Her Last Lie: A gripping psychological thriller with a shocking twist!

‘And?’

‘Nothing. That’s it really. Ignore me.’

‘Did you look out?’

‘Yeah, yeah I did.’ She studied her feet, scuffing her trainers on the dry earth.

‘And?’

She looked up and squinted into the sun, before arching her palm over her dark eyes. ‘I got a bit freaked,’ she said. ‘Might have been my imagination, but I’m pretty sure someone was out there. Watching me.’

Now

Isla’s phone rang, jolting her back to the moment. She rummaged in her bag for it, and saw Roxanne’s picture on the screen.

‘Hi, you,’ she said brightly into the phone.

‘Hey, Isla, I can’t believe you’ve been back since Tuesday, and we haven’t had a catch-up.’

‘I know,’ Isla said, pleased to hear her friend’s voice. She’d missed her. ‘It’s been far too long.’

‘So how was Canada? I saw your fab pics on Facebook.’

‘Truly amazing,’ she said, as a surge of emotion at how wonderful it had been came and went.

‘Cool. I so want to hear all about it. You free tonight? We could try the new tapas bar.’

‘I can’t, sorry. I’m on my way to a uni reunion, would you believe?’

There was silence on the other end. A kind of ‘why wasn’t I invited?’ silence.

‘I didn’t organise it, Roxanne,’ Isla said, guilt rising. ‘If I had I would have invited you.’

‘Yeah, ’course. No worries. I wouldn’t have gone anyway.’ A pause. ‘So where you heading?’

‘Spoon’s in Cambridge,’ Isla said, sensing the chill on the other end of the line.

‘Who’s going?’

‘Veronica Beesley.’

‘Good God, Verony Beeswax.’ Roxanne laughed, and the tension between them lifted. ‘That girl was so up herself, I’m surprised she could walk properly. I bet she’s a millionaire or something.’

Isla laughed. ‘Well, she owns her own company.’

‘There you go. It doesn’t surprise me. Remember when she slept with Mr Jenkins?’

‘Broke up his marriage.’

‘Yeah, and he wasn’t the only lecturer she shagged.’ Another pause. ‘Who else is going?’

‘Umm . . . Sara Pembroke.’

‘Know the name. Can’t bring her to mind.’

‘I don’t remember her that well either. She was really quiet, head in a book all the time. Nice enough, I think. Oh, and Ben Martin’s going.’

‘Ooh, nice. Now you’re talking.’

Isla sucked in a breath. Roxanne would think she was crazy. ‘And Trevor Cooper,’ she said, as though she’d lit a touchpaper and was about to witness an explosion.

‘What the . . . ? Turn back now! Save yourself! Why would you go near him after Trevor-gate?’

Isla laughed. Her friend was a strong character, tough at times, which Roxanne had always claimed was down to her no-nonsense father. At university, Roxanne had a reputation for being a bit badass, modelling herself on Scary Spice for a while, calling Isla Baby Spice, although Isla was far from a baby. Roxanne had toned it down over the years, honed her personality, and focused her abundance of energy on trying to save the world.

‘Are you in your right mind, Isla?’ she said, the comedy gone from her voice.

‘Roxanne, I saw Trevor back in July, and he was perfectly pleasant.’

‘Perfectly pleasant, aye? Well it’s your funeral,’ she said, and Isla shivered.

‘So what have you been up to while I’ve been away?’ Isla asked.

‘Work’s busy, busy, busy, and I’m volunteering at an animal shelter on Sundays.’

‘Aw, that’s lovely.’

‘I know. The dogs are so cute. I want to take them all home.’

‘Hey, what about the cats?’

‘Them too.’ Roxanne paused. ‘So are you free Tuesday?’

‘Definitely. What time shall we meet?’

‘Say, seven thirty at the tapas bar?’

‘Sounds great.’

‘OK, gotta run – see you then, Isla. Have fun tonight. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.’

The train continued to roar through the blackness of the evening, picking up and spewing out passengers as it went. Isla gazed at her reflection in the window, and a train thundering by in the other direction made her jump. She was more on edge than she’d realised.

A youth with a lip and nose ring, and a sweatshirt with the word ‘Evil’ splashed across it, had joined the train, and now sat opposite her. He paused from jabbing his phone screen, and leered. She tugged at the hemline of her skirt, cringing with embarrassment, her neck tingling. Thankfully, before she crumbled completely, the train arrived at Cambridge Station.

Incessant rain hammered down from the night sky as the taxi she’d jumped into pulled up outside The Regal, a building that still resembled an old cinema. Isla paid the driver, and with a sigh of relief got out of the back seat. Avoiding puddles, she dashed across the pavement and through the doors of Wetherspoon’s.

‘A large Sauvignon Blanc, please,’ she said as she reached the bar, her hand trembling slightly as she rummaged in her bag for her purse. What had possessed her to come?