Behind Read online

  The Life She Left Behind

  An absolutely gripping and heartbreaking page-turner

  Nicole Trope

  Books by Nicole Trope

  The Life She Left Behind

  The Nowhere Girl

  The Boy in the Photo

  My Daughter’s Secret

  Available in Audio

  The Nowhere Girl (Available in the UK and the US)

  The Boy in the Photo (Available in the UK and the US)

  My Daughter’s Secret (Available in the UK and the US)

  Contents

  Prologue

  1. Rachel

  2. Ben

  3. Little Bird

  4. Kevin

  5. Rachel

  6. Ben

  7. Little Bird

  8. Kevin

  9. Rachel

  10. Ben

  11. Little Bird

  12. Kevin

  13. Rachel

  14. Ben

  15. Little Bird

  16. Kevin

  17. Rachel

  18. Ben

  19. Little Bird

  20. Kevin

  21. Rachel

  22. Ben

  23. Little Bird

  24. Kevin

  25. Rachel

  26. Ben

  27. Little Bird

  28. Kevin

  29. Rachel

  30. Ben

  31. Little Bird

  32. Kevin

  33. Rachel and Ben

  34. Little Bird

  35. Veronica

  36. Kevin

  37. Rachel and Ben

  38. Ben

  39. Rachel

  40. Kevin

  41. Rachel

  Epilogue

  The Boy in the Photo

  Hear More from Nicole

  Books by Nicole Trope

  A Letter from Nicole

  The Nowhere Girl

  My Daughter’s Secret

  Acknowledgements

  *

  Prologue

  The winter air is sharp with cold, the wind howling around them, drowning out the sound of their pounding footsteps.

  She cannot remember the last time she was outside after midnight, when light and the morning seem impossibly far away. She cannot remember the last time she ran anywhere, and her panting breath alerts her to her lack of stamina.

  The cold sneaks in under her layers, finding exposed skin to taunt. It’s hard to imagine summer ever returning. But then it’s impossible to imagine tomorrow right now, to see a life for herself after this. How will she go on if the worst has happened? She risks a glance to the side. How will they go on?

  He continues to up his pace and she struggles to keep up with him, her head moving left and right, dark patches and shadows surrounding her. Fear catches in her throat and she coughs.

  Her breath condenses in front of her and she has a sudden memory of herself as a child standing outside on a winter’s morning, blowing out and watching, fascinated, as her breath emerged in a cloud of white in the frigid air. She is no longer a child but she feels like one, overwhelmed by confusion, by her lack of control.

  How has this happened?

  How could I not have known?

  Is this what I deserve?

  The street is eerily silent, the barren housing plots looming large in the darkness, threatening them with their emptiness.

  There is a slight hum of cars coming from the highway in the distance, where nothing stops the endless streams of traffic – not the dark nor the cold nor the late hour.

  She is dressed for the weather, with her coat on and a beanie hat, but she regrets it now that she’s running. Her hands are freezing but she can feel a trickle of sweat make its way down her back. She pushes her body to move faster, pushes against the wind that seems determined to send her backwards. They need to get there quickly.

  We’re coming, baby. We’re coming.

  ‘Come alone,’ he had instructed.

  But she’s not alone.

  ‘Don’t tell anyone,’ he had commanded.

  But she has told someone.

  ‘I just want to talk,’ he had stated.

  But what could there be to say?

  ‘I won’t hurt her,’ he had promised.

  She knows that’s a lie.

  1

  Rachel

  It’s not a sound that wakes her, more a feeling, a thickening of the air that indicates a presence in the house. She sits up on her bed, her heart already racing as she strains to hear something. Your imagination, she tries to convince herself. She swings her legs over the side of the bed, sinking her feet into the plush carpet, grounding herself. ‘Your imagination,’ she whispers. They’ve only lived here for two weeks and she’s not yet used to the night-time sounds of the house. In their old apartment she could tell the time by the movement of other residents in the building. Mr Hong always returned from his work shift at ten o’clock. He lived next door and she always felt herself relax as his key clicked in the lock, knowing it would soon be time for sleep. Mrs Davos, on the floor above, slammed her front door and huffed downstairs at six every morning to hang her washing in the communal garden. Milly from the first floor sang on her way out of her flat when she left at eight. She made up songs about the kind of day it was and how she was feeling.

  She had not thought she would miss those noises but right now she feels her isolation, her distance from everyone else in her large, quiet house. The furniture they brought from the flat was not enough to fill it. Generous spaces, like the dining room and the formal lounge, remain open and empty.

  She listens again, hoping she will hear nothing or that she will identify a sound as something familiar. She hopes that she’s just had a dream as she dozed over her book, but as she leans forward, she hears something. A sharp thump.

