The Car Crash Bride

By Sally Anne Palmer

Kate Perkins can’t remember how she came to be in a deadly car crash with her cheating ex-boyfriend. And why had they gotten engaged? As Kate struggles to recover her memory, she is confronted by her ex’s older brother, Edward, a man with whom she has a complicated, and still unresolved, past. Threats start coming. Someone doesn’t want her to remember that night. And will stop at nothing to prevent her from learning the secret of her ex’s death. Will she be able to uncover the truth before it’s too late?

• Language: English
• Publisher: The Wild Rose Press
• Release date: Jun 21, 2017
• ISBN: 9781509215096

Book preview

Inc.

It started at a funeral.

Not many things do.

Not when it was the funeral of a man you had killed, reflected Kate. She stood on a spot precisely calculated as far enough away from the mourners to be inconspicuous and yet still close enough to pay her respects.

She tucked her hair behind her ears, wondering why a tight, woolen dress had seemed like such a good idea on a sweltering, August day, and tried to count the number of wailing women. Given this was Tommy’s funeral, the presence of wailing women wasn’t a surprise, and if not for the whole murdering thing she’d be wailing herself, but the sheer number of women was a bit of a shock. She had to start the count again, distracted by a brief stutter of breeze that began to cool her flushed cheeks and gave up, crushed by the heavy heat.

It was a veritable sea of highlighted blondes, brunettes so glossy you could almost use them as a mirror, and redheads who’d spent too long agonizing over ‘Shocking Scarlet’ or ‘Magenta Surprise.’ They seemed to be engaged in a ferocious who-can-cry-the-loudest competition, because even at the distance Kate was positioned the sound of over exaggerated grief drowned out the drone of traffic and the occasional thunder of planes overhead.

The Car Crash Bride

by

Sally Anne Palmer

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.

The Car Crash Bride

COPYRIGHT © 2017 by Sally Anne Palmer

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author or The Wild Rose Press, Inc. except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

Contact Information: [e-mail]

Cover Art by Kristian Norris

The Wild Rose Press, Inc.

PO Box 708

Adams Basin, NY 14410-0708

Visit us at www.thewildrosepress.com

Publishing History

First Crimson Rose Edition, 2017

Print ISBN 978-1-5092-1508-9

Digital ISBN 978-1-5092-1509-6

Published in the United States of America

Dedication

For the 7.45 to Waterloo

Chapter 1

It started at a funeral. Not many things do.

Not when it was the funeral of a man you had killed, reflected Kate. She stood on a spot precisely calculated as far enough away from the mourners to be inconspicuous and yet still close enough to pay her respects.

She tucked her hair behind her ears, wondering why a tight, woolen dress had seemed like such a good idea on a sweltering, August day, and tried to count the number of wailing women. Given this was Tommy’s funeral, the presence of wailing women wasn’t a surprise, and if not for the whole murdering thing she’d be wailing herself, but the sheer number of women was a bit of a shock. She had to start the count again, distracted by a brief stutter of breeze that began to cool her flushed cheeks and gave up, crushed by the heavy heat.

It was a veritable sea of highlighted blondes, brunettes so glossy you could almost use them as a mirror, and redheads who’d spent too long agonizing over ‘Shocking Scarlet’ or ‘Magenta Surprise.’ They seemed to be engaged in a ferocious who-can-cry-the-loudest competition, because even at the distance Kate was positioned the sound of over exaggerated grief drowned out the drone of traffic and the occasional thunder of planes overhead.

Sweat prickled on the back of her neck, and she cast a quick sidelong glance at the welcoming shade of the tree to her left. Skulking in the shadows would mean hiding to anyone who happened to glance around, and she was determined not to look like she was ashamed. She had just as much right to be at the funeral of her ex-boyfriend as any of the squawking harpies clustered around the grave, still trying to steal a bit of Tommy’s attention when he had no more left to give. She wondered if any of them had ever loved him, ever really loved him as much as she had, once upon a time. She filed the thought away in a nice, neat little box labeled ‘Memories’ exactly as Dr. Morris has instructed her to, and shifted her weight to her other foot.

The vicar sounded like he was winding down, having gotten to the only bit of the service she recognized with ashes to ashes and she still hadn’t been noticed. So far, everything was going according to plan. She could salve her conscience by coming to Tommy’s funeral and get on with the more reprehensible part of the day with less guilt.

