Deadly Harm

By Owen Mullen

Five years ago Mackenzie Darroch was abducted and held captive in a derelict house. She thought she'd found her way out of the darkness. She was wrong…

When Mackenzie witnesses a car crash and saves the driver’s life, it sets in motion a chain of events that will alter both their futures. The two women get involved in a high-profile police case which draws the attention of a ruthless reporter. Gina Calvi is convinced Mackenzie is not who she appears and is prepared to do anything to prove it.

Meanwhile, across the city, Kirsty McBride, a young single mother, is persuaded to leave a violent relationship. Her partner, Malkie Boyle a Glasgow hardman, is due to be released from prison. Once back on the street and bent on revenge, Boyle is determined to find the people responsible for stealing his family from him.

Can Mackenzie save them or will Boyle get his revenge?

Owen Mullen is a best-selling author of psychological and gangland thrillers. His fast-paced, twist-aplenty stories are perfect for all fans of Robert Galbraith, Ian Rankin and Ann Cleeves.

What readers say about Owen Mullen:

'Owen Mullen knows how to ramp up the action just when it’s needed… he never fails to give you hard-hitting thrillers that have moments that will stay with you forever...'

'One of the very best thriller writers I have ever read.'

'Owen Mullen writes a good story, he really brings his characters to life and the endings are hard to guess and never what you expected.'

• Language: English
• Publisher: Boldwood Books
• Release date: Mar 23, 2021
• ISBN: 9781801621069

Owen Mullen

Owen Mullen is a highly regarded crime author who lives in Scotland. In his earlier life he lived in London and worked as a musician and session singer.

Book preview

Women’s Refuge, Lennoxtown

Ten miles from Glasgow

The two women weren’t friends – a month earlier they hadn’t even known each other. They didn’t notice the cold yellow moon, hanging like a Christmas tree bauble in the clear sky above the Campsies, casting golden light over the hills; they had other things on their minds.

One had short blonde hair; her companion’s was long and dark. Neither was dressed appropriately for the task. The blonde – Caitlin – wore shoes with heels which sank into the soft ground. Her partner – Mackenzie – still had on her outfit from during the day. The differences between them were obvious but their fear was common. Their eyes were wild, the skin around them pale and tight as gossamer masks in the moonlight. They hardly spoke. When they did, it was in a whisper. They were scared and it showed.

Dragging the body to the bottom of the garden had sapped their strength before they’d even started to dig; adrenaline drove them on. The air carried the smell of wet grass and their spades struck the ground with quiet thuds, sliding into the damp soil, finding little resistance.

After forty weary minutes they had a glistening mound to show for their efforts. Caitlin stood under the trees, her shoes caked and heavy with earth, glancing anxiously towards the sandstone house. At any moment a face could appear at a window. If it did, life as they’d known it was over.

‘How deep does it need to be?’

Mackenzie didn’t raise her head – the question was beyond naïve. ‘Deep.’

Caitlin gushed nonsense. ‘I’ll go to the police. Maybe–’

‘Forget it.’

‘This wasn’t your fault. You–’

‘I said forget it.’

Mackenzie breathed heavily through her mouth. Andrew had been waiting with the news when they got back home from the coast. Awful news she’d tried not to think about. Now this.

A breeze rustled the branches of the trees above them. Mackenzie felt sweat drying on her brow. She closed her eyes, savouring the sensation. Panic was the enemy. No good lay down that road. Whatever story they gave the police wouldn’t save them now. Digging was their only hope.

She let her breath out slowly, forcing herself to stay calm. ‘We had that chance. It’s gone.’

‘But it’s the truth.’

‘Is it?’

‘You know it is.’

Mackenzie leaned on the spade, struggling to keep hold of her impatience. ‘I’ll tell you what I know. There’s a man with half a face lying in our garden. Explain that.’

‘I’ll tell them he attacked me.’

‘We discussed this. The way he died… they’ll never believe you.’ Mackenzie pointed to the trench at her feet. ‘And what’ll you say about this?’

Caitlin didn’t answer.

‘That’s what I thought.’ She stepped out of the grave. ‘Your turn.’

They’d arrived back at the refuge in the minibus, tired but happy. Apart from Sylvia, everyone had enjoyed themselves. Mackenzie was delighted; her idea of a day at the seaside had been a success. Then everything she’d put her faith in came crashing down.

