0a7de81377)
11 : Annabelle (#u0968e8e8-a653-5004-9d0a-3ac125b1591e)
12 : Thea (#u639cb91d-e3c8-5916-bb86-53a220ce5def)
13 : Annabelle (#u60cc4aef-eb05-5d92-9f6b-f8f700f30826)
14 : Thea (#uf462a55b-1d95-5196-9409-79f293be6bfe)
15 : Flora (#u4d43e20b-661b-54eb-80ae-380b7512ed47)
16 : Thea (#u16229f70-0b59-5170-ad57-b6351018d965)
17 : Flora (#u9848da85-1fd3-57ae-8d1c-c233dae5faf7)
18 : Annabelle (#u9645306e-dd7d-5928-9c26-bde37d041a3f)
19 : Thea (#ud230c763-297f-540c-9736-dcb2632a1f5e)
20 : Flora (#ue2c3851f-b642-55eb-b28f-43cebf95e19e)
21 : Thea (#u2f2d0bcf-254f-55d1-b1fc-cde2c1457145)
22 : Annabelle (#u60d678b2-96dc-52c3-b36a-44078b6ddaf9)
23 : Flora (#u0736c5cf-f113-5333-834c-8b89da3e7d16)
24 : Thea (#u98beb949-ffb0-53b3-8a44-4562b582d626)
25 : Flora (#ub4aa0c05-50ed-50db-bb7f-981708c90512)
26 : Thea (#u10b58b11-ace0-56a8-b296-2fe3140e8c2e)
27 : Annabelle (#u2262eb4a-d012-5fd5-a64a-d07285d8e424)
28 : Thea (#u99df54bb-4fd4-586b-9670-b9dd809c3be6)
Part Two (#u63ab85cb-b3b5-5300-94c8-f5f8ccac0c95)
29 : Thea (#ua5da1dba-30e2-5e7e-9a7d-ea5490bd11f1)
30 : Isla (#ude78e44a-763f-5311-b427-43f1a5faddae)
31 : Thea (#uaffa0375-a933-5719-bbb9-51a26775f2f5)
32 : Greg (#u709c6589-50f1-5dce-b07d-b0ab4f23a80b)
33 : Annabelle (#uce3c69d7-fa84-5285-8372-1eabfbca49f3)
34 : Thea (#u294ebff8-42e3-53e0-856e-a8bc0ce324bc)
35 : Rupert (#u4b410e74-36c9-5949-bfe0-16591a8707bf)
36 : Thea (#u95f59f32-5968-5c15-8af4-2e97d812068b)
37 : Nell (#udd5e2000-21f7-57bf-99db-4e7fee3a072a)
38 : Thea (#u02069b30-54d5-5a42-a824-8dba8051a936)
39 : Annabelle (#udfc8b2c7-3632-5eb3-8fe8-3b3a38978d63)
Part Three (#u93151cf5-ef7d-5e9b-9bad-c537ba69336d)
40 : Flora (#u3bc0ec1a-6b38-5c0c-b8c8-b5095df0593a)
41 : Thea (#u65d7e41f-c2c4-57e7-9da1-e55e775d00e8)
42 : Annabelle (#u0c462f14-58d8-58be-8d56-9e36dcaa7c3b)
Epilogue: Croft Park Hospital (#u1af330ad-a874-5b4b-8dca-8e19e0c558c0)
Acknowledgements (#ubcc70d3f-41ae-557c-a34c-f5d4f18700be)
About the Author (#u62a4d5a3-a4c7-5a44-b203-4cffe53d87d4)
About the Publisher (#u67d5f80b-0ea3-5627-b8dd-dfa643c0b38d)
PART ONE (#u4ba620a9-2cd7-562a-aeac-f15de38d1150)
1 (#u4ba620a9-2cd7-562a-aeac-f15de38d1150)
THEA (#u4ba620a9-2cd7-562a-aeac-f15de38d1150)
They were staring again. I shivered, curling my fingers tightly around the handle of the pram, and walked quickly past them, my eyes not meeting theirs. It was two women this time, around my age, late thirties, standing outside WHSmith. I’d only stopped for a moment, to adjust my scarf, but I knew instantly that it had been a mistake. Never stop, keep moving. Keep your head down. Don’t give them a chance to recognize you. I was usually so careful, on the rare occasions I ventured out. Tried to avert my gaze from store assistants, cashiers, other shoppers, looking down into my purse or at the pram, so they didn’t get a good look at me. It was easier that way, safer. But today, with the scarf slipping, I’d risked it, just for a moment, stopping to wind the stupid thing back into place. Idiot. It was January, the sky a bleak grey, a biting wind whistling down Cheltenham High Street and whipping loose strands of hair across my cheeks, a crisp packet scudding across the road in front of me as I hurried past the shopfront, eyes fixed firmly ahead, not looking at their faces. I heard them, though, their voices sharp and full of disgust. Full of loathing.
