Amanda Brittany - Traces of Her

Amanda Brittanylives in Hertfordshire with her husband and two dogs. When she’s not writing, she loves spending time with family, travelling, walking, reading and sunny days. Her debut, Her Last Lie reached the Kindle top 100 in the US and Australia and was a #1 Bestseller in the UK. It has also been optioned for film. Her second psychological thriller Tell The Truth reached the Kindle top 100 in the US & was a #1 Bestseller in the US. All her ebook royalties for Her Last Lie are being donated to Cancer Research UK, in memory of her sister who lost her battle with cancer in July 2017. It has so far raised over £7,500.

‘Brittany reels readers in with this twisty, clever thriller that will have you second-guessing everything’

Phoebe Morgan, author of The Doll House

‘Brilliant, pacey, and will leave you suspecting everyone is involved!’

Darren O’Sullivan, author of Our Little Secret

‘Totally gripping’

Reader Review

‘I had to keep turning the pages’

Reader Review

‘A lot of twists and turns … it didn’t disappoint’

Reader Review

Her Last Lie

Tell The Truth

HQ

An imprint of HarperCollins Publishers Ltd.

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

First published in Great Britain by HQ in 2019

Copyright © Amanda Brittany 2019

Amanda Brittany asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

Source ISBN: 9780008331184

E-book Edition © October 2019 ISBN: 9780008305406

Version: 2019-09-16

Table of Contents

Cover

About the Author

Praise for Amanda Brittany

Also by Amanda Brittany

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Prologue

Chapter 1: Rose

Chapter 2: Ava

Chapter 3: Rose

Chapter 4: Ava

Chapter 5: Ava

Chapter 6: Rose

Chapter 7: Ava

Chapter 8: You

Chapter 9: Rose

Chapter 10: Ava

Chapter 11: Rose

Chapter 12: Rose

Chapter 13: Rose

Chapter 14: Ava

Chapter 15: You

Chapter 16: Rose

Chapter 17: Ava

Chapter 18: Rose

Chapter 19: Ava

Chapter 20: Rose

Chapter 21: Ava

Chapter 22: You

Chapter 23: Rose

Chapter 24: Ava

Chapter 25: Rose

Chapter 26: Rose

Chapter 27: Rose

Chapter 28: Ava

Chapter 29: Ava

Chapter 30: Ava

Chapter 31: Rose

Chapter 32: Ava

Chapter 33: Rose

Chapter 34: Ava

Chapter 35: You

Chapter 36: Rose

Chapter 37: Rose

Chapter 38: Ava

Chapter 39: Rose

Chapter 40: Ava

Chapter 41: Rose

Chapter 42: Ava

Chapter 43: You

Chapter 44: Rose

Chapter 45: Ava

Chapter 46: Rose

Chapter 47: Rose

Chapter 48: Ava

Chapter 49: You

Chapter 50: Rose

Chapter 51: Rose

Chapter 52: Rose

Chapter 53: Rose

Chapter 54: Ava

Chapter 55: Ava

Chapter 56: Ava

Chapter 57: Rose

Chapter 58: You

Chapter 59: Rose

Chapter 60: Rose

Chapter 61: Ava

Rose

Epilogue

Acknowledgements

Extract

A Letter from Amanda

Dear Reader …

Keep Reading …

About the Publisher

To Liam, Daniel, Luke, Lucy & Janni.

She lies on the sand dressed in yellow satin, a ring of sodden flowers clinging to her blonde hair like seaweed. The pendant around her slim neck says ‘Mummy’ – a gift from Willow.

Grasses stir in the howling wind and a mist rolls in from the Celtic Sea, moving over her lifeless body – ghosts waiting to take her hand and lead her away from this lonely place where seagulls cry.

A man will come soon. He walks his border collie at the same time each morning along the same sandy path that edges the sea in Bostagel, and today will be no different.

He will stride with the aid of his stick; grey hair flapping in the wind, calling after his dog. Content with his lot.

Then he will see her body, and her sister’s wedding dress folded neatly on the rocks. The shock will stay with him forever.

He will call the police.

Sirens will pierce the silent air.

The youngest Millar girl is dead. Stabbed repeatedly.

‘Rest in peace, young Millar girls,’ they will say.

‘Willow! Thank God,’ I say, my mobile pressed to my ear. She’s disappeared before. In fact, her ability to take off without explanation is something we’ve learned to live with over the last few years.

‘Rose,’ she says. ‘Rose I’m …’ Her voice is apprehensive, and I imagine her twirling a strand of her long blonde hair around her finger, something she’s done since childhood. ‘I’m sorry I haven’t called before.’

‘Well, you’re calling now. That’s what’s important,’ I say, always aware how fragile she is. ‘And it’s good to hear your voice, Willow.’ It’s only been a month, but I’ve missed her.

I drop down onto the edge of the sofa, my eyes flicking to the photograph above my open fireplace: me at fifteen – lanky, with lifeless hair and acne; Willow, a beautiful child of three sitting on my knee, her expression blank, bewildered. It was the day I met her.

‘We had no idea if you were OK,’ I say, although there was nothing new there. In fairness, she put a couple of generic updates on Facebook about a week ago. ‘Where are you?’

‘Cornwall.’

‘Cornwall?’

‘I’m staying at a cottage in Bostagel near Newquay …’ She breaks off, and I sense she has more to say, but a silence falls between us.

‘Why didn’t you call or text?’ I ask.

‘Sorry,’ she says. ‘The signal’s erratic down here. And, if I’m honest, I needed to get my head straight before I spoke to any of you about …’ She stops.

‘About what, Willow?’ I clear my throat. ‘About what?’

‘It’s … well … the thing is, someone paid for me to stay here until August.’

‘Someone?’

‘I don’t know who, Rose. I got a message on Facebook and—’

‘You just took off?’ I can’t hide the irritation at her naivety. ‘Someone paid for you to stay in Cornwall, and you’ve no idea who?’

‘No, but, hear me out, Rose. There’s so much you don’t know,’ she says in a rush. ‘But I can’t tell you over the phone. You never know who’s listening.’