Eating dinner with the others – carrying on as if nothing had happened – was out of the question. She’d stayed in her room, her face buried in a pillow, berating herself for interfering in somebody else’s life. Inevitably, as what she’d been told sank in, tears came. She let them.

That was how Caitlin had found her.

Mercifully, she hadn’t asked what was wrong, mistakenly assuming it had something to do with Andrew, and had left her alone. Long after Mackenzie heard the others saying goodnight, she went downstairs. The house was deserted, the kitchen in darkness. Without turning on the light, she’d poured a glass of water and drank greedily. Through the window a figure knelt on the grass. Mackenzie’s first thought had been Sylvia: the letter from her daughters had stunned the woman from Corstorphine, crushing her normally irrepressible spirit. She’d hardly said two words all day and been irritable whenever she did. Mackenzie had intended to speak to her again when they got home. But this wasn’t Sylvia.

Caitlin lay broken on the ground beside a body, sobbing.

‘What the hell’s going on?’

‘He was going to kill me.’

‘Who was? Who is this?’

‘It’s him. Peter.’ Her fingers almost tenderly traced the dead man’s shoulder. She held out her hands, pleading. ‘Please help me. Please.’

Mackenzie had put a comforting hand on her arm. ‘Okay. Okay. Let me think.’

But what was there to think about? The rest of this woman’s life was at stake. Even if by some miracle a jury found in her favour, nothing would ever be the same again – there would always be a question mark against her and the reputation of the refuge would be seriously damaged.

Caitlin’s voice was frail, childlike and trusting. ‘I’ll do anything, anything you say.’

The decision had come easily. Someone else had believed in her. Mackenzie had failed them. That wouldn’t happen a second time.

Caitlin’s back and shoulders ached, her arms were numb. ‘I should never have come here.’

‘Where else was there for you to go?’

‘I don’t know… somewhere far.’

‘Like where?’

No reply.

‘It was him or me.’

Spatters of blood and mud mixed with tears on Caitlin’s face.

‘And you won. Think yourself lucky. It could be you lying there.’

‘Don’t say it like that.’

‘How would you like me to say it?’

‘Not like that.’

Another spadeful came out of the ground, earth spilling off the blade, falling to where it had been. Caitlin choked back tears, whimpering like a child. ‘I didn’t mean to kill him. Really, I didn’t. I was so frightened I just couldn’t stop.’

‘You did what anyone would do. Defended yourself.’

Caitlin seized on the words. ‘I defended myself. That’s right. That’s right. The police–’

‘Deal in fact. The only fact that matters is over there with his head caved in.’

It sounded harsh. She meant it to be. Mackenzie pointed to the body on the ground – in the moonlight anyone might think the man was asleep. Until they saw the face, beaten to a bloody pulp – the nose broken; one eye caved in, the other sightlessly staring at the night sky.

How many times had Caitlin hit him?

The prosecution would hammer her with it until she was ready to confess to anything. Only someone who’d cracked could do that to another human being. Caitlin was on the edge, one sympathetic word is all it would take for her to lose it completely.

‘It’ll be all right.’

Mackenzie heard her empty platitude. Did she really believe that?

A cloud drifted across the moon, and for a moment the world went dark. When it moved on, nothing had changed – the grave and the man were still there. Suddenly, he moaned and Caitlin backed away, close to hysteria. ‘No. Nooo. Noooooo! He should be dead. He has to be dead.’

Mackenzie dropped the spade and slapped her face, hissing through her teeth. ‘Shut up. Shut up. Somebody will hear you.’

She swallowed and tried to stay calm. This couldn’t be happening. Just hours earlier they’d been laughing and singing in the minivan on their way to the seaside.

She forced herself to go to the injured man. He groaned a second time, his fingers quivering in the moonlight as if an electrical current was passing through him. Mackenzie had no pity for him. He’d come to kill Caitlin. Lain in wait for her. If the roles were reversed, would he hesitate? Mackenzie knew the answer.

Was she going to fail Caitlin like she’d failed Kirsty McBride?

Her chest tightened. Stopping wasn’t an option – they’d both go to prison – they had to finish this. Caitlin wasn’t up to it. She’d have to do it.

Mackenzie felt the half-brick’s roughness against her palm the moment before it crashed against his skull. The blow brought silence.

Seconds passed, then shock hit her and she wanted to be sick. Caitlin was sobbing. ‘I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.’

Mackenzie ignored her, searched his pockets and removed the wallet, mobile phone and car keys.

‘Help me lift him.’

‘I’m not sure I–’

‘Yeah, you can. Get hold of his legs.’

