Farewell From London: Sandra Cho's Mystery Series, #1

By Ana Dylott

Battling with sudden separation, Sandra Cho received motivational strength from a mysterious caller. 
But it has gotten out of hand. Who could that be?  What will she do?

Follow Sandra as she navigates through the muddy waters of church and relationships in her quest for answers. 

Farewell From London is the beginning of Sandra's Cho mystery series.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Ana Dylott
• Release date: May 5, 2020
• ISBN: 9798642207413

Book preview

Chapter One

He’s Gone …

My phone alit with a new text message: Chin up!

Weird, I thought. Random text message from a total stranger. At least it was nice.

What’s that? Imogen asked. Don’t tell me it’s Michael wanting to know where you are.

No, it’s random. Wrong number I guess.

The cocktail glasses clinked as my friend Rachel and Imogen giggled. You are so lucky you know, Imogen said. The gorgeous husband, the kid, the flat in Paddington. I’m jealous and I don’t even like kids. She giggled, a little tipsy.

I laughed and agreed. Michael was gorgeous beyond belief, and even though we’d just been married 10 and a half years, it felt like we’d only gotten married yesterday. Something was strange though, something I couldn’t put my finger on.

He’d been acting strangely lately. Checking his phone, working late.

What is it Sandra? You look like you’re a million miles away.

Huh? I looked up. Oh I guess I was. Just thinking about Andrew.

Typical mother. You would be thinking about him. Imogen said.

Rachel shook her head. She’s maternal, that’s all. We all get broody sometimes.

I shot her a smile of gratitude and sipped more of my espresso martini.

The kid’s like twelve years old and a genius. He’s probably already gotten into Cambridge by now. Imogen said.

He’s ten, I said, And Cambridge has shortlisted him. It’s Oxford we’re waiting on.

Rachel and Imogen looked me. I stared at them, dead serious. Then I giggled. Just kidding.

The girls laughed and we drank some more. It was nice to have a girls’ night out.

The cocktail bar we were huddled in was smart, with attractive cream leather seats, private booths for gossip or snuggling, and a hip art deco theme. No doubt popular for hen nights and stag dos, as evidenced by the group of people dressed in 1920’s garb perched at the bar.

Not me, Imogen said, I’m staying single til I die. She raised her glass, and we followed suit. To singledom and happiness.

Rachel shot me a look. You can stay single, I’ll stick with a good job. I’m happy with that.

To happiness. I said, clinking my glass against theirs.

A few hours later I took the tube and stumbled home, wavering along the sidewalk. I checked my watch, a gift from Michael. A silver AK watch with diamonds around the rim.

I stumbled back to the little mews where our flat was tucked away. It was a little attached terrace we shared with a few other houses in the block. We were located on a little side street that I’d come to love. At first I wasn’t sure about living in the city, especially so far away from my home in Hertfordshire, but I’d grown to love it.

The warm May evening blew a gentle wind across my face as I teetered up the steps to our flat and rummaged in my handbag for the keys. I’d just gotten the key into the lock when the door swung open.

Michael stood in the doorway. His stance was stiff, as if he expected to fight a bear. He glared down at me from within. You’re late, he hissed, Andrew’s asleep. I expected you home hours ago.

What? I looked at him and waited a beat. Was he going to let me inside our house?

Our eyes met, and his burned with anger. A moment later he stepped aside.

My drunken giddiness gone, I was now stone cold sober. I walked inside. I’m sorry. I said.

Didn’t you see my texts? he asked.

Huh? I closed the door behind me and I looked down in my blue suede handbag. I picked up my phone and once I’d unlocked the screen I saw in a blue light: 7 unread text messages. 4 missed calls.

Oh. I’m sorry. I didn’t see them. I said.

He shook his head. You’re so irresponsible some times. I come home and find—never mind. Just sit down.

What’s wrong? Why are you mad?

I’m mad because I wanted you to be home tonight. Like a wife is supposed to be.

This was my first girls’ night out in months. I told you where I was going tonight. I said.

You sound like you’re accusing me, when you’re the one who’s been out all night.

I stared at him. I didn’t know what to say. Why are you so mad? I was only out for a drink with the girls.

Ha, Rachel and Imogen? Please. They’re a bad influence.

They’re my friends.

I don’t care. I don’t like you hanging out with them. You’re a mother, Sandra, not a socialite. You shouldn’t be drinking like this.

I blinked, stunned. He made it sound like I had a drinking problem, when this was probably the most alcohol I’d had in four months.

Then I noticed a suitcase standing by the door. I said, What is that?

He started and said, What does it look like?

My hands shook. I gripped the soft brown sofa to keep them from showing. Where are you going?

Berlin. I’ve taken a posting out there.

For how long? I asked.

I don’t know. A couple months.

A couple months? I repeated, my voice going shrill. Why didn’t you tell me?

It’s my job. I have to go. You know that.

When did you find out?

He turned away, and even in the dim glow of the lamplight to my left, I could see the red flush on his face. A month ago.

You didn’t tell me. I accused.

I don’t have to tell you everything that goes on in my life.

I was ready to cry. I blinked hard and said, You should when it affects me and Andrew. What are we going to do?

His laugh was cruel. I don’t know. Get a job maybe? You lived off your parents for years and now you’ve been living off of me. I’m sick of it. I’m leaving. He put on his jacket.

I rose to my feet. Michael—

"Don’t. I want a divorce.

The words stopped me cold. What?

You heard me. I said I want a divorce. This isn’t working out, Sandra.

But… my mind reeled in a thousand directions. We’re married. We’re a team. We have to make this work.

He looked at me, and his look was tired. No, we don’t. Sometimes things just don’t work out. It happens.

But Michael what about me? What about Andrew? You can’t just leave us. What am I going to tell him?

He shrugged. So dismissive, as if he didn’t know and didn’t care.

My cheeks were wet. Tears ran freely down my skin. Was it me? What did I do?

Nothing. You did nothing. I just…. I thought that when I came here, that I’d meet a girl and do the right thing. But now… I don’t love you Sandra. Not anymore. I need to figure something out, for myself.

What are you saying?

I need a break. Away from you. He buttoned up his jacket and leaned down to take the plastic handle of his roller suitcase.

His expression was dark. I was going to tell you over dinner tonight, you and Andrew but never mind.

He sneered at my petite body, curvy and stuffed in too tight jeans and a cute top from about two years ago. You smell like alcohol and KFC.

We stopped on the way back for some food. I said.

You’re not going to starve anytime soon. Why don’t you go on a diet?

I gaped at him. Michael.

He shook his head. I’m done.

Michael please, don’t go. I said, grabbing hold of his jacket sleeve.

He looked down at me, his eyes cold.

I’ll change, I promise. Just tell me what to do. I said.

He took my hand off, gently. Somehow that made it worse. Like a stranger or an adult dealing with a misbehaving child.

That’s just it, Sandra. You always need me to tell you what to do. You need me. You rely on me for everything, but you’re smothering me. his face turned red.

What? How am I smothering you?

I’m going. He walked past me and opened the door. I want a divorce. I’ve left the papers on the table.

And he walked out, with the door wide open. The night