Claire Stibbe - No Good Lie

Blurb

The darkest secrets hide in plain sight.

When Freya Thorne finds a womans body on the beach, she is swept back into the nightmare of the past. She knows the similarities to her daughters tragic death cannot be coincidence, but nobody will believe her.

Letters arrive with chilling threats. This stalker knows more about Freya than any stranger could. Weird sounds disrupt her nights, and she knows someones been in her house. As the stalker draws Freya into a terrifying game, she uncovers more questions than answers. Her life is being threatened, and she doesnt know who to trust. Someone has been pulling her strings, and that someone is determined she must suffer. Because Freya broke a promise. And promises arent meant to be broken.

Great for fans of Perfect Stranger and Only Mine .

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Copyright 2023 by Claire Stibbe
ISBN Bookpreneur
978-0-9982027-9-2
All rights reserved.

Book cover design by Jane Dixon-Smith

No portion of this book may be reproduced in any form without written permission from the publisher or author, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

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Claire Stibbe's Publications
The Detective Temeke Crime Series
The 9th Hour, Night Eyes, Past Rites
Easy Prey, Dead Cold, Silent Admirer

Psychological Thrillers
Into The Silent Sea
No Good Lie
Play Him, Play Her

Contents

To Jeff,

for every thing

and

Jamie, my miracle

FREYA

IF I HADNT MET him, everything would have been different.

A thick head of dark hair, an infectious grin. Now I cant shake the feeling that someone might have seen us.

I have a routine before I leave the house at 7.00 am: keys and phone in yoga pants, torch in backpack. I check the street from the kitchen window, and again from the front door. Always focusing on personal safety, always on the lookout. Its worth getting up before dawn, because its my own chunk of quiet time where I can run through the streets unseen. Some people sleep in, squint at the alarm clock and rush for the bus and Ill bet theyre berating themselves for missing the best part of the day.

A salt wind blows in from the open door and an owl screeches, sending a rhythm of warning hoots. Jack says I rarely smile unless Im running, otherwise my features are blank and unreachable, and he can never tell what Im thinking.

There's the tree with the sign that says HAVEYOUSEENME ? The poster is half lit by the lantern outside number 26. Elisabeth Sanders. Long black hair and a perfect smile. A daily reminder, as if shes saying, Im still lost. Im still out there.

A slash of light between the curtains of a neighbour's house. Gayle Daniels is frowning at me. Being the daughter of an MP youd expect her to be a snob. But shes not. Like me, she keeps herself to herself. If we meet at the post box, we rarely talk which suits me just fine. People tolerate me, but they are genuinely fond of Jack. Hes the extrovert, always stopping to say hi. While I wave a tight-lipped greeting and run along the pavement as fast as I can.

I pass the last house on the corner, every light on inside. Then come the glass fronted flats with the strong scent of juniper, the type that sticks. I run downhill to the promenade, lamplight slicing through a sea mist.

Exercise is good for the body and mind. An hour a day helps me to manage my stress. I handle incoming calls for the Bournemouth Daily Echo , which matches the reputation of larger newspapers although the pay may lag several notches behind. Given my lack of qualifications, I class myself as the lowest of the low. If we ever move out of this building and into smaller satellite offices, Ill probably lose the job altogether.

The ringing of my phone shatters the silence and stops me short. It could be Liv asking me to come in early. It could be Jack. The screen lights with a series of numbers. No name.

Then a second text streaks across the screen.

Is it a wrong number? Or is someone messing with me? Im guessing the first.

I ignore it and set off again. Today, despite the good weather, theres an air of grimness. The clouds are ruffled like a giant quilt above the rooftops and theres a creeping north-easterly wind that burns my cheeks. An ache shifts from the base of my throat to my stomach and I wonder if all this running takes me away from the memories and the guilt. Theres been something in Jacks voice lately, a harsh burn of anger. I always remain silent. There is little I can say.

When I reach the pier, the silence disappears. Water slurps around the pillars, seaweed bobbing on the waves. Theres nothing for miles, just sky and sea and a sliver of light between them. A tanker skulks on the horizon, too far out to tell if its moving. I usually stay here for a minute or two before setting off through the cold October air, but I find myself looking for signs of danger, the snapping of a twig, a distant howl. It sends me running back towards the road that cuts between the dunes. Some knotted place inside me hates myself for being so weak.

Rounding the corner near the restaurant, I catch something in the corner of my eye. I wouldnt have noticed if the moon hadnt come out from behind a cloud. There it is, a pinprick of brightness against the dunes. Is someone there?

A clatter rings out and a rock bursts through a snarl of Marram grass, sending up a squabble of seagulls. Near a straggle of beach huts, there is a shift someone crouching like an injured animal. My heart kicks out a rhythm and I see tiny puffs of my panicky breath. Shadows are fickle things. Theyll get to me if I let them.

The seagulls are mobbing and diving now. Instead of the sappy green scent of nearby woods, it smells like there are a million dead and rotting things. I put my hand over my mouth and breathe hard into my palm. I cant help feeling the weight of hidden eyes as if someone has been creeping through the net-veined ferns. My skin itches with the urge to run every muscle wants to, but I dont.

Under the street lamp, a tangle of netting flutters and I think its a baby seal, one of those creamy ones with grey faces you see in Poole Harbour. Either that or a gleaming mass of bass and whiting. But its something else, something I shouldnt be seeing, hideously translucent in the moonlight. Through the feathery brush of shock, I make out the trail of an arm, hair matted with sand. Every part of me wants to say, hello, hello, are you OK? but all I can scream is, Oh my God, oh my God. I want to run, I want to get the hell away from her, but I know I cant.

She needs my help. Even though terror writhes through me, I make myself touch her, two fingers on her throat above where a cord pinches her neck. No movement, no life. Her eyes dont blink in the morning sun. Every wisp of air has been torn from her lungs and the stench tells me how long shes been gone.

I shuffle backwards towards the beach, stumbling and gulping fresh air. This isnt happening. It cant be. But I know it is and what needs to be done. Fumbling with my phone, I dial 999. Relief spreads through me. A voice. Someone to help.

Ambulance. The words sting in my throat and my mind races. Theres a woman. Shes here on the beach and shes not breathing. No, no, shes gone. Yes. Dead.