Apple of My Eye: The gripping psychological thriller from the USA Today bestseller

I fill a glass with water and take my tablets. Decide I need to get on with my work, where I’ll probably watch someone else die. That’ll be the least distressing part of my day.

CHAPTER TWELVE (#ulink_e14c12f0-36af-59fa-b66d-62f531e40d79)

Eli (#ulink_e14c12f0-36af-59fa-b66d-62f531e40d79)

Work always has the ability to take me away from everything. Even on days like today, when I’m existing after just a few hours’ sleep and trying to wrap my head around the notion that my husband might be cheating on me.

And that someone out there seems intent on doing whatever it takes to let me know about it.

I’m too busy to allow it anything more than fleeting space in my head. I have other people to care for. People to keep comfortable. An emergency respite admission for a young woman who has stage four breast cancer and can’t get any relief from her pain. Emotional support to offer to Mr Connor’s family to keep them from hitting out at one another as their grief rages.

I know how to do this job well.

There’s a comfort in that. There’s stress involved, of course, but it’s a good stress – an adrenaline buzz, but of the good kind.

There’s a huge sense of achievement that comes with making sure someone suffers as little as possible in their last hours and moments. It’s always sad, yes. Don’t get me wrong. I have cried and will cry for many of our patients and for their families, but I feel proud that I can make a horrific experience less so.

So, although I’m dead on my feet and my head’s still aching, I’m almost sorry when my shift ends. I’d happily have stayed on at work for another few hours if they’d let me, but Rachel is ushering me towards the door as soon as staff changeover is done.

‘I’ll be following you out of the door, so on you go. You’re exhausted and I can’t have you taking ill on my conscience. Try, if you can, to relax on your days off.’

I shrug and she gives me a sympathetic look. ‘You know where I am if you need me. The kids are still with their dad, so I’m a free agent.’

‘Well in that case, I’m sure you’ll have much more you could be doing than being bothered with my worries,’ I tell her.

‘You’re my friend, Eli. You and Martin both. I care about you.’

I feel bad for being snappy with her earlier, so I reach out for a hug. ‘I don’t know what I’ve done to deserve you, but thanks for listening.’

‘You’d do the same for me in return,’ she says before opening the door and giving me a gentle push outwards.

When I get into the car, I take my phone from my bag and see a series of messages from Martin, the last of which says his flight was delayed and is now due to land at Belfast just before six. He hopes to be able to make it home before 8.30 p.m. He’s going to call into the police station on his way home and speak to Constable Dawson.

For a moment or two I wonder whether we can just forget it all. Brush it all under the carpet. Can I live with knowing what I know?

I’m afraid to ask him about the allegations. I’m afraid of the argument we’ll have. If he continues to deny it, should I believe him? If he admits it, should I leave?

The thought hits me in the stomach with the force of the kick from my baby that follows. This is not how we planned it. This is not how it’s meant to be.

I know I’ll make it home before him by half an hour or so. I wonder whether to stop and pick up a takeaway on the way home, like I often do on a Saturday night. But this is hardly any normal Saturday night. I’m going home to ask him again, only this time directly, if he’s having an affair. I need to see his face as he answers me. See if I can tell if he’s lying.

I shake my head – I won’t pick up a takeaway. I won’t act as if everything’s normal when it so clearly isn’t. Everything feels sullied.

As I pull out of the hospice driveway and turn left towards the Foyle Bridge, I’m glad my mother’s at home. I imagine Martin won’t feel as glad, even though the pair of them have always got along well. He’s been made aware of my mother’s interrogation techniques from the stories I’ve regaled him with about my youth.

We’d rubbed along quite nicely together. I’ve never given her much trouble, not even as a teenager. But there were a few memorable occasions – some missing vodka from one of the bottles in her drinks’ cabinet, to name one where she went full bad cop on me. I wondered, would she go full bad cop on Martin? Or would she play the good cop role while I lost control of my temper?

