I Know It Was You

By G.N. Kearney

Lauren and Kane each harbor a dark secret. One of them believes their secret is safely buried, but the other is very much aware their skeletons share the same closet.  

After Lauren experiences a traumatic assault, she returns to her small hometown of Lamington, Massachusetts. Finding a job in a local bookstore, she m

• Language: English
• Publisher: Level Best Books
• Release date: Nov 21, 2023
• ISBN: 9781685125486

G.N. Kearney

G.N. Kearney was born in London of Irish parents and has always been an avid reader. At eleven years old, she won a prize for her age group in a junior school poetry competition. This planted a seed that came to fruition many years later when she finally decided to sit down and write a novel. G.N.'s early adult years were spent living abroad and upon returning to the UK, she gained a BA Hons from the Open University, majoring in Modern Literature and Film Studies, a Diploma in Literature and Creative Writing, and has just completed the first year of a Masters in Creative Writing. G.N. Kearney lives in the Highlands of Scotland and is compiling an ever-expanding bucket list.

Book preview

Prologue

Lauren stared, transfixed by the message on her cell phone as the frenetic Friday lunchtime shoppers in Louisville’s Central Mall swirled around her. She ignored the shiny shop windows, with their glaring displays that dared you to look away, the mishmash of voices from moms out shopping, office workers on lunch breaks, and students from the local high school. A gaggle of teenage girls, their piercing giggles ricocheting off the white-tiled walls, separated and flowed around her without a break, as if they were a river and she, a rock in their path, hindering their progress not the slightest.

The pressure in her chest increased, as did her heart rate, and the heat in her neck and cheeks intensified. She clenched her fists, knuckles whitening around the phone as she reread Tod’s text. ‘It’s not you, it’s me. We’ve had some great dates, Lauren, and you’re great, but I’m looking for something more exciting than the girl next door.’

What irritated her, apart from the lack of originality in his choice of words, was that he had beaten her to it. They hadn’t dated for long—a month, possibly a half-dozen dates—and while the scintillation of an initial attraction had drawn them together, any potential had soon withered. She’d prepared her own version of the it’s-me-not-you speech, but would have waited for their date tonight and delivered it to him with a soft expression, fingers touching his arm, her tone regretful. Having perfected the art of droning on about himself, once he got going, crevices in the wall of his discourse were rare. She bristled. What did he mean by someone more exciting than the girl next door?

A man darted past, knocking her arm, startling her. She almost dropped her phone and turned to yell something after him, but all she could spot was a bobbing head of fair hair that disappeared into the crowd.

Hey, you! Maria tapped her on the shoulder.

Since leaving college and settling in Louisville, her co-worker had become a close friend. Lauren thrust the phone at Maria. Check this out.

It’d better be short, or else we’ll have Humpty Dumpty on our asses.

Oh, it’s got that box ticked. Lauren watched Maria’s mouth turn down at the corners as she scanned the message.

Oh, babe. That’s not cool. Why don’t you come out with me and Ellie tonight? We’re gonna hit a few bars, perhaps a club or two. You can have a blowout and forget that sad sack. What do you say? We’ll turn Tod into a dot that you can lose in your rear-view mirror. Get it? Tod. Dot.

A snorting giggle burst from Lauren’s mouth. Yeah. She clapped her hands. Smush! Gone.

We’ll swing past yours around eight. Okay?

Sure. She hugged Maria. Thank you. You’re a real friend.

C’mon, let’s move it before we lose our jobs.

Even after two months, Lauren was still high on the buzz of living in her own place in Louisville. In Stafford County’s capital, she had a spacious studio apartment on the first floor of a three-story brownstone with an east-facing bay window. The view boasted a patch of lawn with picnic benches and backed onto a pathway that ran alongside Central Canal. Tenants could sit out on warm summer evenings, enjoy a barbecue, and people-watch as joggers and cyclists raced by, lone dog walkers strolled and laughing families chatted.

Very Scandinavian, Maria had commented when she helped Lauren move in, her eyes approving as she scrutinized the white walls and baseboards in gray, the small kitchenette with a tiny cooker and fridge freezer, the reversible bookcase that housed a double Murphy bed. The wooden table, which seated two, served for eating, as well as a desk and her ironing board. Somehow, though, its pale wood surface attracted stray objects: bills and her current paperback. At the moment, it housed a lit candle, her makeup, an opened bottle of wine, and a half-empty glass of sparkling ruby liquid. She’d developed the habit of having a glass or two when applying her makeup, so her inhibitions were in neutral, if not deactivated, by the time she left the apartment.

