Amanda Brittany - Tell the Truth - Or they’ll tell it for you…

AMANDA BRITTANY lives in Hertfordshire with her husband and two dogs. When she’s not writing, she loves spending time with family, travelling, walking, reading & sunny days. Her debut novel Her Last Lie reached the Kindle top 100 in the US and Australia and was a #1 Bestseller in the UK. 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 almost £7,000.

Visit amandabrittany.co.ukto find out more.

‘ An exciting new voice– 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

‘I was drawn in right from the rather original prologue and did not see that twist coming!’

Diane Jeffrey, author of Those Who Lie ’

Her Last Lie

HQ

An imprint of HarperCollins Publishers Ltd.

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

First published in Great Britain by HQ in 2018

Copyright © Amanda Brittany 2018

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.

E-book Edition © December 2018 ISBN: 9780008305390

Version: 2018-11-28

Table of Contents

Cover

About the Author

Praise for Amanda Brittany

Also by Amanda Brittany

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

Chapter 53

Chapter 54

Acknowledgements

Extract

Dear Reader

Thank You for Reading

Keep Reading …

About the Publisher

With loving thanks to my mum, for always believing in me.

And to my dad for proudly reading everything I wrote –

I wish you were here to read Tell the Truth.

Born or made? In my genes, or was it what happened to me as a child? Maybe I was dropped on my head at birth.

I laugh inside. They tried to find out once: the shrinks. They talked to me for hours, those who thought they knew. They couldn’t see I would kill again.

I never meant to kill the first time – extinguish a life. Yes, the anger bubbled even then, but it wasn’t meant to end in death.

The second kill was different. I sent David and Janet Green up in smoke like a Guy Fawkes effigy. They deserved to die. To scream as flames licked their bodies, and thick, black smoke invaded their lungs.

It was the same with Ronan, and again with Flora.

They all deserved to die.

Now there are more lives to take. But this time I’m going to make a game of it – have some fun. And when the game is over, I will drop off the edge of the world, into oblivion, my job here done.

December 2017

The soft sofa felt as though it might swallow me. Suffocate me in its bright yellow fabric. I wasn’t keen on yellow, unless worn by a daffodil or buttercup. It tended to reflect off my normally healthy-looking skin, giving me an unflattering jaundiced complexion that clashed with my blood-red hair.

It was hot in the TV studio, but it was too late to remove my hoodie. The clock said almost eleven, and Emmy – the nation’s favourite morning presenter – had flicked me the nod. She was about to introduce me.

But I was crumbling, anxiety flooding through my veins. I had an excuse. Lawrence had left me.

A cameraman slid his heavy camera across the studio floor towards me. It seemed threatening somehow – a metal monster. I rolled my tongue over my dry lips, my throat closing up. Was I going to cope? I reached for the glass of sparkling water beside me, and gulped it back. I was about to talk about childhood memories to millions of people sitting in front of their TV sets at home. How was I going to do that, when I couldn’t shake Lawrence’s departure last night from my head?

Emmy finished telling the viewers about Stephen King’s latest novel – another nod in my direction. She had a pile of hardbacks on the table in front of her: Stephen King, Paula Hawkins, and Felix T Clarke. If she’d asked for my opinion I would have told her I love them all. That I adored Inspector Bronte, Felix T Clarke’s character who had come to life in over ten novels.

I scanned the studio, trying to stop my knee from jumping, still amazed Emmy had swung it for me to be here.

‘You’re perfect, Rachel,’ the producer had said when I met her. ‘The public will love your casual style, and your pixie cut is appealing – you’ve got a bit of a post-Hermione Emma Watson thing going on.’

I wish.

Five years ago, Lawrence loved my look, which, come to think of it, hadn’t changed since then. Perhaps that’s why he left. But then he’d once loved that I was a casual kind of gal, who lived in jeans, T-shirts, and hoodies. They say opposites attract, so when did I start to repel him? When did I pass my sell-by date in Lawrence’s eyes? When was the first time he suggested I wore heels, or that I might look good in a figure-hugging dress?

‘I want Grace in my life, Rach,’ he’d said last night about our four-year-old daughter, folding his arms across his toned chest. He didn’t have to say but not you – the words were in his eyes.

I admit I over-reacted, fired abuse at him, hoping to inflict pain. ‘I’ll move away. You won’t see Grace, if I have anything to do with it.’