What Did I Do?: Gripping psychological suspense from the best-selling author of 'When I Wake Up'

By Jessica Jarlvi

'Jessica Jarlvi is a hugely talented writer and definitely one to watch' SOPHIE HANNAH.
I CAN'T REMEMBER...

Kristin is on the run. From her life. From herself.
When two murders take place in Chicago, Kristin quickly finds herself a prime suspect. The problem is she can't be sure of what she did or didn't do.

DID THEY MAKE ME DO IT?

In fear for her life, Kristin flees abroad to start her life over. But it's not that easy to escape the past. And whatever she's done, someone is on her tail, wanting her to pay. The question is: could she be a killer and not even remember?

Page-turning, gripping, dark, and utterly addictive, this is one thriller that you won't be able to put down. Perfect for fans of Cara Hunter, Mark Edwards and Caroline England.
Praise for What Did I Do:

'This booked kept me up way into the small hours' Elaine Lydon, NetGalley.
'This book was insanely good and I loved it from beginning to end' Simra Sadif, NetGalley.
'It's gripping and gritty, dark and intense' Lucii Grubb, NetGalley.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Bloomsbury Publishing
• Release date: May 1, 2018
• ISBN: 9781786695468

Jessica Jarlvi

Born in Sweden, Jessica moved to London at the age of 18 to obtain a BSc Hons degree in Publishing and Business. She worked in publishing in the UK for a number of years before heading to Chicago where she edited a magazine for expats. Back in Sweden, she completed a Masters in Creative Writing. Since 2010, Jessica has taught journalism and media at a local university, and has spent the last five years as the marketing and PR manager for a British firm. Last year, she was one of the winners in the Montegrappa Prize for First Fiction at the Emirates Airline Festival of Literature. Jessica is married with three spirited children, and although she's known for her positivity, her writing tends to be rather dark!

Book preview

Prologue

It was dark and the concrete beneath her was cold. She pulled her legs up; hid them under her skirt, swallowed, willing the taste of blood to go away.

‘Can you tell the children it’s time to eat?’

Mother’s muffled voice travelled down through the ceiling, a waft of stew making its way downstairs, but her stomach didn’t rumble. She was too preoccupied with listening.

‘I can’t find them,’ Father said.

As if he’d even looked. They probably didn’t know where her siblings were – they never did – but she wanted to shout: you should know that I’m here! Yet she didn’t make a noise. She stayed where she was, waiting, shaking. She hugged herself tightly, her dry eyes burrowed into hard knees.

‘Have you looked in the garden?’ Mother asked.

‘I don’t know where they are,’ Father insisted, and a short but intense verbal exchange erupted. She listened as his steps moved towards the front door, heard the bang when it shut behind him. Only then did she move. Knees scraped against the floor. Slowly, so as not to give away a sound, she crawled up the stairs. At the top she cautiously opened the door, the smell of food mixing with the crispness of Clorox. In the kitchen, pots were clattering.

She limped to the bathroom.

Before Mother saw her.

Before Mother looked away.

Before Mother understood.

Part 1

Home is where you hang your hat

English proverb

Chapter 1

Kristin

May 2017

Kristin is on the run. From her life. From herself.

Sitting in a spacious one-bedroom apartment thousands of miles away from the Chicago trailer where her life was turned upside down, she tries to remember what happened, if only to torment herself. It had been an ordinary Wednesday, her routine the same as every other day, cooking a laborious ‘wholesome’ meal for her husband: stew with cubes of beef and pre-cut vegetables. All details aren’t completely clear, however. Seven months have passed since the quiet dinner with Brandon became bedlam; the suppressed silence disturbed by his beer bottle falling to the floor, his big hairy hand rising up, grabbing his own neck. The wheezing and the terrified bloodshot eyes.

‘Brandon, are you okay?’ she stupidly asked.

Of course, he wasn’t okay. Across the table, his wide eyes stared at her, begging for help. She stood up abruptly, her head hitting the white enamel ceiling lamp, just as Brandon’s large body slid off the vinyl seat. He landed with a thud next to the broken beer bottle, his well-worn jeans absorbing the oozing malt liquid. His skin was turning red, the rash spreading like wildfire.

‘I sprang into action,’ she told the police later. The rickety table had surely vibrated as she jumped past it and onto Brandon? ‘I called his name and hit his back.’

Did she act quickly enough? That question was asked over and over. Did she do what she could have, to save him?