Lauren had enjoyed college, the learning and intellectual stimulation, making friends, the parties, the sense of emerging from the chrysalis of adolescence to a world where, as a young adult, she made important choices for herself. She’d mulled over the idea of doing a master’s degree and, later maybe a Ph.D. but chose to work for a year and gain some life experience before deciding which career path to follow. She had two favorites: teaching—early childhood was a preference—or entering the publishing industry, because she loved books and, though not a writer, knew she would enjoy bringing a book to life.

She’d landed a retail sales position in a bookshop. Not a mom-and-pop store like in Lamington, her hometown, but at a sleek Morton’s. The second biggest bookstore chain in the States had a large shop in Louisville with gleaming floors, wide aisles, artistic book displays, a Starbucks, and regular author signings with best-selling writers. Not her ideal situation, but it had advantages: a space to breathe out and think before she decided which future she wanted to pursue.

Lamington was a hundred and fifty miles away, a couple of hours’ drive, and she liked that it was close enough to visit but too far for her mom or dad to drop in unannounced. She wasn’t, after all, a teenager needing supervision by uptight parents.

She studied herself in the full-length mirror, tucking a few stray hairs into the elaborate bun she’d spent an hour studying how to do on a YouTube video. Her ash blonde hair contrasted with the dark red lipstick, accentuating the Cupid’s-bow curve of her upper lip, and the kohl on her eyelids bestowed a sultry sensuality she didn’t possess. Thinking about where her girl-next-door appearance had gotten her, she was trying a more daring look. It’s not makeup, Maria said; it’s war paint.

Lauren wore a dress she’d bought on a whim from a thrift store. Black, with a short tulle skirt, fitted bodice, and long sleeves of sheer, black lace, it reminded her of an outfit she’d worn as a child during her brief infatuation with ballet. She raised her arms above her head and twirled, admiring the fan-like flare of the dress. Mm…that move would look good on the dance floor. Hand on hip, chin tilted upward, she struck a pose and decided, yes, she liked this bolder, more confident self. Tonight, she would dance and have fun.

Her mobile rang. Maria and Ellie were outside in a cab. Glancing around the room, she smiled. She had already reversed the bookcase, and the bed was ready to fall into when she came home. The first time she tried opening it after coming home intoxicated, she had nearly knocked herself unconscious. Another time, she’d tried the couch—a useless substitute—as sleeping there gave her a cricked neck. She blew out the vanilla-scented candle, picked up the glass of rosé, and toasted her reflection.

They dropped into several bars before deciding on Manny’s nightclub. Friday night, the place was crammed by the time they gained entrance. With hair primped and slicked, faces and bodies primed, and expectations jacked up, serious celebrants started the weekend the second they stepped outside the office. Loud conversations punctuated with raucous laughter bombarded Lauren as soon as they entered. She inhaled the commercial air freshener that overlaid, but didn’t quite disguise the odor of sweating bodies, deodorant, and perfume, listened to the pulsating beat, and laughed as it drove everything else out of her mind.

Maria and Lauren nabbed a booth near the dance floor as Ellie pushed through the gyrating throng toward the bar.

Get some shots, Lauren shouted after her.

Ellie returned with three small glasses, followed by a waiter who placed a plate with limes and salt and three tumblers of tomato juice in front of them.

What’s with the red stuff? Lauren asked.

That’s sangria. Mexicans drink it as a chaser after tequila.

Okay. Lauren licked the length of her forefinger, dipped it in the salt, and raised her glass. Here’s to tequila and sangria!

Tequila and sangria! Ellie and Maria chanted, then licked the salt, giggling as they eyed each other. Together, they tossed down the shots, sucked the limes, grimacing, mouths pinched with the burn of liquor and the sourness of the limes.

I’ll get this round. Maria slid off her stool and dived into the mass of heaving flesh.

The couple in the next booth untangled themselves from each other and left. Three guys coasted in, claiming the space and throwing glances their way.

Ellie leaned forward and whispered. The testosterone is stronger than the after-shave, but I’ll have a piece of the tall, dark, and handsome one. See anything you fancy, Lauren?

