Sarah Pinborough - Behind Her Eyes - The Sunday Times #1 best selling psychological thriller

Published by HarperCollins Publishers Ltd

1 London Bridge Street

London, SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

First published in Great Britain by HarperCollins Publishers 2017

Copyright © Sarah Pinborough 2017

Cover design © HarperCollins Publishers Ltd 2017

Sarah Pinborough 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: 9780008131999

Ebook Edition © January 2017 ISBN: 9780008131982

Version: 2017-11-02

‘Set to be one of the most talked-about books of 2017’

GOOD HOUSEKEEPING

‘Fantastically creepy’

GUARDIAN

‘Original and compelling,

this is the very definition of a page-turner’

SUN

‘In a really crowded thriller market,

Behind Her Eyes leaves its competition

trailing in the dust’

RED

‘Everyone will be talking about this book’

STYLIST

For Tasha,

Words just don’t cover it. All I can say is thanks for everything and the drinks are on me.

Three can keep a secret if two are dead.

Benjamin Franklin

Table of Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Praise for Behind Her Eyes

Dedication

Epigraph

Part One

Chapter 1: Then

Chapter 2: Later

Chapter 3: Now

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7: Then

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11: Then

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16: Then

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Part Two

Chapter 19

Chapter 20: Then

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25: Then

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31: Then

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Part Three

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39: Then

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45: Then

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50: Then

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

Chapter 53

Chapter 54

Chapter 55

Chapter 56: After

Chapter 57: Then

Chapter 58

Extract from CROSS HER HEART

Acknowledgements

About the Author

About the Publisher

Pinch myself and say I AM AWAKE once an hour.

Look at my hands. Count my fingers.

Look at clock (or watch), look away, look back.

Stay calm and focused.

Think of a door.

It was nearly light when it was finally done. A streaky grey wash across the canvas of sky. Dry leaves and mud clung to his jeans, and his weak body ached as his sweat cooled in the damp, chill air. A thing had been done that could not be undone. A terrible necessary act. An ending and a beginning now knotted up for ever. He expected the hues of the world to change to reflect that, but the earth and heavens remained the same muted shades, and there was no tremble of anger from the trees. No weeping whisper of wind. No siren wailed in the distance. The woods were just the woods, and the dirt was just the dirt. He let out a long breath and it felt surprisingly good. Clean. A new dawn. A new day.

He walked in silence towards the remains of the house in the distance. He didn’t look back.

There’s still mud under my fingernails when David finally comes home. I can feel it stinging against my raw skin, deep under the beds. My stomach twists, wringing fresh nerves out as the front door shuts, and for a moment we just look at each other from opposite ends of the long corridor of our new Victorian house, a tract of perfectly polished wood between us, before he turns, swaying slightly, towards the sitting room. I take a deep breath and join him, flinching at each of the hard beats of my heels against the floorboards. I must not be afraid. I need to repair this. We need to repair this.

‘I’ve cooked dinner,’ I say, trying not to sound too needy. ‘Only a stroganoff. It can keep until tomorrow if you’ve already eaten.’

He’s facing away from me, staring at our bookshelves that the unpackers have filled from the boxes. I try not to think about how long he’s been gone. I’ve cleaned up the broken glass, swept and scrubbed the floor, and dealt with the garden. All evidence of earlier rage has been removed. I rinsed my mouth out after every glass of wine I drank in his absence so he won’t smell it on me. He doesn’t like me to drink. Only ever a glass or two in company. Never alone. But tonight I couldn’t help it.

Even if I haven’t entirely got the dirt out from under my nails, I’ve showered and changed into a powder blue dress and matching heels, and put make-up on. No trace of tears and fighting. I want us to wash it all away. This is our fresh start. Our new beginning. It has to be.

‘I’m not hungry.’ He turns to face me then, and I can see a quiet loathing in his eyes, and I bite back a sudden urge to cry. I think this emptiness is worse than his anger. Everything I’ve worked so hard to build really is crumbling. I don’t care that he’s drunk again. I only want him to love me like he used to. He doesn’t even notice the effort I’ve made since he stormed out. How busy I’ve been. How I look. How I’ve tried .

‘I’m going to bed,’ he says. He doesn’t look me in the eye, and I know that he means the spare room. Two days into our fresh start, and he won’t be sleeping with me. I feel the cracks between us widen once more. Soon we won’t be able to reach each other across them. He walks carefully around me and I want to touch his arm but am too afraid of how he will react. He seems disgusted by me. Or perhaps it’s his disgust at himself radiating in my direction.

‘I love you,’ I say, softly. I hate myself for it, and he doesn’t answer but unsteadily clambers the stairs as if I’m not there. I hear his footsteps recede and then a door closing.

After a moment of staring at the space where he no longer is, listening to my patchwork heart breaking, I go back to the kitchen and turn the oven off. I won’t keep it for tomorrow. It would taste sour on the memory of today. Dinner’s ruined. We’re ruined. I sometimes wonder if he wants to kill me and be done with it all. Get rid of the albatross around his neck. Perhaps some part of me wants to kill him too.