Cass Green - Don’t You Cry - The gripping new psychological thriller from the bestselling author of In a Cottage in a Wood

This is entirely a work of fiction. Any references to real people, living or dead, real events, businesses, organizations and localities are intended only to give the fiction a sense of reality and authenticity. All names, characters and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and their resemblance, if any, to real-life counterparts is entirely coincidental.

HarperCollins Publishers

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London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

First published by HarperCollins Publishers 2018

Copyright © Caroline Green 2018

Caroline Green asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work

Cover design by Micaela Alcaino © HarperCollins Publishers Ltd 2018

Cover photographs © Lee Avison/Trevillion Images;

Shutterstock.com(woman silhouette)

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

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, down-loaded, 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-books

Ebook Edition © SEPTEMBER 2018 ISBN: 9780008287221

Source ISBN: 9780008287214

Version 2018-05-29

Readers: I’m so grateful to each and every one of you.

Table of Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Chapter 1: Nina

Chapter 2: Angel

Chapter 3: Nina

Chapter 4: Lucas

Chapter 5: Nina

Chapter 6: Nina

Chapter 7: Nina

Chapter 8: Angel

Chapter 9: Lucas

Chapter 10: Nina

Chapter 11: Nina

Chapter 12: Angel

Chapter 13: Nina

Chapter 14: Nina

Chapter 15: Lucas

Chapter 16: Nina

Chapter 17: Nina

Chapter 18: Lucas

Chapter 19: Nina

Chapter 20: Angel

Chapter 21: Nina

Chapter 22: Nina

Chapter 23: Lucas

Chapter 24: Nina

Chapter 25: Angel

Chapter 26: Lucas

Chapter 27: Nina

Chapter 28: Angel

Chapter 29: Nina

Chapter 30: Lucas

Chapter 31: Nina

Chapter 32: Angel

Chapter 33: Nina

Chapter 34: Lucas

Chapter 35: Nina

Chapter 36: Angel

Chapter 37: Nina

Chapter 38: Lucas

Chapter 39: Angel

Chapter 40: Nina

Chapter 41: Angel

Chapter 42: Nina

Chapter 43: Lucas

Chapter 44: Angel

Chapter 45: Nina

Chapter 46: Nina

Chapter 47: Nina

Chapter 48: Nina

Chapter 49: Angel

Chapter 50: Lucas

Chapter 51: Nina

Chapter 52: Lucas

Chapter 53: Lucas

Chapter 54: Nina

Chapter 55: Angel

Chapter 56: Nina

Chapter 57: Nick

Chapter 58: Nina

Chapter 59: Angel

Chapter 60: Nina

Chapter 61: Lucas

Chapter 62: Nina

Acknowledgements:

Keep Reading …

About the Author

Also by Cass Green

About the Publisher

The sun still blasts through the restaurant windows at seven pm, showcasing dust on the red plastic table cloths and monochrome movie stars on the walls. Even Sophia Loren is looking the worse for wear as she smiles down on my table-for-two, her picture yellowing and wrinkled in the unforgiving light. Two large ceiling fans churn the soupy air, bringing no relief.

The initial, barbecue-novelty of this heatwave has long passed and most of the passers-by now share the same shiny, bad-tempered patina. There’s a fraught, irritable energy in the heavy air. Earlier, on the bus into town, a young woman had unleashed a barrage of swearing at an old man she accused of hogging all the space on their double seat. Physical contact with strangers is even less welcome than it ever was.

I pluck at my neckline to let in some air; sweat is gathering under the seams of my bra. Because I’ve been living in vest tops, baggy old shorts and flip-flops after work lately, I feel imprisoned by this outfit. I don’t even like this dress that much, nor the sandals that supposedly go with it, which seem to be made mainly from barbed wire and sandpaper.

I bought the shoes and the dress from a shop I normally avoid because it’s so expensive, deciding I needed to be bolder, braver, in my wardrobe choices.

Making any kind of decisions the day after your husband of fifteen years moves out of the family home and in with his new, younger partner, isn’t, it transpires, the brightest idea.

I picture her; reasonable, smiling Laura with her huge, moist eyes and her, ‘I really hope we can become friends, Nina.’

Friends.

Ian posted a picture on Facebook today; the two of them looking tanned and happy outside a pub. Laura’s face was turned to him like a heliotrope seeking sunshine. He seems to have dropped ten years in that picture and it stung, I can tell you. If that wasn’t bad enough, Carmen, my supposed best friend, had liked the post. It was as though she’d forgotten all that stuff about being ‘better off without him’. Forgotten about my broken heart.

So, I’d bashed out a furious private message to her. She’d claimed it was ‘difficult’ because we all ‘went back a long way’ and a load of other rubbish that finally made me snap. I’m pretending not to see the missed calls and four texts she has sent since then.

It’s fair to say that it has been a shitty day.

I usually love this time of year. The thought of six weeks away from the comprehensive where I work as an English teacher should be something to relish. All those weeks without lesson planning, marking and having to mop up hormonal teenage angst. Lots of time to hang out at home. The extended summer holiday usually includes some lesson planning and a couple of meetings, but for now it stretches ahead of me. That is the problem, in a nutshell.

Last night, my twelve-year-old son, Sam, went off to stay with Ian and Laura before travelling with them to visit Laura’s parents, who live in Provence. I’ve seen the pictures of where they’re going. It’s all turquoise shutters and tumbling wisteria. Idyllic. There’s even a small pool. But the icing on the cake is the resident dog, a shaggy-haired golden retriever. Sam has always wanted a dog but Ian’s allergy to pets meant it was a no-go. I can’t help enjoying the thought of Ian spending the whole holiday sneezing. Maybe I’ll get the biggest, hairiest dog I can find while they’re away. That’ll show him.

I pretended to be excited for Sam, however hard it was to mould my mouth and face into the required shapes for a response. I want him to have a lovely time. Of course I do, but the idea of rattling around the house on my own, picturing them all together as they amble down sun-sparkled lanes surrounded by lavender fields, causes a panicky emptiness to swell inside my chest.

Must snap out of this. I take a swig of my tepid white wine and blink hard. I wish I had thought to bring something to read, or at least my iPad. I’d been watching something on Netflix in the bath, and I left it on the side. Ian disapproved of this and now I do it as often as possible in a pathetic act of rebellion.