Well, seeing as I don’t have a boyfriend anymore, I’ll have the one on the end. A blond Taylor Kitsch lookalike appeals. At least for a night.

Maria returned, carrying refills.

The glasses emptied amongst more laughter and flirtatious giggles aimed at attracting attention from the young men.

Lauren closed her eyes, enjoying the dizzying rush of alcohol flooding into her bloodstream. I’m feeling good. Another ladies? It’s my turn.

You know, Lauren, Maria said, you don’t just lose your inhibitions when you drink; you turn into a whole other person.

Something else to thank Tod the dot for. At the bar, Lauren waved wildly, failing to attract the bartender’s attention, and turned as a body squeezed in beside her. She hid a smile as she saw the guy she’d picked out from the booth next to theirs.

Hi, I’m Dario. He held out a hand.

Lauren. Shaking hands was awkward, with elbows squished against their bodies, but they managed, their eyes meeting as they laughed. The Taylor Kitsch clone was even better looking up close. Bambi eyes and luscious lips. Mmm…. She’d never done the nightclub scene, picking up guys and having one-night stands. She’d always been her mother’s golden girl, doing what people expected of her—working hard, gaining a place at a prestigious college, and achieving excellent grades. Withdrawing her hand from Dario’s hot grasp, she asked, You’re Italian? How come you have blond hair?

And you’re beautiful. But to answer your question, my great-grandfather came from Sicily, but my great-grandmother came from Milan. Lots of Italians with lighter hair in the north.

Wow! Mafioso, huh? Lauren giggled.

Dario raised an eyebrow. No. My family are bakers. You’ve never heard of the Alfieri Brothers Bakeries?

Small-town girl here. There are places in Louisville I’ve never even heard of, let alone visited.

I’d love to remedy that.

Yeah, sure. Why not?

As they made their way back, Dario carrying a full tray of drinks, they found his friends had moved booths and were squeezed in with Ellie and Maria.

Meet Tom and Fabio. Ellie waved at the newcomers.

And this is Dario. Lauren smiled up at him.

Lauren continued to drink, Dario’s arm around her shoulder as she leaned against him. He smelled of expensive aftershave, and she fancied giving his sensuous lips a test run.

You wanna dance? Dario’s warm breath tickled her ear.

She nodded, and he led her onto the dance floor. Within seconds, the thumping bass transported her. Nothing mattered but dancing with arms in the air, head thrown back, eyes closed, and surrendering to the all-consuming rhythm. She was one cell in a body; the crowd a beast of many parts, each aligned with the others as they jerked and writhed to the omnipotent, insistent beat.

Dario tugged her to him, mouthing, I need some fresh air. Towing her behind him, he elbowed his way through the crowded nightclub, leading her outside and around the corner into an alley. That’s better. He leaned in, his palm resting on the nape of her neck, his lips on hers, his tongue pushing into her mouth as his hands slid up her leg.

Her body surrendered, soft and pliant, as her arms went up around his neck, drawing him closer.

Hey, get off her.

Maria, Lauren slurred. I’m gonna throw up. She leaned forward, and a gush of red liquid spewed onto the ground, spattering Dario’s pants and shoes.

She’s drunk, and you’re trying to have sex with her in an alleyway a few yards from the main street. What kind of dickwad are you? The thwack of Maria’s purse smacking Dario’s shoulder was loud in the alleyway. You’re aware that sex without consent is rape, aren’t you?

Dario backed away, hands raised, talking as he moved. Don’t you accuse me of something I didn’t do. She didn’t say stop, and she was hot for it too, believe me.

Does she look like she knows what she’s doing? Ellie cleaned the vomit around Lauren’s mouth with a tissue. C’mon, sweetie, the night’s over. We’re taking you home.

Steering a rag-doll, drunk-out-of-her-skull Lauren up the front steps of her building required ingenuity; silence was impossible, and they giggled and stumbled along the hallway.

A good night’s sleep is what you need, honey. Ellie unzipped her dress, sat her on the bed, and took off her shoes. Lie down. There’s a sweetie.

Lauren flopped back on the bed, her gaze unfocused. Love you guys, she murmured as Ellie lifted her feet, covered her with the duvet, and settled a pillow under her head.