  It is obviously the sound of a foot bumping into something, a misplaced step by someone unsure of the layout of the house, someone who is unaware that there are piles of unopened boxes everywhere. She takes in a deep, shocked breath. It’s not possible. Is it possible? She grabs her mobile phone off the bedside table and holds her breath so she can hear better, undisturbed by even the sound of her own breathing. Swish, swish, thump. Another misplaced step. She leaps off her bed and stands at the top of the stairs, looking down into the house where the entrance hall and kitchen lights are on because Ben will be home soon. She strains to hear something, afraid that she won’t be able to hear anything over the loud thudding of her own heart.

  Another sound, another misplaced footstep. Someone is in the house. Someone is actually in the house.

  She opens her mouth to call out because maybe it’s Ben. It could be Ben. But then she closes her mouth again. Her husband enters the house with noises she’s grown used to over the last couple of weeks. He shuts the door that leads from the double garage to the kitchen and then he checks the lock: click, click. He drops his briefcase in the kitchen – thwack – and then he always reaches for a glass for some water: gush, swish.

  Then if she isn’t in the kitchen, he calls for her: ‘Home, babe.’

  Please say, ‘Home, babe,’ she prays. Please say, ‘Home, babe.’ Please be bumping into things because you’ve had a couple of drinks or you’re tired. But there is only silence.

  She swipes her thumb across her phone, checking her location app for Ben’s phone. The noise has not come from Ben. Her husband is still at work, still forty-five minutes away, even in the light late-night traffic. She is frozen where she stands, her mouth so dry she can’t swallow and she has to suppress a cough. She takes a step forward and a shape jumps out at her, making her stomach drop. She gasps in fear but the shape doesn’t move and she realises that it’s a stack of boxes, nearly as tall as her, filled with extra linen and towels, waiting to be unpac
ked. She holds her breath again, listening.

  Downstairs the footsteps move with more purpose now. She bites down on her lip, holding back a cry of fear. She needs to get to Beth, needs to keep her daughter safe. She tiptoes, silent footstep after silent footstep, across the landing to Beth’s room. Once inside she closes the door, grateful for its silent glide over the thick carpet. She turns the lock slowly, hoping that the click sound it makes when it catches won’t alert the intruder. Once it’s locked, she breathes a sigh of relief but then panic ricochets around her body once more. She can see her little girl is deeply asleep, her night light twirling, the butterfly shapes fluttering their pink wings in the dim light. The room smells of the strawberry-scented shampoo she uses to wash Beth’s hair. Such an ordinary night. ‘Head back, Beth, don’t squirm. Story time now. Time for sleep, darling, night night.’ Such an ordinary night filled with all the ordinary tasks raising a young child brings.

  But nothing is ordinary anymore. Because someone is in her house. Her home that still doesn’t quite feel like it belongs to her, that is not yet familiar but is supposed to be her safe space. She clutches her phone hard as terrifying images of her and her daughter being attacked flash through her mind. She is not safe. They are not safe.

  She breathes deeply. Calm down, she tells herself. She needs to be calm, to think. The butterflies twirl and the strawberry scent gets stronger. Beth’s chest rises and falls slowly, sleep holding her tight.

  Rachel’s hand shakes. She doesn’t know what to do. She needs to… She can’t seem to think straight. Panic swirls through her brain, smothering all other thoughts. ‘Ben,’ she whispers as if she could summon him. Ben, she thinks. Ben will know what to do. Ben always knows what to do.

  She calls her husband, pinpricks of fear dancing over her skin. ‘Someone’s in the house,’ she whispers. She explains – the sound, her fear, and he tells her what to do.

  ‘Call the police, I’m coming, call the police.’

  His voice is panicked. If he is panicked, she’s in trouble. ‘Relax,’ he always tells her. ‘It will be fine,’ he usually says. Ben believes things will always work themselves out. But he doesn’t say that now. ‘Call the police,’ he says, urgency hiking his voice.

  Why hadn’t she thought to do that? Of course, she should have done that first.

  Her trembling fingers dial 000. When a voice answers, she has to squeeze her hand into a fist, her nails digging into her palm.

  Don’t ever tell, don’t tell anyone. Promise me you’ll never tell. Especially not the police.

  The words are ingrained in her psyche, part of who she is – but this is different. Now, she is not telling. She is not bringing up the past at all. She is asking for help, just asking for help.

  She gives him the details in a stuttering whisper, her heart pounding in her ears, almost unable to catch her breath.

  ‘They’re on their way now,’ a man with a liquid-calm voice assures her. ‘Don’t leave the room, sit tight, they’re coming.’ Rachel wishes the man on the line were right here with her, sitting next to her, reassuring her as he is doing on the phone. She imagines him as a tall man with broad shoulders. He is certain she will be fine. He must be right. He has to be right.

  She slumps down next to her daughter’s bed, trying to control her breathing, her arms wrapped around her knees, her phone clutched tightly in her hand, turned to silent. The room is warm, the slight hum of the heater the only noise in the silence.