The thunk of earth hitting the coffin echoed up the slope, despite the press of a hundred odd people as Kate readied herself for a hasty departure. She didn’t have time for grief. Grief belonged to people who could remember what they were grieving for. People who hadn’t had a whole week of their lives wiped out, along with all of Tommy’s, by a large tree and an unexpected bend. There would be time for tears as soon as she worked out what she’d been doing in a car with a man she hadn’t seen in more than three years.

Thunk. Another handful of earth went a small way toward filling the enormous hole in the midst of the crowd. The only person Kate recognized was Arabella, but since they weren’t on speaking terms, it made no difference. Besides, the Arabella she’d known at university had been considerably plumper, considerably less elegantly attired, and had a considerably different nose, so maybe it wasn’t her after all.

There was no sign of him anywhere.

Running her eyes over the crowd one last time Kate turned away, and headed back to where Jo-Jo was tapping her watch, sprawled on her stomach in the shade of the tree.

Finally, she complained, in a tone that meant she’d forgotten who the elder sister was. I thought you were going to stand there bawling all day.

Kate, dry-eyed, watched her sibling scramble to her feet, not wasting any time on dignity in the urge to get upright as fast as she could. ‘Joanne’ took far too long to say and Jo-Jo had been bouncing around since the day she’d been born, her nickname the only thing that could keep up with her. Two years younger, a shade shorter, with eyes verging on a grayer shade of blue, Jo-Jo was anything but average, which she was currently demonstrating in a shock of bright pink hair, chosen purely for the shock value.

Jo-Jo smoothed her miniskirt and took an assessing glance at her sister. You look terrible, she noted, with a grin.

In silence, Kate acknowledged this was a fair comment. Even with the bruising having somewhat faded, the right side of her forehead was still criss-crossed with vivid red marks; relics of the crash that she couldn’t remember. Even before the accident she’d still only been average. Averagely pretty, averagely tall, averagely blonde with the sort of average life led by average twenty-somethings all across England. Fishing a black band out of her handbag, she scraped back her hair into an untidy knot, and looked to her sister for approval.

Jo-Jo’s attention was elsewhere, wandered away to some point behind her and another random thought. Who do you know who’s tall, got brown hair, and wants to kill you? she mused, still looking away.

Kate thought this must be some kind of obscure joke. I don’t know, who do I know who’s tall… she got as far as replying before she was cut off in mid flow.

No, I’m serious. Look.

Jo-Jo pointed at a spot in the direction of the funeral and Kate turned in slow motion to see the only other person who might possibly have recognized her, the only person she wanted to hide from was on his way up the slope, somewhat faster than his legs would usually carry him. The expression in his sharp, brown eyes promised, if not murder, then grievous bodily harm.

Shit, said Kate. Swearing was appropriate, given the circumstances, even if her mother would have used the words ‘common,’ ‘fishwife,’ and ‘mouth out with soap’ if she’d heard.

Is that? asked Jo-Jo.

Tommy’s older brother, yes.

Ten years older, to be exact; ten years older, ten years wiser, with ten years more experience in how to be angry. The look that twisted his features told her he was anything but happy.

Didn’t you and he? wondered her sister.

Yes, Kate snapped.

Wasn’t he married?

That too.

And have you seen him since?

No.

This conversation was taking too long. Edward was almost within shouting range, and was very likely to start shouting very soon. Most of the other mourners were now looking in her direction and some had ventured as far as pointing. She’d lost the ‘in’ from ‘inconspicuous.’ Kate knew she should stand her ground, protest her innocence, claim the whole thing was an accident, and defend her right to say goodbye, but shouting had never been her style.

She grabbed for her sister’s hand.

Shouldn’t we? suggested Jo-Jo.

Run? Yes. How does now suit you?

So they did.

It took ten steps for Kate to realize she couldn’t run in high heels, ten more steps for the things to start sinking into the ground, and ten more steps for her to decide she had never liked these shoes much anyway and left them embedded in the grass. Together, the Perkins sisters raced for the parking lot, and escape.

Chapter 2

Kate had made it a rule never to believe in clichés, and to take people as she found them, without making snap judgements in advance. When she’d been released from the hospital, sent home with a couple of painkillers and some worried looks from the doctors, she’d also been referred to a counselor. A cognitive-behavioral therapist to be exact, specializing in hypnotism and bereavement, with four cats, an ex-husband, and a practice in Kensington. Kate wasn’t surprised by the cats, although the fact the therapist had bothered to create them individual Facebook profiles said more about her than Kate wanted to know.