We love you, too, sweetie. Ellie looked at her. You’re not going to choke on your vomit, are you?

Lauren grunted and rolled over onto her stomach.

Listen, Lauren, I’ve put a basin on the floor in case you need it. Maria bent down and eased the hairpins and ponytail band off Lauren’s bun, ran her fingers through the tangled ends, and tucked a wayward strand behind her ear. She turned to Ellie. I’d bet hard cash she’ll wake up in the same position. I need to get home myself. Let’s call another Uber.

Night night, sweetie. Ellie bent and kissed Lauren on the cheek.

I’ll call in on you in the morning. Okay? Maria called as she closed the door.

Lauren grunted.

After her friends left, Lauren lay in a drunken haze, inhaling the faint scent of vanilla, dozing as the world spun behind her eyelids. She caught the distant growl of a car, and her mind drifted. Sleep was a great ocean, and she stood at the edge, knowing that when she dived in, darkness would claim her. Enfolded in the safekeeping of the room’s silence, she slid into unconsciousness.

Sometime later, the click of her front door opening roused her. She still lay on her stomach and raised her head, but the room tilted and swirled like a Catherine wheel. Her eyes closed, and she flopped back onto the pillow.

I

PART ONE

Chapter One

She senses the imminent threat, a wave of chilled air sweeping before the storm, tries to scream, to open her eyes, desperate to escape, but her body won’t respond. Her heart is thumping so loud that whoever is approaching will hear and know how scared she is. She’s paralyzed. The click of a door opening breaks the silence.

Lauren woke with a start, her breathing fast, legs tangled in the sheet, heart pounding and lungs gasping for air. She jolted upright, registered the moonlight leaking in around the blinds, saw two a.m. on the bedside table clock, and collapsed back onto the pillow. She was in Lamington, in her own bed in the annex adjoining her parents’ house. She had lived here for the last six months. Hard-won habit kicked in, and she breathed deeply, held the breath, breathed out, and persevered until the nightmare’s grip subsided. Sometimes, in the dream, she screamed and woke herself up, the shrill cries ceasing as she returned to reality. At least that hadn’t occurred. A small accomplishment; nonetheless, she was grateful. When she screamed, even though her parents’ bedroom was on the other side of the house, her mother woke and would come to check on her. It seemed the umbilical cord, despite stretching during her years at college, remained intact.

As she slipped out of bed, bright shafts of moonlight illuminated the gleaming pale wooden floorboards. After testing—the windows were locked—she tiptoed to the door, paused, and listened before stepping out of the room. Silence. Silvery light from the hallway showed the open bathroom door. Surely she’d closed it? Get a grip, she scolded herself. Do you honestly think an intruder woke you by using the bathroom in the middle of a home invasion?

After she checked the bathroom window, she padded into the kitchen. Between the moonlight and her familiarity with the layout of the annex, she didn’t need to switch on the lights. Next, she tested the front door, the windows, and the adjoining door to the main house. Twitching aside the blinds in the living room, she peered out but saw nothing except cones of amber streetlights fragmenting the darkness. She tiptoed to the study for the final assessment, unable to relax until she’d booted up her laptop and watched the fast-forwarded replay of the security footage. The split screen flickered, a black-and-white montage, as views of the front, sides, and back of the house flitted past and showed nothing except someone’s cat prowling with proprietorial grace through the backyard undergrowth. Relief unwound the tension, one muscle at a time. Yawning, she decided against a cup of chamomile tea. Sometimes, it encouraged sleep; sometimes, it didn’t. After half an hour of restless tossing, she put on one of her therapist’s recommended CDs.

When the alarm went off, a wide shaft of sunlight streamed through the gap at the edge of the blind. Today is a good day, she told herself, picking up her charm bracelet and dropping it into her jewelry box. She’d lost the monogrammed golden star charm at some point in Louisville and hadn’t gotten around to replacing it, but last night’s exploration of the box’s contents had produced a beautiful silver locket she could give as a present for her goddaughter’s birthday. Poppy would love it. Lauren repeated the positive-affirmation mantra as she breezed through her morning routine—far simpler since she’d returned home. A quick shower, pulling on clean jeans and a plain baggy T-shirt, a quick brush of her hair, which she wore in a bun or a ponytail, shoving her feet into a pair of sneakers.