‘It is her, isn’t it? Look at her. What a freak,’ said one.
‘Evil bitch, more like,’ said the other.
A sob caught in my throat and I walked faster, suddenly desperate to get home. I shouldn’t have come out today, I shouldn’t. I’d been feeling all right earlier, almost sprightly, after a good night’s sleep for the first time in weeks. Seven hours. Seven. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d slept for that long and it had done wonders, made me feel that today I could cope, that it would be fine to go out, get some fresh air, pick up a few bits and pieces in town before I started work. I did most of my shopping online now, but it had seemed silly to pay delivery charges when you only needed some cotton wool, wrapping paper, a pack of pens. And sometimes, it was fine. Sometimes I got away with it, and nobody recognized me, nobody stared or commented or shouted abuse across the street. Not often though, and not today, clearly.
It had started to rain now, fat drops spattering the clear plastic cover I’d put over the pram before going out. Beneath it, a white cashmere blanket was pulled up high, but I could picture Zander’s sleeping face, his ludicrously long lashes resting softly against his delicious pink and cream cheeks, see in my mind’s eye the gentle rise and fall of his little chest as he dreamed his baby dreams, oblivious. At the thought of him, my darling boy, I sobbed again, aching to hold him in my arms, look into his bright blue eyes, hear his adorable chuckle as he reached up to grab my hair, the chuckle that made everything bad in the world simply melt away.
I bent my head against the wind, wiping my tears away fiercely with one hand as I steered the pram round the corner onto the Prom, heading for home. Everything would be fine, I told myself. I’d get back, have a nice cup of tea, something soothing – camomile? – and then get to work. I didn’t really like camomile tea, but Isla said it always calmed her down, and Isla knew about these things. She was my best friend, one of the few who had stuck by me.
We were more like family really, me and Isla, discovering soon after we met all those years ago that both of us were only children who’d craved siblings, jokingly offering to be each other’s substitute sister, bonding quickly, irreversibly. From day one we hated to be apart for long, and it was the same even now, now that we were both all grown up with homes and jobs and responsibilities, and even though our everyday lives were so different. She was a real party girl, Isla, but she balanced out the excesses of her crazy work and social life, the boozy nights and junk food lunches, by being into all that healthy stuff too – Pilates, meditation, mindfulness, smoothies, funny teas. She’d only managed to persuade me to go as far as the tea, but she was persistent.
‘Yoga next!’ she’d said chirpily, when she’d rung me before bed as usual to check that I was OK. ‘We can have a private lesson, just the two of us, and I’m paying, so no excuses. It will do you good, Thea. Especially now. I know everything is horrible, but you need to chill out a bit. You’re too tense, and it’s not helping. I’m going to book it, and you’re coming, and that’s that.’
I hadn’t argued, didn’t have the energy. And Isla knew me better than pretty much anybody; so maybe she was right, maybe it would do me good. I had so much to do, my work more important than ever now that I was a single parent. I didn’t even have an assistant anymore, not since November, not since Flora had left, and I hadn’t got round to trying to find a replacement, not yet. I doubted I’d find anyone who’d work for me anyway. So, I had to carry on, even if it was just me now and the workload was overwhelming.
I’d let things slide recently, there was no doubt about that, and I needed to get the business back on track. The orders had slowed drastically for a while, last autumn. But they’d picked up over Christmas, and I needed to get on top of things again. I had to keep going, no matter how shitty I felt. I needed to show everyone that I could still do something good, something positive, despite everything. That I was still me,no matter what I’d done. Still Thea. Still Theodora Alice Ashfield.
