From an internationally acclaimed author, a disturbing and addictive novel of domestic suspense where secrets kept hidden from spouses cause shocking surprises that hit home…
There’s nothing unusual about a new family moving in at 91 Trinity Avenue. Except it’s her house. And she didn’t sell it.
When Fiona Lawson comes home to find strangers moving into her house, she’s sure there’s been a mistake. She and her estranged husband, Bram, have a modern coparenting arrangement: bird’s nest custody, where each parent spends a few nights a week with their two sons at the prized family home to maintain stability for their children. But the system built to protect their family ends up putting them in terrible jeopardy. In a domino effect of crimes and misdemeanors, the nest comes tumbling down.
Now Bram has disappeared and so have Fiona’s children. As events spiral well beyond her control, Fiona will discover just how many lies her husband was weaving and how little they truly knew each other. But Bram’s not the only one with things to hide, and some secrets are best kept to oneself, safe as houses.
A womanโs life spirals out of control when she discovers strangers moving into her homeโa home she didnโt sellโher husband, sons and everything sheโs ever owned, vanished.
Fi Lawson loves her home in the coveted Alder Rise neighborhood, which she shares with her husband Bram and their two boys, Harry and Leo. One night, one mistake too many, however, severs marital trust, causing Fi and Bram to separate.
Divorce is on the horizon, but in the meanwhile, Fi and Bram agree to a modern โbirdโs nestโ arrangement where the boys remain in the family home and the parents alternate their time between the primary home and a shared secondary flat.
Their crumbling marriage is the least of their troubles when compared to the secrets Bram hidesโฆ the secrets which become the catalyst for their ultimate unraveling. Itโs a catastrophic domino effect of lies, crimes and cover ups, all which dig Bram, and by default their family, deeper into a hole impossible to scale.
By the time Fi discovers strangers moving into their home, the nightmare thatโs transpired is sufficient to bring their family, nest and future to ruination.
Candlish has woven a unique, albeit often complex, narrative teeming with twists. The premise is entirely plausible, making it all the more disturbing and terrifying.
The story is split into four different perspectives/timelinesโone, Fi recounting whatโs happened on a podcast; two, a Word doc note from Bram; and finally, the last two from each in the present tense. At times there was so much going on between the subterfuge and the timelines, that it did get a tad confusing. There were also times where the story seemed to lag as the scheming deepened and dragged. The novelโs devastating, jaw-dropping ending, however, was a major payoff for sticking around. Iโm still feeling the aftershock of itโฆ
Itโs a compelling, compulsive domestic suspense with a really fresh story line that will stick with you long after youโre done. While I read the hard cover, I bet this will be a great book to binge on Audible.
Friday, January 13, 2017
London, 12:30 p.m.
She must be mistaken, but it looks exactly as if someone is moving into her house.
The van is parked halfway down Trinity Avenue, its square mouth agape, a large piece of furniture sliding down the ribbed metal tongue. Fi watches, squinting into the buttery sunlightโrare for the time of year, a giftโas the object is borne shoulder high by two men through the gate and down the path.
My gate. My path.
No, thatโs illogical; of course it canโt be her house. It must be the Reecesโ, two down from hers; they put their place on the market in the autumn and no one is quite sure whether a sale has gone through. The houses on this side of Trinity Avenue are all built the sameโredbrick double-fronted Edwardians in pairs, their owners united in a preference for front doors painted blackโand everyone agrees itโs easy to miscount.
Once, when Bram came stumbling home from one of his โquickโ drinks at the Two Brewers, he went to the wrong door and she heard through the open bedroom window the scrambling and huffing as her inebriated husband failed to fit his key into the lock of number 87, Merle and Adrianโs place. His persistence was staggering, his dogged belief that if he only kept on trying, the key would work.
โBut they all look the same,โ heโd protested in the morning.