  All is quiet but then she hears someone coming up the stairs, the unmistakable sound of footsteps on the plush carpet that still retains its slightly chemical new smell. A whoosh, a thump. A shadow appears under the door and she freezes, trying to disappear into stillness.

  Is it Ben? Is he home? Is he playing some sort of strange joke on her?

  No, it can’t be Ben, of course it can’t be. He wouldn’t do that. She just called him. He told her to call the police. She’s not thinking straight.

  The door handle twists, slowly, quietly.

  She glances over at her daughter, hoping she is still asleep. Stay asleep, she prays, please stay asleep. She touches her own chest, trying to still her racing heart.

  The door handle twists again, a more violent movement this time as though the person outside is trying to break the lock. She can’t let them in. She can’t let them near Beth.

  ‘I’ve called… called… called the police.’ Her voice trembles as she speaks. All the lessons on strangers, all the warnings about crime float through her head. Is she about to become a statistic, a story on the news? And Beth? What will happen to her child? She stifles a sob, bites down on her hand to stop her terror escaping.

  The door handle twists again. She feels like she might throw up.

  Crawling towards the door on her hands and knees, she says, ‘I’ve called the police,’ her voice a little stronger this time. She is locked inside and they cannot get in. Can they get in? Where are the police?

  She feels like she’s having a heart attack. Is thirty-five too young for a heart attack? Is this how she dies? Right here, right now? What about Beth? What will happen to Beth?

  She feels tears on her cheeks. She bites down on her lip. Stop it, stop it, she cautions herself.

  And then miraculously, wondrously, a siren fills the air. She holds her hand across her mouth because she wants to shout with joy. They’re coming, they’re coming.

  She senses that the intruder has moved away from the door. Then she hears the sound of running footsteps as they go down the stairs.

  The atmosphere changes. The air feels lighter. They’re gone – whoever they are –they’re gone. She should just sit here and wait, but how will the police get in? She doesn’t want them to have to break down the front door, scare her baby girl.

  Slowly, cautiously, she opens Beth’s door, grateful that the heavy sleep of childhood has kept her daughter lost in her dreams. She peers around the door, her hand ready to slam it in case they’re still here, but she can feel they are gone. She’s sure of it.

  As the police begin pounding on the front door, she sees it.

  At first, she thinks it’s a trick of the mind, her imagination working overtime. She cannot be seeing what she thinks she’s seeing. It’s not possible and yet there it is.

  It shouldn’t be possible. Yet there it is.

  She leans down and picks it up, almost expecting her fingers to move through it as though it were a hologram. But her hand closes around it; its small plastic weight is solid. She shoves it in the pocket of her pyjama bottoms and then she flies down the stairs to open the door for the police.

  2

  Ben

  His mobile phone startles him, ringing with the song that played at their wedding, a title he can’t remember. She changed the ringtone for him. ‘So you’ll know it’s me calling,’ she smiled. He likes it, likes to remember her in the floor-length cream dress with the ruffle of roses along the bottom. He had heard about the dress for weeks. The dress, the veil, the flowers, the food – but all he had cared about was getting to call her his wife. He had, before her, agreed with all his friends that he didn’t want marriage, didn’t need to be tied down, but then he met Rachel and he knew that he needed to tether himself to her. He wanted to watch the way people looked at him when he introduced himself as her husband. ‘Batting above your weight there, mate,’ his father had laughed the first time he’d met her. He had to agree. Her honey-brown hair, sage-green eyes and delicate features lent her an ethereal appearance, as though it were possible that she wasn’t quite real. But she was, of course. When she laughed really hard her face scrunched up and she made a hooting sound. She loved Monty Python and funny birthday cards. She craved Indian food and hummed advertising jingles while she did the washing. She was shy and quiet in front of strangers and had only a couple of good friends, but she would stop and pet every dog she walked past.

  He likes to remember the way she looked at their wedding, just before their song started playing, when she t
ipped her glass of champagne and winked at him at the same time, a promise of the night ahead. She lost some of her reserve when she drank, became flirty and funny. They hadn’t prepared for their wedding dance so they simply swayed together, staring at each other, marvelling at what they had just done.

  ‘You look beautiful, Mrs Flinders,’ he told her.

  ‘Why, thank you, Mr Flinders,’ she replied and then she giggled like a child playing a game. It felt like pretend for the first year or so, as though they were just playing at being grown-ups.

  He glances at his watch. It’s after ten. Everyone else left long ago. The office is silent except for the slight hum produced by the computers. He has been concentrating and only now realises how creepy the empty space feels with only the leftover smells from lunch for company.

  He looks down at his phone, confirming it’s her. He imagined she would be asleep already, has been keeping himself calm by holding onto the image of his wife curled up in their bed, the midnight-blue duvet tucked around her shoulders, her brown hair spilling over the pillow. For hours now he has been promising himself he will get up and go home but he has instead opened another spreadsheet, looked over another column of figures, worked through another pitch, chewed his nails through it all.