Caitlin hesitated; the woman was useless. Mackenzie snapped at her. ‘Get his fucking legs and let’s end this.’ She took the shoulders. ‘Christ, he’s heavy.’

Between them they dragged the body across the ground and rolled it into the hole. It landed with a muted thump. The bloodied rock with hairs sticking to it that had belonged to the dead man was thrown in after him, along with the brick. Caitlin shivered, shocked by what they’d done.

‘Don’t look at him.’

‘I can’t help it.’

‘Yes, you can. Remember what he did to you and what he was going to do. He got what he deserved. Now, pull yourself together and start filling this in.’

By the time they’d finished, their hands were raw and blistered. Mackenzie threw her spade on the ground, physically and emotionally drained. But they’d succeeded. No-one had seen them. Out of the corner of her eye, something moved at a window on the first floor. Dread gripped her. She looked again. Nothing. Just a trick of the light.

‘You did well.’

‘Did I?’

‘Yes, it’s over.’

Caitlin shook her head. ‘No it isn’t. It’ll never be over. Not for me.’

Part I

1

A Month Earlier

The black car came from nowhere and flashed past, throwing up spray from the wet road, dousing the windscreen in water. For a scary moment, Mackenzie couldn’t see. She tapped the brake, her hands tight on the steering wheel. Then the wipers did their job and she was back in control in time to witness the red taillights disappear into the darkness.

There had been nothing in her mirror. So how fast was it travelling?

Simple answer: too fast.

Not clever. This was a well-known blackspot; people were killed on this stretch every year. Whoever was behind the wheel might be drunk. Although, since zero tolerance was introduced, that was less common in Scotland. More likely it was some middle-aged boy racer playing out his midlife crisis.

The clock on the dashboard showed ten minutes to one in the morning, these days later than Mackenzie would normally be out. She ran weary fingers through her hair, catching herself on the edge of resentment. But what was there to resent? She was run down and a little bit sorry for herself, no more than that. She’d survived. Better than survived. Now she had the purpose she’d lacked – and there had been no dreams in almost three years.

Mackenzie had needed more. And she’d found it in the eyes of the women who stayed there. From a terrible ordeal – one that had so nearly destroyed her – she’d fashioned something good, extending the house in the shadow of the Campsies to accommodate twelve guests. Victims who’d suffered as she’d suffered had a roof over their heads and, more importantly, after what they’d been through, a chance to get their lives together in a safe space. It currently had eleven residents, all at different stages of rebuilding the confidence ground out of them. Mackenzie’s mood started to lighten. She could be proud of what she’d achieved. Except, running the refuge for thirty-six months virtually alone had left her drained.

Her thoughts wandered to where she’d spent the evening, smiling at the memory: she’d got her big sister back. Adele was her best friend again. Five years earlier, when Mackenzie told her she was sure she was being stalked, Adele had accused her of looking for attention – in light of what was to come, a terrible error. At the time, the wound was deep. The family was split and might not have got over it if Mackenzie hadn’t had her eyes opened to the part her drinking had played. Selfish and erratic, she’d been hard to be around. With the best will, a difficult person to trust.

Yet good had come from bad – they were closer than they’d ever been, understanding each other better than they had. The catch-up had gone well, so well that in the end, Mackenzie was reluctant to leave. In a strange way, Adele – divorced and bitter – had suffered most, still beating herself up over not believing her.

Mackenzie reached to turn the radio on when a shape appeared in the distance on the other side of the road, half in the trees – the car that had raced past a few miles back. Mackenzie drew in to the side, got out and ran towards it as rain fell in a thin steady drizzle, landing on her hair and her cheeks; she barely noticed.

It was a Mercedes. Or at least it had been: the hood was bent and twisted towards the night sky. Steam rose from the mangled radiator under the collapsed front end jammed against a tree that had taken the impact, tilted, and held firm. A section of bark shaved off in the collision was pale in the glow of the only remaining headlight, while shards of shattered windscreen shone diamond-bright against what was left of the black bonnet. The nearside tyre – blown and useless – rested on a nest of snakes which, in the morning, would be a clump of roots torn from the ground. And above it all, the monotone wail of the horn, loud and ominous.

She looked over her shoulder, hoping another vehicle would arrive, knowing they were well beyond the city and the road was deserted. At this time there would be few cars. She was on her own.