โThe houses, yes, but even a drunk couldnโt miss the magnolia,โ Fi had told him, laughing. (This was back when she was still amused by his inebriety and not filled with sadnessโor disdain, depending on her mood.)
Her step falters: the magnolia. Itโs a landmark, their tree, a celebrated sight when in blossom and beautiful even when bare, as it is now, the outer twigs etched into the sky with an artistโs flair. And it is definitely in the front garden of the house with the van outside.
Think. It must be a delivery, something for Bram that he hasnโt mentioned to her. Not every detail gets communicated; they both accept that their new system isnโt flawless. Hurrying again, using her fingers as a sun visor, sheโs near enough to be able to read the lettering on the side of the vehicle: prestige home removals. It is a house move, then. Friends of Bram must be dropping something off en route to somewhere. If she were able to choose, it would be an old piano for the boys (please, Lord, not a drum kit).
But waitโthe deliverymen have reappeared and now more items are being transported from van to house: a dining chair; a large, round metallic tray; a box labeled fragile; a small, slim wardrobe the size of a coffin. Whose things are these? A rush of anger fires her blood as she reaches the only possible conclusion: Bram has invited someone to stay. Some dispossessed drinking pal, no doubt, with nowhere else to go. (โStay as long as you like, mateโweโve got tons of room.โ) When the hell was he going to tell her? Well, thereโs no way a stranger is sharing their home, however temporarily, however charitable Bramโs intentions. The kids come first: Isnโt that the point?
Lately, she worries theyโve forgotten the point.
Sheโs almost there. As she passes number 87, sheโs aware of Merle at the first-floor window, face cast in a frown, arm raised for her attention. Fi makes only the briefest of acknowledgments as she strides through her own gate and onto the tiled path.
โExcuse me. Whatโs going on here?โ But in the clamor no one seems to hear. Louder now, sharper: โWhat are you doing with all this stuff? Whereโs Bram?โ
A woman she doesnโt know comes out of the house and stands on the doorstep, smiling. โHello, can I help?โ
She gasps as if at an apparition. This is Bramโs friend in need? Familiar by type rather than feature, she is one of Fiโs ownโthough younger, in her thirtiesโblond and brisk and cheerful, the sort to roll up her sleeves and take charge. The sort, as history testifies, to constrain a free spirit like Bram. โI hope so, yes. Iโm Fi, Bramโs wife. Whatโs going on here? Are youย .ย .ย . are you a friend of his?โ
The woman steps closer, purposeful, polite. โSorry. Whose wife?โ
โBramโs. I mean ex-wife, really.โ The correction earns a curious look, followed by the suggestion that the two of them move off the path and out of the way of โthe guys.โ As a huge Bubble Wrapped canvas glides by, Fi allows herself to be steered under the ribs of the magnolia. โWhat on earth has he agreed to here?โ she demands. โWhatever it is, I know nothing about it.โ
โIโm not sure what you mean.โ There is a faint puckering of the womanโs forehead as she studies Fi. Her eyes are golden brown and honest. โAre you a neighbor?โ
โNo, of course not.โ Fi is becoming impatient. โI live here.โ
The puckering deepens. โI donโt think so. Weโre just moving in. My husband will be here soon with the second van. Weโre the Vaughans?โ She says it as though Fi might have heard of them, even offers her hand for a formal shake. โIโm Lucy.โ
Gaping, Fi struggles to trust her ears, the false messages they are transmitting to her brain. โLook, Iโm the owner of this house, and I think I would know if Iโd arranged to rent it out.โ
The rose-pink of confusion creeps over Lucy Vaughanโs face. She lowers her hand. โWeโre not renting it. Weโve bought it.โ
โDonโt be ridiculous!โ
โIโm not!โ The other woman glances at her watch. โOfficially, we became the new owners at twelve oโclock, but the agent let us pick up the keys just before that.โ
