The Killer In My Family

By Belinda Bennett

Tara Wilson's mother died suddenly when she was ten and nobody will tell her why. Now she is digging into her past to get to the truth - and someone doesn't like it. As she meets a wall of silence at nearly every turn, a dormant evil stirs.

This journey of self-discovery and hankering to find her place in the world is fraught with danger. As Tara travels through the stunning landscapes of Devon and Cornwall searching for answers, she gets closer and closer... to pure evil. Her only hope of discovering the truth lies with the foster families who brought her up. But are they hiding something?

As she nears the truth, only a miracle can save her.

A fast-paced, gripping novella.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Belinda Bennett
• Release date: Dec 31, 2018
• ISBN: 9780463559505

Belinda Bennett

Belinda Bennett started writing fiction at primary school. Always passionate about creative writing, her talents were diverted to journalism in her late teens after both her parents died.She was diagnosed with HER2+ inflammatory breast cancer on January 23, 2020. Currently undergoing chemotherapy and targeted therapies, she is hoping to undergo surgery later this year.A fierce supporter of the underdog, Belinda supports causes that help the homeless and those whose lives have been blighted by addiction.Belinda is a former journalist, newspaper editor and freelance copywriter. She lives by the sea on the Jurassic Coast in Dorset, England.

Book preview

The

KILLER

In My

Family

Belinda Bennett

Published by BB Digital

December 2018

Copyright © Belinda Bennett

Follow the author on Twitter @goldengirlnot

The Killer In My Family is a work of pure fiction. Names, characters, places, and events either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or events is entirely coincidental.

This book is dedicated to ‘Melanie’. Her story touched my life many years ago. God bless you, Melanie, wherever you are.

Contents

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Dear Reader

About the Author

Other Books by Belinda Bennett

Prologue

I catch myself laughing. Just for a moment. It must have been something Mitch said; one of his silly, off the cuff one-liners or, perhaps, a quirky observation. Whatever it was, it prompted an involuntary spurt of hilarity.

People often describe me as ‘happy-go-lucky’. I’m always the first to laugh at a joke. Even bad ones. I’m the first to squeal with delight when I see presents under the Christmas tree. And the first to offer a cheery word when someone is feeling down.

But that's not me. Not the real me. Every time I hear that stupid, high-pitched laugh, my own laugh, it's like I'm hearing someone else's voice. Not mine. My mind is separated from my actions like a grape that has been plucked from a vine because it is always consumed with thoughts. Dark thoughts.

It doesn’t matter how many friends I’ve got. I could be in the Royal Albert Hall, surrounded by thousands of people, and I’d still feel ‘separated’. Lonely. Only a carefully manufactured demeanor masks the true nature of who I am. What I feel inside.

It makes no difference that Mitch loves me. Nor that I have convinced myself that I love him. That black shadow, my stalker, loneliness, is what is really holding my hand.

Loneliness is what keeps me awake at night, what walks beside me wherever I go. It is what whispers bitter lies over and over again. So many times that I have come to believe them.  Nobody wants you, Tara. Nobody loves you.

An overpowering sense of emptiness is something I’ve felt for as long as I can recall – at least since the day I was abandoned by my mother. That day, more than any other, is ingrained in my memory. It tortures me. Relentlessly.

I can still feel the warmth of Mummy's hand as she led me into a dull, official-looking room before giving me away to complete strangers, like she was handing over a bag of groceries. I remember she let out a piercing cry, betraying her previously ice-cold exterior, as I was led away clutching my favourite teddy. When I close my eyes, I can see my little pigtails swinging in sync with my steps as I left her, and my real life, behind.

That day, that moment echoes around in my head every night. It is a haunting reminder that, once, I was part of a family – my family.

Love, or any kind of affection or sense of ‘family’, was noticeably absent from my life in the cruel years that followed. Shoved from one foster family to another, I only had myself to rely on for real company. I never dared to hope for much more than a safe place to stay, once I realised my Mummy wasn’t coming back to get me.

I was seven when I was abandoned and, I can’t lie, there were times when I did feel safe, but I never once felt at home; I never felt loved. I never felt wanted.

The injustice of being ‘given away’ for no apparent reason by someone who was supposed to care for and protect me became even harder to bear when I was told she had died. I was ten when an abrupt social worker broke the news.

She offered no sympathy. No shoulder to cry on. Nothing. Just bad news.

Your mother’s dead, she told me, without an ounce of empathy.

That was it. She pointed to the door, commanding me to vacate her airspace - like I was a task she wanted over and done with. Just a nuisance. Something that spoiled her day.

Nobody has ever mentioned my father. I can’t recall ever having one. It’s never bothered me. I suppose that is because I’ve only ever wondered about my mother. She is the one I remember.

Up until then, that moment when I knew for certain I’d never be going home, I had clung to the hope of a happy reunion. Like those tear-jerking moments you see on reality TV. It was what sustained