Mackenzie approached cautiously, afraid of what she might find. The driver’s door was open and an arm stuck out. The figure behind the wheel was pinned by the airbag which had engaged as it was supposed to, cushioning the full force of the collision. Mackenzie fought off panic and patted her coat pockets for her mobile, then remembered it was in the well of her car.

The figure groaned and she saw the face – a woman’s face – cut and bruised and battered.

But alive.

The next minutes were vital. Later, Mackenzie would have no memory of them, never knowing where she’d found the strength to pull her onto the verge, recalling only the smell of petrol and the terrifying realisation they had to get further away. Dragging the woman was almost impossible; she was too heavy. Her eyes fluttered open, immediately filled with fear and confusion. ‘…What?… What?’

‘We can’t stay here. It isn’t safe. Can you walk?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Can you try? You have to try. Lean on me.’

Together, they stumbled across the road. At the door of Mackenzie’s car they looked back, sensing what would come. For seconds the air seemed charged with energy and the rain stopped falling. Then the petrol tank exploded, sending metal and glass into the night. The women turned away from the blast. When they looked again, yellow serpents had already begun stripping the chassis to the aluminium bones, shadows danced on the branches of the trees whipped by a wind that had suddenly appeared. And the rain returned, renewed and relentless.

They’d come close to death. Mackenzie helped the stranger into her passenger seat, found her mobile and picked it up. ‘I’m calling the police.’

The reaction was unexpected and impassioned. ‘No! No! Not the police. Please don’t bring them into it.’

‘We don’t have a choice.’ Mackenzie pointed to the burning carcass. ‘We have to report it. You should get to a hospital.’

‘I’m all right. I just need to get away.’

‘How can you be sure? There could be internal bleeding.’

‘I’m okay.’

‘That’s your decision, but we have to phone the police.’

Light from the flames lent the rapture of a martyr to the woman’s features. Until she spoke and the illusion shattered. Her voice was empty, no salvation in it. ‘Then you might as well have left me where I was.’

Her certainty shocked Mackenzie.

‘What do you mean? I don’t understand.’

‘If he finds where I am, he’ll kill me. He’s already tried.’

She lifted her head and turned so Mackenzie could see the blackened half-closed eye, the purple swellings and cuts on her cheek, and the yellow gouges flecked with red on her throat. She’d assumed the injuries had come from the collision with the tree. They hadn’t.

‘Who tried?’

‘My husband.’

‘Why?’

‘Because he’s crazy.’

‘Is this the first time?’

The woman laughed and didn’t answer.

‘Did you report him?’

‘What good would that do? He’d deny it and things would be even worse.’

‘Why didn’t you leave him?’

The question wasn’t worth answering. ‘Just drive, will you? Drop me off wherever you like, doesn’t matter where.’

Reluctantly, Mackenzie started the engine. ‘You still need somebody to look at you. With the shock you’ve had you can’t–’

‘Listen,’ the voice was weak but insistent, ‘right now my priority is to get away as fast and as far as I can.’

Mackenzie dropped into first gear. In the mirror, fanned by the wind, the blaze had burned so quickly the fire was already dying. They’d been lucky. Another few minutes and it would’ve had them.

‘I should thank you.’

‘No need.’

‘You saved my life.’

‘Anybody would’ve done the same.’

‘Wish you hadn’t bothered.’

Mackenzie heard the defeat and identified with it. ‘Been in a few bad places myself. If I learned one thing, it’s that nothing’s so bad it can’t be sorted.’

‘My bag! Where’s my bag?’

‘I didn’t see a bag. Was there anything important in it?’

‘Only everything I have.’

Mackenzie didn’t know what to say; another blow to an already shattered woman. The passenger stared into the night and she decided against mentioning the hospital again. They drove in silence, past a sign with directions to Kirkintilloch and Lenzie.

‘What’s your name?’

‘I appreciate what you did for me back there, but in a couple of miles I’m getting out and you’ll never see me again, so why ask?’

‘Tell me your name.’

‘What difference will telling you my name make?’

‘No difference. Tell me anyway.’

‘…Caitlin.’

‘You don’t want to talk about it, I understand.’

Caitlin shot a glance at Mackenzie. ‘There’s nothing to say. I’m a lousy judge of men.’ She winced and touched her chest. ‘I made a mistake and I’m paying for it.’

‘Join the club. Compared to me, you’re playing in the second division.’

The confession took the other woman by surprise. ‘You don’t seem the type.’

‘And what type is that, exactly?’

‘The type who makes one stupid decision after another.’