โWhat are you talking about? What agent? No agent has keys to my house!โ Fiโs face spasms with conflicting emotions: fear; frustration; anger; even a dark, grudging amusement, because this must be a joke, albeit on an epic scale. What else can it be? โIs this some sort of prank?โ She searches over the womanโs shoulder for cameras, for a phone recording her bewilderment in the name of entertainment, but finds noneโonly a series of large boxes sailing past. โBecause Iโm not finding it very funny. You need to get these people to stop.โ
โI have no intention of getting them to stop,โ Lucy Vaughan says, crisp and decisive, just like Fi usually is when she hasnโt been blindsided by something like this. Lucyโs mouth turns in vexation before opening in sudden wonder. โWait a minute. Fi, did you say? Is that Fiona?โ
โYes. Fiona Lawson.โ
โThen you must beโโ Lucy pauses, notices the querying glances from the movers, lowers her voice. โI think youโd better come inside.โ
And Fi finds herself being ushered through her own door, into her own house, like a guest. She steps into the broad, high-ceilinged hallway and stops short, dumbstruck. This isnโt her hall. The dimensions are correct, yes; the silver-blue paint scheme remains the same and the staircase has not moved; but the space has been stripped, plundered of every last item that belongs in it: the console table and antique monks bench, the heap of shoes and bags, the pictures on the walls. And her beloved rosewood mirror, inherited from her grandmother, gone! She reaches to touch the wall where it should be, as if expecting to find it sunk into the plaster.
โWhat have you done with all our things?โ she demands of Lucy. Panic makes her strident and a passing mover casts her a correcting sort of look, as if she is the threatening one.
โI havenโt done anything,โ Lucy says. โYou moved your stuff out. Yesterday, Iโm assuming.โ
โI did nothing of the sort. I need to look upstairs,โ Fi says, shouldering past her.
โWellย .ย .ย .โ Lucy begins, but it isnโt a request. Fi isnโt seeking permission to inspect her own home.
Having climbed the stairs two at a time, she pauses on the upstairs landing, hand still gripping the mahogany curve of the banister rail as if she expects the building to pitch and roll beneath her. She needs to prove to herself that she is in the right house, that she hasnโt lost her mind. Good, all doors appear to lead to where they should: two bathrooms at the middle front and rear, two bedrooms on the left and two on the right. Even as she lets go of the banister and enters each room in turn, she still expects to see her familyโs possessions where they should be, where theyโve always been.
But there is nothing. Everything they own has vanished, not a stick of furniture left, only indentations in the carpet where twenty-four hours ago the legs of beds and bookcases and wardrobes stood. A bright green stain on the carpet in one of the boyโs rooms from a ball of slime that broke open during a fight one birthday. In the corner of the kidsโ shower stands a tube of gel, the one with tea-tree oilโshe remembers buying it at Sainsburyโs. Behind the bath taps her fingers find the recently cracked tile (cause of breakage never established) and she presses until it hurts, checking she is still flesh and bone, nerve endings intact.
Everywhere, there is the sharp lemon smell of cleaning fluids.
Returning downstairs, she doesnโt know whether the ache has its source inside her or in the walls of her stripped house.
At her approach, Lucy disbands a conference with two of the movers and Fi senses she has rejected their offer of helpโto deal with her, the intruder. โMrs. Lawson? Fiona?โ
โThis is unbelievable,โ Fi says, repeating the word, the only one that will do. Disbelief is all thatโs stopping her from hyperventilating, tipping into hysteria. โI donโt understand this. Please, can you explain what the hell is going on here?โ
โThatโs what Iโve been trying to do. Maybe if you see the evidence,โ Lucy suggests. โCome into the kitchenโweโre blocking the way here.โ
The kitchen too is bare but for a table and chairs Fi has never seen before, and an open box of tea things on the worktop. Lucy is thoughtful enough to push the door to so as not to offend her visitorโs eyes with the sight of the continuing invasion beyond.
Visitor.