CHAPTER THIRTEEN (#ulink_9616f1d7-7c26-5295-bdd7-05cae510493e)

Eli (#ulink_9616f1d7-7c26-5295-bdd7-05cae510493e)

When I get home I find that my mother’s cooked a full roast dinner with all the trimmings and she calls to me that it’s almost ready as I walk into the house. The window by the door’s been fixed. It’s almost as if nothing has happened, but of course it has.

‘Mum, I’ll not be able to eat this, lovely and all as it is,’ I say, trying not to make her feel rejected.

‘Just eat what you can, pet,’ she soothes. ‘You’re just skin and bone and that bump. I don’t know how that baby can be getting everything she needs with you eating so little.’

‘The baby’s fine. The baby’ll take whatever it needs from me, even if I don’t eat much. It leeches it from my system like a little, well, leech, I suppose.’

I watch my mother shudder. ‘That’s a horrible way to think about your baby,’ she scolds.

I don’t think so. I’m pragmatic about these things. Logical. Perhaps it’s my medical training. I look at things differently sometimes. In a detached fashion. The life inside me is a parasite of sorts, after all; not that I’d say that to my mother. She’d be apoplectic with rage at my use of such a word. Even if I qualified it by saying she was a very cute parasite. Even if I don’t reveal just how scared I am that I don’t feel that all-encompassing motherly love so many women talk about.

‘You know I don’t mean it in a bad way,’ I say, smiling at her. ‘Let me go and freshen up. I won’t be long.’

Upstairs, I strip off my uniform and throw it in the laundry basket before having a quick shower. I still feel the need to look and feel more presentable for Martin.

I wonder if the police will have had any new information for him. Maybe I should’ve called myself and checked for updates. Asked if they were looking at any other leads. Mum’s told me that the SOCO team were very nice and understanding but not particularly forthcoming with any information about where the investigation was.

I brush my wet hair out and look at it hanging limply around my face. I need a haircut, I know that. I look in the mirror at the tired eyes looking back at me. They’ve been tired since I became pregnant. I’ve become pale and uninteresting. Could I blame him for looking elsewhere?

I jump when I hear the front door open and close. Hear his voice, muffled, call out a hello and my mother answer, telling him that I’m upstairs and will be down soon.

I sit for a moment, almost too afraid to move. I’m scared to see him.

Martin’s always told me that he knows me like no one else in the world knows me. I like to think I’m the same with him. I can read his facial expressions in seconds. I know the two-second pause that always happens when he’s caught out on a lie. Although, admittedly, in the past it’s been about trivial things, like spending too much money on some silly gadget we haven’t discussed or when some of the Maltesers I keep hidden in the back of the cupboard went missing. It has never before, in the ten-year history of our relationship, been about anything of any great seriousness.

My hand goes to my stomach, instinctively, I suppose. It still shocks me to find a bump there. To feel another being inside me. I glance back into the mirror, start to give myself a little pep talk, and I’m just turning to leave the room, when I hear him bound up the stairs. He always comes up the stairs two at a time like an excited teenager. Even when tired, he still gallops up. Before I know it he’s at the door, pushing the handle down and coming in, his face creased with concern.

‘Eli …’ he says as if he doesn’t know what to say next. Which he probably doesn’t. Life doesn’t prepare you for conversations like this.

I see his face and a mixture of every emotion possible rushes through me. Love. Fear. Betrayal.

‘You’re here,’ I state.

‘I am,’ he says, walking towards me.

I want to hug him. I want him to hold me, but I feel myself holding back.

He senses it. He looks wounded and I feel guilty, but I also feel torn. I shouldn’t be feeling guilty. I should be the one feeling wounded.

If it’s true.

‘I need to ask you to your face and I need you to understand why I’m asking. Are you seeing someone else?’ I blurt.

There’s no pause. Not even a minute one. The wounded look is multiplied. He sags.

‘You shouldn’t need to ask me that,’ he says.