The flicker of a smile appeared and disappeared at the corners of Mackenzie’s mouth. ‘Oh, I qualify, believe me. You’re in better company than you realise.’ She sensed an opening. ‘Seriously, my advice would be to get checked out by a doctor and call the police. Today rather than tomorrow.’

Fear and desolation poured off her. ‘I can’t. I just can’t.’

‘I can offer you a bed for the night if it’s any use. Unless you have other plans.’

‘I’ll take it.’

The volcanic rocks of the Campsie Hills were sleeping black dogs against the night sky. Mackenzie parked at the side of the house and helped Caitlin out of the car. Rain matted her hair, plastering it to her head, and in the half-light her cheeks were hollow and ashen. They staggered, arms round each other like drunk men on their way home from a session. At the back door, Mackenzie took a key from her bag. Caitlin slumped against the frame, grateful for its support, her arms cradling her ribs.

‘Feel like I’ve been kicked by a horse.’

‘Are you all right?’

‘Just a bit shaky.’

Mackenzie didn’t believe her. ‘Sure it’s not more than that? It really would be better–’

‘No. He’ll check the hospitals.’

Mackenzie let it go.

The lock released with a click and they stumbled inside. She switched on the light and eased Caitlin into a chair. The kitchen was bright and welcoming, the dying embers of a coal fire slowly devouring each other in the hearth in the middle of one wall. Against another, an ancient Welsh dresser held rows of blue-and-white plates and a wooden table, knotted and unvarnished, dominated the centre of the room. Two loaves covered by a checked tea towel sat at the end; the smell of freshly baked bread filled the air.

‘Is this where you stay?’

‘Yes.’

‘Big, isn’t it?’

‘Not big enough, unfortunately. Often wish it was twice the size.’

‘Why?’

‘Because I don’t live here alone, it’s a refuge.’

‘A refuge, what do you mean? Who for?’

‘Women like you. Like us. Women who have nowhere else to go.’

‘And you’re the boss?’

Mackenzie laughed. ‘There isn’t a boss.’

‘But it’s your house, you own it?’

‘I don’t think of it as mine.’ She saw the question in her guest’s tired eyes. ‘As for being the boss… I’ll explain after I’ve made tea. Though, maybe you need something stronger?’

She took a bottle of Johnnie Walker from a drawer in the dresser and poured a stiff measure.

---

Caitlin watched the amber climb the inside of the tumbler. Since losing control of the car on the wet road, she’d been running on adrenaline, unaware how badly she’d been affected. Now, trauma was beginning to register: she shivered, suddenly cold, her joints aching. The alcohol couldn’t have come at a better time.

‘Be careful with that. Sip it.’

Caitlin held the whisky in both hands to stop them shaking. ‘What about you?’

‘I don’t drink. We keep it for emergencies.’

‘Emergencies like me, you mean?’

‘Hardly. With a house full of women, we’re not short of drama.’

The new loaf was still warm. Mackenzie cut into it and took her first real look at the frightened woman who’d almost driven her off the road a lifetime ago: under short blonde hair, the face – swollen, cut and discoloured – made it impossible to guess her age. Somewhere in her early thirties, maybe. The black eye didn’t help. Imagining her without it wasn’t easy. Remarkably, her injuries appeared to be limited to cuts and bruises, though not calling the police had definitely been a mistake, one Mackenzie hoped they wouldn’t regret.

2

The lady who had come into her life tonight was a victim, something she understood only too well: the eye was the least of it. Whoever did this had heard her cries and kept hitting her.

Another bastard!

Mackenzie filled the kettle. ‘Ready for that tea?’

Maybe the simple kindness was too much or maybe it was the sheer ordinariness of the question that tipped her over the edge: the tumbler fell from her hands and shattered on the flagstone floor, sending whisky and tiny shards in all directions across the kitchen as unhappiness broke her. Caitlin bent forward in her chair, silently rocking, her face twisted in despair. Mackenzie held her until she stopped trembling, whispering, ‘It’s all right. It’s okay. You’re safe now.’

‘Am I? Am I?’

‘Of course you are. Safe as houses.’

The tears came again; Mackenzie let her cry herself out. When the weeping stopped she said, ‘Keeping it inside is the worst thing you can do. Even if you don’t want to, I think you should talk about it.’

Caitlin sobbed. ‘You’re right. I need to face this.’

‘I’ll get you another drink.’