‘Yes,’ she said.

At least that’s how she remembers it. She worries that she may have altered the movie that repeatedly runs in her head.

‘I scanned the kitchen for my phone,’ she explained. ‘It was together with my charger in a basket on the counter top.’

That’s the clearest memory of all: the shining kitchen surfaces, gleaming from her incessant cleaning. There was no evidence of cooking, the blood from the meat soaked up by a sponge, any oily stains attacked by her antibacterial spray. She had stood back and admired her handiwork.

‘I ran to pick up my phone and unlocked the screen,’ she said.

The 911 call was recorded and replayed.

‘My husband seems to have choked on something,’ she could be heard saying on the tape, the static interference making it sound as if the words were said long ago, in another time. ‘Now he’s on the floor. Come help, quickly. Please.’

Her voice was calm; too calm for their liking apparently, although she thought the urgency in her voice was noticeable. She rattled off the address at the trailer park and while an ambulance made its way, questions were asked about allergies. Before she knew it, she had grabbed the EpiPen from the bathroom cabinet but she wasn’t sure how to use it. She was still holding it when the paramedics arrived. Someone snatched it out of her hand and jammed it into Brandon’s leg. The feeling of failure makes a momentary comeback.

A paramedic even insulted her by asking if she had been drinking.

‘No,’ she said.

No alcohol for her. She had wanted to keep a clear head.

‘You cooked this meal?’

‘Yes.’

Both paramedics talked while they worked, which she found distracting. Maybe that’s why it’s difficult to remember everything. Too much happened at once.

‘Did you include anything in this meal that he’s allergic to?’ they said.

The air in the trailer was thick at this point and she hesitated before she replied. This she remembers, because every head in the room suddenly turned in her direction and she hurriedly said, ‘No.’

‘You sure?’ the female paramedic asked, her greasy hair glistening in the light.

Kristin confirmed that she was sure. She must have, but this is one of those moments where reality and fiction merge. What did she really say? If anything?

She rests her head in her hands and looks at the communal garden below her window. It looks serene with its swaying birch trees but also strangely unreal. Is she even here, in Sweden of all places, or is she dreaming?

That’s her cue to look at the enamel ceiling light hanging over her brand-new kitchen table. This lamp is the only item she packed in her suitcase. It took up most of the space and required new wiring upon arrival, but she needed it to serve as a reminder of the chaos that swept through her old Chicago home. She pushes the lacquered surface gently, watching the light sway from side to side, thinking of the beer bottle crashing, Brandon’s hand around his neck, his body down.

It really did happen. He was removed from the trailer and placed in an ambulance. Curious neighbours watched her as she climbed in at the back. There, she held her husband’s hand, her body swerving along with the traffic, the sirens blaring loudly.

‘I love you,’ she told him over and over, loud enough for the paramedics to hear, their suspicious glances unnerving her.

She cried. Her cheeks were wet for sure because Brandon had been her saviour once. But at the hospital, his unkempt beard and closed eyes were placed on a white pillow, and that was where it ended. He would neither love nor harm anyone ever again. He was lifeless.

She’s not sure how long she stayed at the hospital.

‘Did they light a candle for him?’ his mother asked.

‘I don’t think so.’

It felt as if there was little respect for her loss.

‘It was busy,’ she probably said.

Everyone rushed around in sterile uniforms and when it was time for her to leave, she was simply given a bag with Brandon’s belongings. His watch; the bent leather wallet that was always tucked into his back pocket; the snakeskin cowboy boots; the plain wedding ring and a gold necklace that used to hide within his dark chest hair. Holding the bag with the few items made her feel as if he were leaving with her, holding her hand.

Now she keeps her eyes on the lamp, reminding herself that he didn’t go with her. He really is dead and here, across the Atlantic, she is safe.

No one will find her. Just to make sure this is so, she checks her emails. That’s the safest way of communicating with anyone, should she wish to. But as a precaution she changes her VPN to make it seem as if she’s still in Chicago. Opening her inbox, there’s only one email and it’s from her former mother-in-law. It’s short and succinct:

I hope you rot in hell.

Chapter 2

Frank

October 2016

Frank and Birgitta were on a weekend retreat, their legs wrapped around each other, Frank deeply thrusting into his wife, when the phone call arrived. Did they know where their son was? They realised that they hadn’t seen him for a few days before they left but that wasn’t unusual. He would sometimes go off with friends they’d never met and, although they probably should have been more vigilant, he was the youngest and the one they had been the least controlling of.