A few hours before the funeral, Kate walked up three, white painted steps and buzzed the intercom. Dr. Morris had opened her black shiny door and confirmed every single preconception about therapists Kate had been trying not to have.

Ah, Miss Perkins, she gushed, the permed hair drifting in gray-tinged waves around her pouchy face. Do come in.

There had to be some counselors in the world who weren’t middle-aged, kind, and overweight women who wore the bohemian outfits they’d put on in the 1960s and never taken off. Dr. Morris’ long skirts jingled on the wooden floorboards as she led the way through a hallway with high ceilings and into the back of the flat. Kate followed, pausing to look at the hundreds of certificates and diplomas in their neat black frames adorning the walls.

Kate wanted to remember. She’d been found unconscious on the side of a road in the middle of nowhere. She was a short distance away from a mangled sports car, an open driver’s door, and a dead ex-boyfriend in the passenger seat. She’d been driving Tommy somewhere, although where and why, and how he’d managed to get her to forgive him after the last time they’d seen each other was a mystery.

Sit down, please, requested the therapist with an airy wave of a ringed hand. Kate did as she was asked, as the padded chair she sank into attempted to swallow her whole.

Dr. Morris pushed past sideboards teetering with piles of journals, overflowing bookcases, and stacks of random papers to open the sash window, and pulled the heavy purple velvet drapes closed. The room descended into darkness. Kate was sure she could smell incense. Dr. Morris took up station on a pile of cushions which probably had a chair underneath and consulted her notepad.

So, Kathryn. May I call you Kathryn, or would you prefer Kate?

Kate shrugged. She was Kathryn by birth, and therefore Kathryn to her grandparents, Katie to her immediate family, and Kate to anyone who wanted to get a proper answer.

Why are you here?

Kate considered this to be a stupid question, but she tried to play along, because her mother had always been very strict about manners. All right. Nearly three weeks ago I had an accident. A bad one. The police found me unconscious near my car with the passenger side wrapped around a tree. I don’t remember how I got there, where I was going or why… She faltered, feeling the first touches of panic begin to rise in her stomach. Or why I was with my ex-boyfriend.

She found even mentioning Tommy’s name to this woman difficult, almost like intruding on his privacy. It was disrespectful for her to say his name now he was dead.

Your ex-boyfriend? asked Dr. Morris, reflecting back like any good counselor.

Ex. Kate confirmed through tight lips. Doubly ex now. We split up three years ago and I hadn’t seen him since. At least, I don’t think so. It’s not just the accident I can’t remember; it’s a few days before it as well. The butterflies in her stomach were trying to get out, making her throat thick with a powdery constriction. She was quite determined not to cry. She leaned forward to disguise how close she was to it. What I want to know is… Why I’m here is…well. He’s dead. I want to remember if it was my fault.

She knew it was. She’d been driving, so of course it was her fault, and every time she thought about Tommy she couldn’t get past all the happy memories she had of him, and the fact he wouldn’t have any more. Because of her. Because she’d made a mistake, or not paid attention, or done something wrong that had ended up with him dead and her walking away with just a couple of scratches. She wanted to remember, so she could start forgiving herself.

Dr. Morris nodded at a box of tissues, half hidden by detritus on a side table beside her. In the dim light the counselor looked professionally sympathetic and waited until Kate found the composure she didn’t often lose. She resumed after a pause. You want me to help you recover your memories. Your notes tell me there’s nothing medically wrong with you; no damage to your brain, no more concussion. In cases like this, where the amnesia is likely to be, let’s say, self-inflicted, the attitude of the patient becomes critically important. My question is, are you sure you want to remember?

Kate was sure. Quite sure. She nodded, and searched for a handy couch to lie on. Surely the next step was to look at a swaying watch and get asked about her father. That was what therapy was all about, after all.

Dr. Morris interrupted her thoughts. We have six sessions over the next two weeks. It will be an intensive program. Between each appointment I’m going to give you some mental exercises to try, which might help. But for today, why don’t you relax and tell me about the first memory which comes to mind, something less recent than the accident? Don’t analyze it; just describe what you see when you close your eyes.