You’re a grown woman, and yet you dress like you’re still a college student, Lauren, her mother complained.

What her mother meant was, how do you expect to attract a man when you look like a sophomore? I’m wearing that lip gloss you gave me, Mom. And I don’t need to dress up. Milly’s perfectly happy with whatever I wear. She’d found a range of eyeglasses with plain lenses in a thrift shop and bought a couple of pairs with thick black frames and liked how they changed her appearance, giving her a studious air. Since that night in Louisville, the last thing Lauren wanted, and she couldn’t see that changing anytime soon, was to attract a man. She grabbed her purse, car keys and had a final check of the doors and windows before leaving for work.

After Lauren returned home from Louisville, though her mother insisted she didn’t have to work yet, she needed to be busy. One week of moping around the house drove her crazy. She could have worked in the local library. The librarian was one of her mother’s close friends, and on-the-job training would have been provided, but grateful though she was for her parents’ support, she wanted to make her own choices.

She’d noticed an ad in the window of Milly’s Bookstore and gone for an interview, thinking that the bookstore was quieter than the library and its customer base less interested in wondering why she’d returned to Lamington. She could busy herself among the bookshelves and, when she was on the cash register, sit behind the counter getting a quick fix of drama from the latest thriller in between customers.

I’m happy with whatever you choose, her mother said when she told her Milly offered her the position on the spot. Things will get better. You’ll see. Just give yourself time to heal.

Lauren didn’t know if she was ever going to heal. The black hole inside her head remained exactly where it was, its silence advertising her fallibility.

Wednesday morning, Milly’s closed for stocktaking. Since Lauren began working in the shop a month after she came home, Milly had passed more and more responsibility for the daily running over to her new employee. The bookstore, with its small coffee shop, had been her passion for the last forty years, but these days, she seemed more interested in conducting baking experiments.

As the sole store in town where you could buy books, business was steady. They had a small but faithful clientele: new parents looking for board books, teenage fans of fantasy, and those who enjoyed the faint, musty smell of old books mixed with coffee and freshly baked cookies as they browsed the bookshelves or sat in the comfy armchairs and read the local and national newspapers.

After a morning spent updating stock records and weeding out books damaged by careless customers flicking through pages as they browsed, Lauren gave the storeroom a thorough cleaning. Her boss’s greatest fear was invasion by hordes of page-hungry mice.

Milly arrived at midday, her white waist-length hair coiled in an elaborate bun on the top of her head and wearing a smart red pantsuit and matching low heels.

When Lauren first met Milly as a child browsing for fairy tales, she’d thought her the most bewitching woman she’d ever seen. Her opinion hadn’t changed.

Milly placed two Saran-wrapped trays on the tiny kitchen table at the back of the store. Here, honey, tell me what you think of these.

She handed Lauren a plate with two different traybakes, tilted her head to the side and studied Lauren’s face for her reaction. Undeterred by her arthritis—an increasing problem—Milly was still sprightly, her movements nimble, her mind whip-sharp and her attention unwaveringly focused on the person in front of her.

Lauren took a bite of each. Mmm. One sweet and one savory. I remember the first from my school days; it’s jam and coconut—

I used raspberry instead of strawberry jam. Is it better?

Yes. The raspberries make it tarter.

And what’s in the savory one?

I can taste pesto, and there’s rice; and is that roasted pepper and chives? This one is going to go down as a treat with the lunch crowd.

Exactly what I was hoping to hear. Did you know my legal name isn’t Milly? It’s Manuela. Manuela Medina.

Lauren had gotten used to Milly’s sudden left turns in conversation. Why, that’s a beautiful name.

Al, his full name was Alonzo, and I had to leave Atlanta and run as far away as we could because our fathers hated each other.

Before Lauren could formulate a sympathetic response to this nugget of information about Milly’s past, her boss had moved on. Are we on target with our projections this month for sales of that new lady killer novel?

We’ve exceeded. I placed another order. The older ladies and the reading group are eating it up. I placed a reservation for the library copy, but the waiting list is three months long.

The two women burst into a giggling fit.

I’d better open up. Lauren flicked a glance outside. The coffee machine’s ready, and I see Bob waiting outside.

Mr. Brewster, a substantially built elderly man, was indeed peering in through the window, a frown on his florid face. One of Milly’s many fans, he came every day and devoured seconds, and even thirds, of