"Dark and twisty, with white-knuckle tension and jaw-dropping surprises." (New York Times best-selling author of Deception of Destiny)
In this smart and chilling thriller, master of suspense Rochel takes domestic secrets to a whole new level, showing that some people will stop at nothing to keep the truth buried.
THERE IS A PILE OF apparel on the train tracks. Light-blue fabric - a shirt, maybe - muddled up with something filthy white. It's likely refuse, some portion of a heap fly-tipped into the inadequate little wood up the bank. It might have been abandoned by the architects who work this piece of the track, they're here frequently enough. Or on the other hand it very well may be something different. My mom used to let me know that I had an overactive creative mind; Tony said that as well. I can't resist, I see these disposed of scraps, a messy T-shirt or a forlorn shoe, and everything I can imagine is the other shoe, and the feet that fitted into them.
The train shocks and scratches and shrieks once more into movement, the little heap of garments vanishes from view and we trundle on towards London, moving at an energetic jogger's speed. Somebody in the seat behind me gives a moan of vulnerable disturbance; the 8.04 sluggish train from Ashbury to Euston can test the tolerance of the most prepared worker. The excursion should require 54 minutes, however it seldom does: this segment of the track is old, frail, plague with flagging issues and ceaseless designing works.