Carrie Blake - The Woman Before You - An intense, addictive love story with an unexpected twist...

A division of HarperCollins Publishers

www.harpercollins.co.uk

Harper Impulse

an imprint of HarperCollins Publishers Ltd

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

First published in Great Britain by HarperCollins Publishers 2018

Copyright © 2018 Seven Acres, LLC

Cover design © HarperCollins Publishers Ltd 2018

Cover photograph © Nina Masic / Trevillion Images

Carrie Blake asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue copy of 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, 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.

Source ISBN: 9780008279479

Ebook Edition © May 2018 ISBN: 9780008279462

Version: 2018–03–16

Table of Contents

Cover

Title Page A division of HarperCollins Publishers www.harpercollins.co.uk

Copyright Harper Impulse an imprint of HarperCollins Publishers Ltd 1 London Bridge Street London SE1 9GF www.harpercollins.co.uk First published in Great Britain by HarperCollins Publishers 2018 Copyright © 2018 Seven Acres, LLC Cover design © HarperCollins Publishers Ltd 2018 Cover photograph © Nina Masic / Trevillion Images Carrie Blake asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work. A catalogue copy of 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, 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. Source ISBN: 9780008279479 Ebook Edition © May 2018 ISBN: 9780008279462 Version: 2018–03–16

Prologue Prologue On the day he finally asked me, I knew. This was where everything had been leading, all along. I didn’t ask: What happens now? I didn’t ask: Why me? I didn’t ask: What will I have to do? I didn’t ask: How bad will I have to be? How evil? I waited for him to speak. He smiled at me across the table in the restaurant where he’d just shown me something that had changed everything. Something that put the last part of my life—or maybe my whole life so far and my immediate future—in an entirely new and different light. He didn’t have to explain. He didn’t have to tell me what I’d just seen. He took my hand in his and gently stroked my palm. His hands were smooth and icy cold. As cold as the devil’s, I thought. ‘You’re perfect,’ was all he said. ‘ Perfect .’

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About the Author

About HarperImpulse

About the Publisher

On the day he finally asked me, I knew. This was where everything had been leading, all along. I didn’t ask: What happens now? I didn’t ask: Why me? I didn’t ask: What will I have to do? I didn’t ask: How bad will I have to be? How evil?

I waited for him to speak.

He smiled at me across the table in the restaurant where he’d just shown me something that had changed everything. Something that put the last part of my life—or maybe my whole life so far and my immediate future—in an entirely new and different light.

He didn’t have to explain. He didn’t have to tell me what I’d just seen. He took my hand in his and gently stroked my palm. His hands were smooth and icy cold. As cold as the devil’s, I thought.

‘You’re perfect,’ was all he said. ‘ Perfect .’

It’s always a nasty shock to learn that what you believed was your deepest self, your inner core, was, all along, only your surface. It’s even more shocking to discover how fast that clean, pure surface can crack—and reveal the darkness and dirt beneath.

On the surface I was a nice girl; the girl you want to have coffee with after yoga class, the girl whose shoulder you cry on after your break-up, the girl you call to watch your kids when the babysitter cancels at the last minute.

My senior year in high school, they actually tested us for compassion—to see how much sympathy we had. Our principal’s wife taught in the college psych department, and everyone said that the test was part of her research. We knew that this was probably not approved by the Iowa Board of Education, but no one objected. If you refused to take the test, it meant you had no compassion. You weren’t a nice person. You failed.

The school guidance counselor, Mr Chambers, took us one by one into a side room off the gym, a windowless cubicle that reeked of disinfectant and old sneakers. He asked a lot of questions. I aced the test without trying. Would I risk my life to save someone? Sure. If I won the lottery, how much would I give to charity? Fifty percent. Did I usually assume that a person was telling the truth or lying? Mostly, telling the truth. It depended on who the person was.

Mr Chambers put his hand on my knee. Beads of sweat popped out on his forehead. He stared into my eyes. His eyes were liquid and brimmed with fat tears under his dark bushy eyebrows.

I ignored his hand inching up my leg. I pretended not to notice.

I answered his questions truthfully. I said what I thought. I didn’t have to think. I didn’t mention the fact that, all through the test, his hand kept edging further up my leg. Did he think he was being encouraging and supportive? Affectionate and kind?

Finally, I slapped his hand away, like a pesky mosquito. He raised his hand, and shook it from side to side, as if he were waving goodbye to me. After a few minutes, he put his hand on my leg again. I wanted to say something, to yell at him, to scream. But I didn’t. I just sat there, answering his questions.

To be fair, he never got further than my lower thigh. And maybe that was the real compassion test, underneath the fake one. Question: Did I think Mr Chambers was a disgusting perv who should be locked up for the rest of his life, or did I think he was a sick man who needed help? Answer: I thought he was a disgusting perv who needed help.