Ingrid Alexandra: The New Girl: A gripping psychological thriller with a shocking twist perfect for fans of Friend Request

Published by AVON

A Division of HarperColl‌insPublishers Ltd

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

First published in Great Britain by HarperColl‌insPublishers 2018

Copyright © Ingrid Alexandra 2018

Cover design © Alison Groom 2018

Cover photography © Shutterstock

Ingrid Alexandra 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: 9780008293819

Ebook Edition © July 2018 ISBN: 9780008293802

Version: 2018-06-19

For Vidar, for everything.

Table of Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

Chapter Thirty-Three

Chapter Thirty-Four

Chapter Thirty-Five

Chapter Thirty-Six

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Chapter Forty

Chapter Forty-One

Chapter Forty-Two

Chapter Forty-Three

Chapter Forty-Four

Chapter Forty-Five

Chapter Forty-Six

Chapter Forty-Seven

Chapter Forty-Eight

Acknowledgements

About the Author

About the Publisher

The smell of blood lingers. It’s on my clothes, though they have been washed clean. On my skin, though I’ve scrubbed it raw.

Light is shining through a crack in the door. The yolk-orange glow steals across the bedroom like an intruder, illuminating the white, pinstriped shirt that hangs from the clothes horse. The empty sleeves dangle, twitching now and then in the breeze from the window.

I tune my ears to the sounds in the next room. He’s pacing, thinking. ‘ Mary, ’ he mutters. ‘ Mary, Mary. ’

As I curl against the cold wall, my skin tingles with adrenalin. He always said I couldn’t be trusted. Now, he’s right. In the closet, under a pile of dirty laundry, there’s an overnight bag. It’s an old one of my mother’s with white daisies embroidered on dark green canvas. A toothbrush, some make-up and a few items of clothing are all it contains. They’ve been waiting there, waiting for the right moment.

Footsteps sound in the hall and stop outside the door. I hold my breath. The tide is rising, and I can hear the waves as they swell and crash on the nearby shore.

The door opens and he stands, silhouetted by the hall light.

‘Mary, Mary, quite contrary,’ he slurs, the hint of a sneer in his voice. ‘What are we going to do with you?’

I heave over the basin, but there’s nothing left to come up. I spit, turn on the tap and splash my face. It’s bad this time, worse than usual. But I know it won’t stop me. I’ll only do it again.

Gulping a mouthful of stale water from the mug on the sink, I take a deep breath and tiptoe out of the bathroom. Sunlight streams through the floor-to-ceiling windows that lead to the balcony, making me squint. The sky glares sapphire blue, the overzealous shrieks of children and families drift up from the shore below. People out and about, doing whatever it is regular people do on a Sunday afternoon.

Cat is in the open-plan kitchen by the counter, bent forward and shaking out her shower-wet hair. Her fingers comb the long, raven-black strands and fat beads of water drip onto the kitchen floor.

‘I’m still freaking out about that accident,’ she says through her hair. ‘You could have been killed.’

I watch her upside-down face, forcing down my irritation. I could slip in the puddle she’s making and crack my skull on the tiles. Then I might really be killed. ‘It’s nothing, just a dent.’

‘It’s not the car I’m worried about.’ Cat tilts her head, one perfectly shaped eyebrow arched. I wonder if she knows I lied about how much I’d had before getting behind the wheel.

I sip the coffee she’s made me but it tastes too bitter. ‘The car barely hit me. Nothing a little buffing can’t get rid of.’

‘Which I’ll sort out,’ Ben interjects, winking at me over his shoulder as he nudges past Cat to get to the kitchen sink. He pours himself a glass of water and swallows it back in three large gulps. ‘Once the hangover wears off.’

‘Ugh. I guarantee mine’s worse than yours,’ Cat moans, flipping herself back upright and pushing her wet hair over her shoulder as she leans against the kitchen counter. She looks fine to me. I’m positive I’m the most hung-over. ‘Whose idea was it to crack open the vodka?’

Ben and I exchange a look, but before I can be found guilty, Cat’s phone rings and she jumps, knocking over the empty cocktail pitcher. It clatters loudly into the sink and my head pounds in response. ‘Shit. I’ll get that in a sec. This could be about the room.’

Retrieving the pitcher, I make a half-hearted attempt at clearing some of the house-warming collateral while Cat takes the call.

Ben steps over a squashed lime wedge and right into the puddle on the floor. He slips and yelps, arms shooting out, hands finding my shoulders and clamping on. His fingers dig into my flesh.

I gasp, my chest contracting. Ben’s laughing, his feet skidding on the floor. Suddenly the ground slips out from under me and my spine connects with something hard. Spots of light dance before my eyes.

‘What are you two doing?’ Cat shakes her head, one hand on her hip, the other holding her phone in the air. ‘You both look retarded.’ She looks at me and her brow furrows. ‘Mary?’

I shake my head, ducking to hide the tears. When I look up, Ben’s there, his face close. His irises are a strange colour – not quite brown, not quite green.

‘I’m sorry. Did I hurt you?’ he asks.

I can’t answer; my throat is too tight.

‘Sorry …’ Ben says again, but his kindness is too much. I turn away. Ben lets me go, clears his throat. ‘You know,’ he says, addressing Cat, ‘it’s actually your fault we’re in this … situation.’ He points to the tiles, which are now more grubby and smeared than wet.