Don’t Say a Word: A gripping psychological thriller from the author of The Good Mother

Chapter 30 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 31 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 32 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 33 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 34 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 35 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 36 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 37 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 38 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 39 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 40 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 41 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 42 (#litres_trial_promo)

Epilogue (#litres_trial_promo)

Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)

A. L. BIRD

lives in London, where she divides her time between writing and working as a lawyer. In 2016, she released her major psychological thriller The Good Mother, and she returns to the genre with Don’t Say a Word. She has an MA in Creative Writing from Birkbeck, University of London, and is also an alumna of the Faber Academy ‘Writing a Novel’ course. Amy is a member of the Crime Writers’ Association. For updates on her writing follow her on Twitter, @ALBirdwriter.

I remain hugely grateful to everyone who has helped bring this novel – and those before it – into the world.

My long-time editor Clio Cornish, whose encouragement, honesty and insight gets those first drafts into shape; my stalwart agent Amanda Preston of LBA for those flashes of creative genius that can really draw a book together; my husband for tolerating all the late-night plot conundrums (and to both him and my son for providing the light outside the dark world of thrillers); to the bloggers and readers who cheered me on – who knew how much the occasional tweet could do for a writer’s day! – your support means so much to me. Thank you.

I’d also like to mention a couple of the many charities who do valuable and important work in the worlds where Jen finds herself: Centrepoint, who give homeless young people a future; and Refuge, who support women and children against domestic violence. This novel may impact readers’ minds – their work can save people’s lives.

Prologue (#ulink_82d9cb55-906e-5e26-a6e4-198438484d76)

The doorbell rings. Josh runs towards it.

‘No, wait, sweetie, remember!’ I shout after him.

‘It’s fine, Mum, it’ll just be the postman!’

‘No, Josh, let me!’

I run up behind him. But he’s already taking off the chain, opening the door. Please let it be the postman.

Yes, it is. False alarm. I see the retreating uniform of a blue shirt and baseball cap. Stop, beating heart. Not every morning is a drama. I kiss Josh on the forehead.

‘OK, Josh, it was the postman. But next time it might not be, all right? So let me open the door.’

I lead us back to the kitchen to resume breakfast-making activities, musing at how, even in a situation like this one, ten-year-olds can find post so engrossing – no bills to pay, I guess.

But then I realize Josh isn’t following. I turn round.

His face is white.

‘You’ve got a postcard,’ he says. ‘From Chloe Brown.’

The peanut butter jar drops from my hand.

‘Josh, let me see.’

He hands me the postcard, wide-eyed.

Yes, there’s the name. Chloe Brown. Printed clearly, so there’s no mistaking it. The message just says: ‘See you soon.’

I turn over to the picture. It’s a small boy, on a bike. My stomach twists. I flip back to the name again. And that’s when I see. There’s a stamp, but no postmark. Where the postmark should be, it’s written: ‘By hand.’

‘Mum, I don’t think it was really the postman. I think it was …’ He trails off.

We both know who it was. And that Josh isn’t safe.

Chapter 1 (#ulink_fa530be3-3ee7-513b-a5e1-1e829a0fe063)

TWO WEEKS EARLIER

This is me. I should probably stop telling myself this now. But those old habits, they’re tricky to shake, right?

Brush brush brush. This is me. Brush brush brush. Jen Sutton. Maybe I should focus on my teeth a bit more, less on the life reminders. Perhaps that would stop the hygienist telling me off – ‘You must brush near the gum, Ms Sutton. See how easily I can make your teeth bleed.’ If she knew how much trouble it had taken to register for that surgery, the time I had to wait, the rigmarole … Well, perhaps she wouldn’t be so gleeful when the blood oozes out. Just give me and Josh a sticker and get on with it.

‘Mum!’ There’s a yell from outside the bathroom. ‘Where’s my swimming stuff?’

Oh shit. Of course. Tuesday. Swimming.

Spit the toothpaste into the sink and jam my toothbrush into the jar next to Josh’s. Another win for the plaque.

‘I’ll just get it, sweetie!’

Quickly spritz on some scent. Then: swimming stuff, swimming stuff … I could berate Josh, tell him he should have reminded me, that he’s old enough now to sort it out for himself. But no. I’m not being that mother. Josh will feel secure and loved and nurtured always. And him being ten now, all it means is, ten years since … Well obviously. Then.

The woman I try not to think about.

Deep breath. It’s OK. She can’t get us here.