They threw their clothes and toiletries into the overnight Louis Vuitton bags and rushed home in a panic, speeding on the highway and through every tollbooth; the details of what was going on not completely clear. All they knew was that a neighbour had raised the alarm that something terrible might have happened to their son, Anders.

‘Before we go into further details, we need you to come home,’ they were told.

‘They must be mistaken,’ Frank kept saying in the car.

He was racking his brain. Where could Anders have been? Who could he have been with? Why would they think he was hurt?

‘He’s still not answering his phone,’ Birgitta said. She had tried calling him a million times.

‘Is it even ringing?’

‘No.’

Frank slammed the steering wheel, frustrated. His son was fine. Of course, he was.

‘We should have demanded to meet his friends,’ Birgitta said. ‘Then we would know who to call now.’

‘We shouldn’t have let him have all those tattoos and piercings,’ Frank said. ‘That’s attracted bad company.’ He stopped himself from adding: if only you hadn’t been so relaxed about it. There was little point arguing. They needed to stick together now. ‘He’s okay,’ Frank repeated over and over. ‘He’s okay.’

Anders was the only child they had left. Their older son, who was fiercely independent, had already moved out and practically vanished, only making the occasional phone call, while their daughter’s psychological issues had kept her away.

That left Anders. With or without his body art, he was the one who made them feel as if they were still a family unit.

*

By the time they arrived back at the Winnetka house, ambulance and police cars were parked by the entrance, making it impossible for Frank to even access his garage. It didn’t matter. The sight of the emergency vehicles was terrifying and Frank simply left the car outside the gate as the two of them ran inside, the trail of people leading them down to the lakefront.

They only stopped when they saw the divers pulling a pale body out of the water, unable to move any closer for fear of what they might witness.

‘Oh, dear God,’ Birgitta said, grabbing hold of his arm.

‘Let’s not jump to any conclusions,’ Frank said, attempting to keep his voice steady.

It’s someone else.

Many people died in Lake Michigan every year. Frank knew the statistics. Twenty-five people had tragically ended their lives in the lake the year before, and it was likely to be even higher this year. His son would not be one of them.

From where they stood, the body was barely recognisable, the waxy skin making the person resemble a doll, or a ghost, or, at the very least, someone else. Not their child.

The sun was glittering on the lake, appearing as if this were any other autumn Sunday. Yet here they stood, watching a lifeless person be carried across their property.

At that moment, an arm pulled away from the body, detaching with ease like clay, and Birgitta screamed.

‘The body is fragile after spending time in the water,’ someone said, or whispered or shouted.

Stop talking! Frank couldn’t focus on anything but the figure on the stretcher drawing closer. His son’s face was thin. As Frank leaned forward, he could tell that this one was swollen. Yet somewhere, below the wet streaky hair, he couldn’t deny the resemblance to Anders.

‘No,’ he said, shaking his head. No.

His son was about to turn nineteen. This couldn’t possibly be happening. Birgitta clutched his arm. He had almost forgotten her presence but now he pulled her closer, her almost silent tears soaking through his shirt.

‘Is it really him?’ Birgitta sobbed.

‘Yes,’ he whispered. As much as he wanted to, he couldn’t deny it.

Frank felt Birgitta’s body weaken in his arms and he held on harder, afraid that he would disintegrate if she let go. This wasn’t fair. Life wasn’t fair. As Frank stood there holding onto his wife, his brain was shutting down; he was frozen in disbelief, his emotions getting the better of him. Everything seemed pointless. The large mansion-like house behind them, their perfect home, was insignificant. The money he had worked hard to earn for his family no longer mattered. It was all trivial compared to this. What was happening to their lives? They had harboured such hope for the future. Once upon a time, they had left Sweden for the US because this was where dreams came true. ‘Anders was a miracle,’ he said, his mouth pressed against Birgitta’s hair.

He had been the unexpected addition to their family that had made Frank feel complete: a colicky baby they’d hired a nurse to assist with.

‘He was a quiet and gentle boy,’ Birgitta said.

That had been true once. He hadn’t been boisterous like his older brother, but fragile and always crying, Anders had only become stronger and more opinionated with age, making him increasingly hard to control.

‘I don’t think I can let go,’ Frank said. ‘I can’t.’

