Jane Corry - I Looked Away

WOW, just WOW! I was absolutely blown away by this book Goodreads

Riveting NetGalley

The twist almost made me drop my Kindle in shock Goodreads

This book completely stunned me Goodreads

I couldnt stop thinking about it Goodreads

Oh my this book was an absolute DELIGHT NetGalley

I couldnt put it down. It seemed so real, I was in pieces by the end NetGalley

OUTSTANDING Goodreads

Highly recommend be prepared for surprises! NetGalley

Kept you guessing right until the end I couldnt put it down NetGalley

Jane Corry gets better and better Goodreads

I loved it from beginning to end NetGalley

A must-read Goodreads

This had me frantically turning the pages to find out what happened next Goodreads

Thank you Jane Corry for another CRACKING read Goodreads

Wow, what a fabulous read this was NetGalley

Jane Corry is a former magazine journalist who spent three years working as the writer-in-residence of a high security prison for men. This often hair-raising experience helped inspire her previous Sunday Times-bestselling psychological thrillers, My Husbands Wife, Blood Sisters and The Dead Ex. Jane was a tutor in creative writing at Oxford University and is a regular contributor to the Daily Telegraph and My Weekly magazine. She is an award-winning short story writer and also lectures all over the world on creative writing as well as speaking at literary festivals. My Husbands Wife has recently been optioned as a television series. Janes books are published in more than 35 countries.

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First published 2019

Copyright Jane Corry, 2019

The moral right of the author has been asserted

Cover images Arcangel Images and headdesign.co.uk

The publisher is grateful to quote from Poems from a Runaway by Ben Westwood Ben Westwood, 2017. Reproduced by kind permission of the author.

ISBN: 978-0-241-98464-2

This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual places; or persons, living or dead; or actual events is purely coincidental.

This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorized distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the authors and publishers rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

In memory of my mother: the warmest, kindest grandmother of all.

Also to my husband, children and grandchildren as well as my funny, naughty network of new granny friends.

Finally, a big hug to Doris, our much-loved grandmother, who lived with us for all those years. My sister and I had to call her by her first name as she thought granny made her seem old!

I shouldnt walk too fast.

But if I go too slow, I will be a moving target.

Every bone in my body is scared in case I feel a hand on my shoulder. A tugging at my arm.

Cars drive past. Some kerb-crawl, as if checking road signs. Im frozen with terror. What if they want something else?

I move on. Squat on a damp pavement.

Please help me, I plead. Give me something to eat.

My belly might be full for a time. But what happens after that?

Will you get me on the street?

Ben Westwood, poet and author of Poems from a Runaway

A young boy has died in what police are describing as a tragic accident. No further details have been released.

Saturday 17 August 2019. A date that will forever be engraved on my heart, although I dont know that at this precise minute in time. Right now, its simply a scorching summer day, just as the forecasters predicted. Roger and I have the rest of our lives before us. Its what the marriage counsellor said when she signed us off. Youve agreed to give him a new start. Its a clean slate. Dont look back.

But although Im trying to take her advice, I cant quite ignore the invisible scar that I carry around with me. A constant nagging pain inside.

Doing something helps. Thats why Im walking into town in my new turquoise sandals with gold trimming which Im rather pleased with to replace my favourite miracle moisturizer. Id never win a Glamorous Granny competition but I do get a real kick when people say, What? Youve got a grandson of four? You dont look old enough. At forty-nine, Ive finally settled into my skin in a way I never did as a gauche teenager. I have my family and my own interests now, as well as my voluntary work at the prison. It keeps me busy. Helps to distract me from the past.

Big Issue, pipes up the woman squatting on the pavement outside Boots. She speaks in the same hopeful voice, but without the accent of some of the other homeless people Ive seen around here. Ive regularly bought magazines from her and she can seem rather abrupt, though shes pleasant enough.

She arrived on our high street around eighteen months ago in her purple hippy trousers (the type that balloon at the sides and then taper to the ankles), along with those silver and gold tattoo stars down her neck, a baggy navy-blue windcheater, plug earrings, shaved head and a weather-worn face that could make her age anything from forty upwards. After seeing her a few times, I started to give her a little extra for something to eat, which she promptly stuffed into one of her voluminous pockets. Ta, she always said. Then shed brush her hands together as if washing off some unseen dirt from the money. Another of her habits, I noticed, was to hum quietly, although it was hard to make out a proper tune.

One day, I found myself asking how long shed been homeless for. On and off, she said vaguely. It was the beginning of a series of short conversations each time I bought a magazine. She even told me her name was Jo (although the way she said it made me suspect it wasnt the one she was born with), and how she couldnt be bothered with school as a child. (Mind you, I used to read a lot in prison, she declared.) I wondered what shed been in for but didnt like to ask. One time we had a fascinating discussion about whether the new government homelessness guidelines were actually going to help people on the streets.

When the weather got bitter, I was so worried about her that I even tried to find her accommodation although that didnt work out. Maybe I got too involved, but its my nature to help. It seems so wrong that in this day and age we still have people without homes and food. But a few months ago, when the old suspicions about Roger began to loom again, I saw Jo staggering out of the pub, blind drunk. It wasnt exactly the waste of my money and everyone elses that upset me. It was more the thought that I had been taken for a ride. Of course, I dont care for alcohol myself. Not with my history.