I stopped outside GAP as the bloody scarf started to unwind itself again, one end trailing perilously close to the pram wheels. Frustrated, I yanked it off and stuffed it under the plastic cover, catching a glimpse of myself in the shop window as I straightened up again. I paused for a moment, staring. I didn’t look good. My long dark hair, unwashed for days, was pulled up into a messy topknot, and even in the hazy reflection I could see the dark shadows under my eyes, my high cheekbones in sharp relief. I’d lost weight recently, and not intentionally.
I dragged my gaze away from the window and started moving again. As I crossed Montpellier Gardens the rain grew heavier, and I walked faster, almost jogging now, the pram bouncing over the uneven path. A park keeper in a luminous jacket, pulling up weeds around the bandstand, paused as I approached, watching me, and my chest tightened, my heart rate suddenly speeding up. Not again, please. Not today. But as I got nearer he smiled and waved a muddy hand skywards.
‘Nice mornin’ for ducks, eh love?’
‘Yes. It is, yes.’
I stopped for a moment, bending to adjust the pram cover and push my shopping bags further under it, and smiled back at him before moving off again, the momentary panic subsiding, my breathing steadying. Feeling almost dizzy with relief, I twisted my right wrist round as I walked, checking the time on my vintage Omega. Just after eleven. I had about four hours before Nell would be home from school. Four hours to do some work, drink tea. Eat something. Avoid the gin bottle. Or try to. Try hard to.Keep focused. I lowered my head against the now-torrential rain and headed for home.
2 (#u4ba620a9-2cd7-562a-aeac-f15de38d1150)
FLORA (#u4ba620a9-2cd7-562a-aeac-f15de38d1150)
I stretched luxuriously, wriggling my toes against the 400 thread count Egyptian cotton bedding, then reached for my phone, which was on the bedside table, tapping it to check the time. Just after eleven. For a moment, I felt a pang of guilt for still being in bed at such a late hour, then shrugged and pulled the duvet back over my head. Stuff it. It was Monday, my day off this week, after all. And the weekend had been hard work: a two-day fiftieth birthday event at a stately home near Oxford. Annabelle had been anxious, and even more needy than usual, and she’d run me ragged. I didn’t mind, not really – I enjoyed the job, loved it in fact. But today I was tired, and I deserved the lie-in, I thought.
I’d worked for Annabelle Garrington for nearly two months, as her personal assistant. Bit of an unusual PA job, compared with most – I lived in, like a nanny, and indeed part of my role was helping out with the kids, but it was much more than that. It was the second job I’d found through a specialized London agency, and my job was mainly helping Annabelle with her business. She ran an events management company, her clients mainly the Cotswolds set, the glitzy sort, numerous celebrities among them.
In the short time I’d worked with her, I’d helped her throw a flamingo-themed baby shower for a well-known catwalk model, a Christmas party for a flamboyant London hair stylist at his Gloucestershire hideaway, and a fortieth birthday lunch for a slightly neurotic daytime television presenter who, clearly in denial about her age, had banned the word ‘forty’ from her event entirely, even asking me to quietly destroy several birthday cards and a balloon bearing the dreaded number presented to her on the day by well-meaning friends. Yes, it was hard work, this job, but I was enjoying it thoroughly, and there were some exciting events coming up in the next few months.
The day, though, was all mine, and I planned to spend it doing very little indeed. A run first, obviously. Then a leisurely brunch, followed by a wander around nearby Cirencester to pick up a few bits and pieces, maybe. And then an evening chilling in my room, catching up on some TV or something on Netflix.
I pulled the duvet down so my head was free again and gazed with pleasure around my little home. It was a big, bright room on the top floor of the Garrington house, a rambling but lovingly – and expensively – decorated and modernized Victorian villa, set in three acres of manicured gardens. Two large sash windows gave me a stunning view of rolling countryside and Cotswold stone houses, a church spire visible in the distance. On Thursday and Sunday evenings the bell-ringers did their practising, the peals drifting across the fields as they had for centuries: a sound which had driven me mad at first, but which I’d gradually begun to find oddly soothing.