Just the thought of it brought on a new wave of sorrow. His children had all grown up too fast. Why couldn’t they stay little forever? He had probably worked too much during their formative years… it made him feel guilty.

They struggled to keep up behind the stretcher. As their feet stumbled around the corner of the house to the driveway, Anders was carefully moved into one of the many vehicles.

‘Where are they taking him?’ Birgitta asked, her voice faltering.

She burrowed her head deeper into his chest, and Frank thought: Should I want to touch him, to make sure he really isn’t breathing?

‘They’re not going to revive him,’ he said, the realisation only just dawning on him.

Anders’s body was headed for a morgue, not a resuscitation scenario at a hospital. Nothing could save him. His son really was gone. The tightness across Frank’s ribcage made it hard to breathe. He couldn’t bear it. Now it would only be the two of them, him and Birgitta, in this big empty house. He collapsed onto the tiles, the ones he had carefully chosen together with his son, a few months previously.

‘Frank,’ Birgitta cried. ‘Please don’t. Get up! Please.’

But he couldn’t. His family was in pieces. Someone tried to pull him up, voices tried to speak to him, but he was incapable of being coherent. Everything was a blur.

Birgitta crouched down to hold him, and there, in the driveway, they numbly hung onto each other; two lost souls, watching their son be driven away, never to return.

Chapter 3

Kristin

May 2017

Light is streaming through the sheer white curtains as Kristin opens her eyes. Next to her, a man is snoring and it takes her a few seconds to adjust. It’s not Brandon. She is no longer married, which is an odd feeling. Instead, she has a boyfriend. She didn’t plan to meet anyone so soon after Brandon’s death but it’s easier to remain in the real world when you share it with someone.

She lies quietly in bed, studying this other half of her. His name is Niklas. They’ve only been going out for five months but have already moved in together. She was planning to spend her newly acquired money on an apartment anyway, but she told Niklas that US citizens couldn’t buy property in Sweden. She has no idea if that’s true, but he agreed to sign the paperwork. That way, she could remain anonymous.

Niklas has arranged separate legal papers should it all go pear-shaped but she’s not too worried. He’s different from most men she has ever known, especially her late husband. For starters, he’s a modest school janitor as opposed to a gun-crazed redneck. He also has blond, unruly hair, which makes him resemble a young boy, not a burly man. Lying in bed, she strokes his bushy eyebrows and lets her fingers travel to the shallow fans surrounding his eyes, followed by the soft cheeks, so much smoother than Brandon’s pockmarked skin.

‘You shouldn’t mourn what has been,’ her aunt used to say. ‘One should look forward, always forward.’

Kristin isn’t sure whether they’re words of wisdom or just a way of coping. Thinking about the day ahead, she feels slightly agitated. It’s Saturday, the day when she and Niklas routinely have intercourse and then go to his parents’ for lunch.

Live in the moment.

That’s really a better motto. Think of here and now. And right now she’s lying next to Niklas, sensing the togetherness. She falls back onto her pillow. He can sleep a bit longer; there’s no rush to get the day started.

Until he wakes up, she will allow herself a brief glance in the ‘rear-view mirror’. She won’t obsess about the past; just pay it a quick visit. That way, she will eventually work out exactly what she did. There has been no one to talk to, no one she can trust. Her only real friend, Ursula, lives in Los Angeles where she’s pursuing a movie production career. Brandon’s family, who seemed to like her once, turned their backs the moment the autopsy revealed how he died.

‘You did all the cooking,’ his mother screamed down the phone, ‘and you knew he was allergic to nuts!’

‘I didn’t keep nuts at home,’ Kristin defended herself.

But Brandon’s life insurance made everyone suspicious, including the police. Before she knew it, there was an investigation. She provided a statement and gave consent for the trailer to be searched (which had not been an easy decision to make) and apart from the fact that she had no idea how to use the EpiPen, she thought they would be satisfied.

Her own mother was never in touch. Not once. It’s okay though, she thinks. Her new life is good. Even when Niklas starts to stir and awkwardly searches for her under the duvet, his lips pressed against hers and his hands wandering over her thin body. At times, she dislikes this weekend bravado though. What if she doesn’t want to? But an acute fear of what might happen if she turns him down makes her comply. Men have needs. She’s witnessed that first hand.

‘What is it?’ Niklas says, looking concerned.

She must try harder.

‘Nothing,’ she says, attempting to smile.