Kate blinked, recognizing the easy way out offered by discussing work, or her family or the toast she’d had for breakfast. The first thing she usually saw when she closed her eyes these days was Tommy; in the car, in the morgue, in the coffin, in the ground. She decided she didn’t want to talk about all the ghosts her mind kept throwing her way and tried to pick something happier instead. She breathed in the scented air, and began: The first day I met Tommy, I was eighteen, and standing in a kitchen.

She remembered this part well: the first day at university was full of the excitement and utter terror of being away from home for the first time. She’d been putting eggs in the communal fridge, marking them with her name and wondering how one went about making friends.

A man’s voice behind her, teased. Hi. Are you Delilah?

She turned and straightened in an easy movement, finding herself straightening more as she registered the height of the person in front of her. Long legs, fit body showing through the figure-hugging, white t-shirt he wore. His shoulders so broad he almost looked overbalanced. He wore a knowing, slightly crooked smile revealing perfect, white teeth; his long, dark hair flopping in his eyes. Nerves overtook Kate as soon as she stood before him. He wasn’t the sort of boy who ever looked in her direction. He shone with popularity even while standing alone in a kitchen, a loaf of bread under one arm.

She held out her hand, pretending to be brave. No, sorry, I’m Kathryn Perkins. Pleased to meet you.

He frowned. Not Delilah? Shame. He put down the bread on the counter and shook her hand. My name’s Thomas Jones. Tom Jones. I’m always looking for my Delilah.

And that was Tommy. Confident, sparklingly attractive, full of appalling lines and totally out of reach. She’d disliked him on sight, of course. He paused, waiting for the laugh she refused to deliver.

Is that supposed to be funny? she asked, finding any residual fear disappearing behind mild exasperation.

He shrugged. Usually. Breaks the ice, though. My mother has a lot to answer for. She’s Welsh, of course. He opened a couple of drawers and peered in. Do you fancy scrambled egg on toast, or are you keeping all those for yourself? He nodded at the marker pen in her hand. And call me Tommy, everyone else will.

His self assurance was hard to stay angry at for very long, so she found a frying pan and scrambled eggs while he burnt bread and shot winning smiles at her, flicking his hair back out of his eyes at regular intervals. For the next ten minutes, she got a crash course in what it was like to be Mr. Thomas Jones. He’d been born in Wiltshire where there was nothing to do but talk about horses to women who looked like horses. He lived in a very large house courtesy of a London banker father killed in the sort of private helicopter crash only the very rich could afford. He had one half-brother who was ten years older, one public school education, and no desire to do any work whatsoever over the next three years. He was the sort of person equipped by life to become impossibly successful, and he knew it.

Kate couldn’t get a word in edgeways. Half a dozen eggs later, he dumped his plate in the sink, she assumed for her to wash, and gave another crooked grin. Well, thanks for breakfast. Would have been better in bed, but I’ve only just met you. Something to look forward to though, yes?

He was out of the door with a cheery wave, leaving her standing and hoping with all her heart she’d never bump into him again. About two seconds later, he popped his head back round the frame. See you round, Perky.

And of course, she saw him around. He was the sort of person you couldn’t avoid; she’d hear his laugh echoing across the campus, have to step over his long legs sprawled over chairs in the common room, and dodge around his cliquey friends to get to the bar. He belted out It’s Not Unusual on the karaoke at any given opportunity. He started playing for the university rugby team and his name appeared in the student paper at regular intervals, along with being posted on notice boards in connection with a series of stupid stunts and hefty punishments.

Tommy Jones was everywhere she looked. She tried her best not to see. She had to pretend to be deaf nearly every day because every time he spotted her he’d stop what he was doing and yell Perky at the top of his lungs to the amusement of his mates and her complete embarrassment. He also developed an unerring sense for whenever she was in the kitchen, stumbling out of his room every Sunday morning looking beautifully dishevelled to pinch bits of toast, beg for bacon, and complain about the lack of ketchup.

Although he was annoying, brash, loud, self-centered, and, she suspected, left other women in his bed to have breakfast with her, she still found herself buying and cooking enough for two. He told her stories, he made her laugh, and though she was only one among the multitude of his friends, she felt special.

Her friends were smitten, too, in particular Arabella. Decent, shy, overweight, insecure Arabella had become an instant soul mate when they’d both gotten lost and ended up in a chemistry lecture instead of the history one next door. They’d been too afraid to walk out.

Perky, Tommy roared.