‘No. Let me say it before I change my mind.’ She took a deep breath. ‘It took less than a week to realise I’d made a terrible mistake. Our honeymoon was a nightmare. His mood changed the moment we left the reception. From then on, everything I said, everything I did, was wrong. As though I’d stopped existing. Now I was his, he owned me. I was a possession. Sex was loveless and totally degrading, as if I was only there to be used.’

‘Why didn’t you divorce him?’ She already knew.

Caitlin ran her fingers through her wet hair. ‘I… I couldn’t… find the courage. So I told myself a fairy tale. Peter loved me – of course he loved me. It was early days. We needed time to adjust. It would get better. But it didn’t, it got worse. In public he put on a great act. As soon as we were alone…’ Her breath came in heartbreaking sobs. ‘Why ask me to marry him if he hated me? Why would anybody do that?’

‘Some people don’t have relationships, they take hostages.’

Mackenzie put her hand on Caitlin’s arm and let her cry it out.

Finally, Caitlin said, ‘Tonight I stopped kidding myself. We were in a restaurant in Glasgow. Peter was drinking heavily. I’d seen him like that often enough to know it would end with him using me as his punching bag. And I was right. As soon as we got home, he started. In the past I’d just taken it. Not this time. When he fell asleep, I stole his car keys and got out of there.’

‘What were you doing on the Strathblane Road? Where were you heading?’

Caitlin shrugged. ‘I was just trying to get away. I’d no idea where I was.’

‘Do you remember overtaking me?’

‘No.’

‘Well, you did. God knows how fast you were going.’

Caitlin grimaced and Mackenzie saw the pain on her face. ‘Let me look at that.’

She lifted her torn blouse. Underneath, from her breasts to her belly, was black and blue. She’d witnessed this or something like it more times than she could recall: it didn’t get any easier. She pressed gently. ‘Doesn’t feel like anything’s broken. I’ll bandage it up. How could you drive in this state?’

‘Didn’t have a choice. I was so scared none of it registered until the car skidded and hit the tree. Then I woke up on the ground with you standing over me.’

‘It’s a miracle you weren’t killed.’

‘At least it would be over.’

The fire dwindled in the hearth. Mackenzie said, ‘Is there anybody I could contact?’

‘Nobody.’

‘There must be somebody, surely?’

‘There isn’t. I’m an only child and my parents are dead.’

Mackenzie sighed. ‘It isn’t too late to go to the police.’

The suggestion brought a sad smile. ‘Yes, it is. It was too late the second he decided I was going to be his. You don’t know him… he’s obsessed. He’ll follow me wherever I go and won’t give up until he finds me. I shouldn’t have dragged you into this, I’m sorry.’

‘No need to apologise. You didn’t drag me into anything. I’m glad I was there. Would you like another whisky?’

Caitlin shook her head. ‘No thanks. I’ll stick with tea.’

‘The best thing we can do is get you up to bed. We can talk in the morning. You must be exhausted.’

They climbed the stairs to the first floor. On the landing, Mackenzie whispered, ‘This is part of the original house. I’m just next door. If you’re unwell, don’t hesitate. Wake me up.’

‘I will.’

Mackenzie doubted it. Breaking away from an abusive relationship took courage. This woman had that and more, enough guts to steal the bastard’s car. They hugged before going their separate ways. Caitlin held on to her a moment longer. ‘Thanks again. If you hadn’t come along …’

Mackenzie smiled. ‘But I did, that’s all that matters. You’re safe and you’ll stay safe. Sleep well.’

Caitlin’s fingers found the light and switched it on: dark wood furniture she guessed had been here for years filled the room. Pictures hung on walls painted magnolia like a seaside B&B, the impression reinforced by the IN CASE OF FIRE instructions on the back of the door. She went to the window and gazed into the darkness. Somewhere out there, Peter was sleeping it off. It would be morning before he realised she was gone. His reaction was easy to predict. He’d rage and scream and smash things like he always did.

Tonight was the turning point – the last straw. She’d lain until he was asleep and began her escape. Getting caught wasn’t an option. Despite what he’d said, he’d never let her walk away. She’d crept into the room and stood for a moment by the side of the bed, listening to his snores echo through the empty house. Caitlin had considered smothering him, but decided she wasn’t strong enough. Though, after the degrading and humiliating things he’d done to her, he deserved it. Sober or drunk, Peter Sanderson was an animal.

In his inside jacket pocket she’d found the money he’d won, considered taking it all and changed her mind, settling for half, then unzipped a canvas bag and stuffed the notes in the bottom beside jeans and