She closes her eyes and tries to enjoy herself, feeling terrible when she doesn’t succeed. Instead she concentrates on love, on Niklas’s gentle nature, on serenity. That makes it easier.

Afterwards, Niklas is pressed up against her body, exhausted and sticky. His breath is stale. She pushes her perfumed wrist up against her nose, telling herself how wonderful her life is. Niklas is a keeper, but when he begins to kiss her again, rotating a stiff tongue in her mouth, rubbing himself against her thigh, she can’t take it.

‘Niklas, stop! I have to pee.’

She pulls away, staggers into the bathroom where she goes to the toilet, dries herself frantically, washes her hands, steps into the shower, scrubs, dries, brushes her teeth… All the time, she avoids her own reflection in the mirror, choosing instead to focus on everything she likes about this bathroom: the old-fashioned white sink, the chrome tap, the jasmine-scented soap and her perfumes. She needs to spray on more Coco Mademoiselle. That will make her feel better.

Niklas doesn’t comment on how long she’s been gone. He lovingly pulls her back into bed with a kiss on her forehead.

‘Shouldn’t we get up?’ she tries. ‘We might be late otherwise.’

‘Okay, but Kristin, at my parents’ house today… please try to eat.’

The indirect criticism hurts, but only for a second.

‘I will,’ she promises.

Because she will try. It’s getting easier, eating in front of other people.

No, it isn’t.

Yes, it is.

‘It’s embarrassing,’ Niklas says, looking uncomfortable. ‘I don’t know what to tell my parents. My mum gets offended.’

‘I understand. I do.’

In a relationship one has to compromise. She saw that on Oprah or some other daytime TV Show. Niklas’s family is important to him; she must show him that she cares about them too.

‘I love you though,’ he says, making her insides tingle.

He smiles and she mirrors him.

‘I love you too,’ she says, a line from Long Walk to Freedom coming to mind: people learn to hate, they can be taught to love. She should re-watch that movie; Mandela displayed such resilience. It’s possible to come out the other end if you only believe that you can. Having said that, if it weren’t for the insurance money, she would be stuck in another time. That thought weighs heavily on her.

‘You’re right,’ Niklas says, pulling his cover off. ‘We should get up.’

She watches his narrow frame as he climbs out of bed, before untangling herself from the sheets to make her side of the bed. Niklas very Swedishly insists they have two separate duvets, which is nice. She can tuck herself in at night without a body glued to hers.

They eat breakfast at the small table in the kitchen, the sun making everything appear brighter than it is: the sky crystal blue and the grass overly lush and green. Soon, though, the sky will be grey and heavy with rain. At least according to the papers.

Niklas smiles and places a hand on hers across the table as he turns the pages. She arranged the newspaper subscription since he thought it was too expensive. But it was worth it, seeing how happy it makes him. She shares everything she owns with Niklas. He doesn’t earn much although he does bring home leftover food from the school canteen. Not that she can eat it, of course – God knows how much bacteria circulates at a school – but it’s the thought that counts. He cares about her.

*

While Niklas showers she clears the table and wipes it down, enjoying the smell of cleaning products mixed with newly applied wallpaper, freshly installed white goods and assembled furniture. She feels as if she’s put a blank negative in the camera that is her life. All she needs to do now is find a job to blend into society.

Feeling pleased, Kristin sits down to read the rest of the newspaper, pulling on the gloves that protect her hands from ink stains. Niklas brought them home from work, which is another reason to love him. She flips through the pages and, although she normally avoids global news, a US article draws her in. But she tears her eyes away; it feels wrong, like an old pattern repeating itself. Her life is here, in this Swedish bubble of IKEA furniture, ABBA music and Ingmar Bergman movies (Fanny and Alexander being her absolute favourite). Now she has to shower again; lather every part of her body two, even three times, wash away the feeling of failure. She also wants to prepare for the upcoming bacterial attack in Niklas’s parents’ home. That’s impossible of course but worth a try. Niklas says nothing, but she knows what he’s thinking. It’s a waste of water.

She hurriedly gets dressed, they mustn’t miss the bus, but as they’re about to leave, the home phone rings.

‘Hello,’ Niklas says into the receiver. ‘Hello?’

He hangs up.

‘No one there,’ he says, shrugging. ‘Someone must have dialled the wrong number.’

No one there? Wrong number? She tenses.

‘The caller ID,’ she says, getting