โLook at these e-mails,โ Lucy says, offering Fi her phone. โTheyโre from our solicitor, Emma Gilchrist at Bennett, Stafford and Co.โ
Fi takes the phone and orders her eyes to focus. The first e-mail is from seven days ago and appears to confirm the exchange of contracts on 91 Trinity Avenue, Alder Rise, between David and Lucy Vaughan and Abraham and Fiona Lawson. The second is from this morning and announces the completion of the sale.
โYou called him Bram, didnโt you?โ Lucy says. โThatโs why it took me a minute to realize. Bramโs short for Abraham, of course.โ She has a real letter to hand too, an opening statement of account from British Gas, addressed to the Vaughans at Trinity Avenue. โWe set up all the utility bills to be paperless, but for some reason they sent this by post.โ
Fi returns the phone to her. โAll of this means nothing. They could be fakes. Phishing or something.โ
โPhishing?โ
โYes, we had a whole talk about neighborhood crime a few months ago at Merleโs house and the officer told us all about it. Fake e-mails and invoices look very convincing now. Even the experts can be taken in.โ
Lucy gives an exasperated half smile.
โTheyโre real, I promise you. Itโs all real. The funds will have been transferred to your account by now.โ
โWhat funds?โ
โThe money we paid for this house! Iโm sorry, but I canโt go on repeating this, Mrs. Lawson.โ
โIโm not asking you to,โ Fi snaps. โIโm telling youโyou must have made a mistake. Iโm telling you itโs not possible for you to have bought a house that was never for sale.โ
โBut it was for saleโof course it was. Otherwise, we could never have bought it.โ
Fi stares at Lucy, utterly disorientated. What she is saying, what she is doing, is complete lunacy and yet she doesnโt look like a madwoman. No, Lucy looks like a woman convinced that the person she is talking to is the deranged one.
โMaybe you ought to phone your husband,โ Lucy says finally.
Geneva, 1:30 p.m.
He lies on the bed in his hotel room, arms and legs twitching. The mattress is a good one, designed to absorb sleeplessness, passion, deepest nightmare, but it fails to ease agitation like his. Not even the two antidepressants heโs taken have subdued him.
Perhaps itโs the planes making him crazy, the pitiless way they grind in and out, one after another, groaning under their own weight. More likely itโs the terror of what heโs done, the dawning understanding of all that heโs sacrificed.
Because itโs real now. The Swiss clock has struck. One thirty here, twelve thirty in London. He is now in body what he has been in his mind for weeks: a fugitive, a man cast adrift by his own hand. He realizes that heโs been hoping thereโll be, in some bleak way, relief, but now the time has come there is something bleaker: none. Only the same sickening brew of emotions heโs felt since leaving the house early this morning, somehow both grimly fatalistic and wired for survival.
Oh, God. Oh, Fi. Does she know yet? Someone will have seen, surely? Someone will have phoned her with the news. She might even be on her way to the house already.
He shuffles upright, his back against the headboard, and tries to find a focus in the room. The armchair is red leatherette, the desk black veneer. A return to a 1980s aesthetic, more unsettling than it has any right to be. He swings his legs over the side of the bed. The flooring is warm on bare feetโvinyl or something else man-made. Fi would know what the material is; she has a passion for interiors.
The thought causes a spasm of pain, a new breathlessness. He rises, seeking airโthe room, on the fifth floor, is ablaze with central heatingโbut behind the complicated curtain arrangement the windows are sealed. Cars, white and black and silver, streak along the carriageways between hotel and airport, and, beyond, the mountains divide and shelter, their white peaks tinged peppermint blue. Trapped, he turns once more to face the room, thinking, unexpectedly, of his father. His fingers reach for the red leatherette chair, grip the seat back. He does not remember the name of this hotel, which he chose for its nearness to the airport, but knows that it is as soulless a place as he deserves.
Because heโs sold his soul; thatโs what heโs done. Heโs sold his soul.
But not so long ago that heโs forgotten how it feels to have one.
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