If You Only Knew Read online

  IF YOU ONLY KNEW

  Cynthia Clark

  Start Reading

  About this Book

  About the Author

  Table of Contents

  www.ariafiction.com

  About If You Only Knew

  A wife, a mother, a killer.

  One wrong decision, one terrifying night, leaves student Elizabeth with a stark choice – kill or be killed. And the consequences of that choice will shape her whole life.

  Now a wife, a mother, and a lawyer, she must find a way to out run her past, protect her family and live with her secret. But is it really possible to live a happy life with such a huge shadow cast by the past? And as it becomes clear that someone else knows her secret and is hunting her down, time is running out for Elizabeth to keep her family safe.

  In the bestselling tradition of Clare Mackintosh and Jenny Blackhurst, Cynthia Clark has written a heart-stopping story about the choices we make and how far we’d go to protect our families. Even if it means deceiving the people we love most…

  Contents

  Welcome Page

  About If You Only Knew

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgements

  About Cynthia Clark

  Become an Aria Addict

  Copyright

  To J

  Hello, I’m Elizabeth and I’m a killer.

  I’ve dreamed about saying those words. I’ve always thought that it would be a relief to finally say them out loud, to stop suppressing the one secret that haunts me every single night. Every single day. Every single second of my existence.

  You see, secrets have a way of repressing your being, making you feel stifled, as if you’re not yourself any more. And the longer you keep a secret, the more it crushes your soul, making you want to scream, scratch at your skin, tear your hair out. It’s the desperation of being alone, of knowing that nobody else can be told, that you can’t share your secret with anyone, allow them to help you carry the burden. Because, after all, who would understand? You know that instead they would just see you as a monster. I know that’s what people would think about me if I ever dared to tell them.

  Because it doesn’t matter why I did what I did. The bottom line is that I took a life. That was someone’s child, someone’s neighbour, someone’s friend.

  I’ve thought about being able to tell at least one person what I’ve done. Test the waters and hope that they would understand. I’ve come close on a couple of occasions. But in the end, fear has always taken over and I’ve backtracked, my resolve to share my deepest, darkest confession shaken to the core. I’m too scared that the life I’ve built for myself will be shattered. I’m terrified of having to face the consequences of my actions, carried out in the heat of the moment.

  No, I cannot tell anyone. I need to remain the sole custodian of the truth. My scary reality. Nobody can know that I’m Elizabeth and I’m a killer.

  Chapter 1

  2014

  I’m clearing the remnants of this morning’s breakfast from the kitchen when my work phone rings, stopping me in my tracks. I see my assistant’s name flashing on the screen.

  “Hi Jennifer, what’s up?”

  “There’s this girl.” Her voice is coming in rapid pants. “She’s going to be slaughtered by the prosecution unless you take over her case.”

  Cradling my phone between my ear and shoulder, I rinse Coco Pops from a cereal bowl. There’s no time to waste; I’m already running late. “Ok, I’m listening.”

  “I got in early to file the Preston paperwork. I was waiting for the clerk to come in and heard Sarah, from the public defender’s office, talking about this case.”

  Jennifer pauses for breath.

  “So, what is it about?” I urge.

  “There’s this girl, Chloe. She’s fifteen and is being charged with attempted murder.”

  “What did she do?” Moving my phone to the other ear, I carry on clearing the kitchen, mentally urging her to give me the whole story rather than scraps of information.

  “She ran over this guy and fled the scene.” Her voice is tinged with excitement.

  “Hold on, how come she was driving? You said she’s only fifteen?”

  “Yes, she is. She got into his car and reversed over him.”

  “How did she get the keys? Did she steal them?”

  “I’m not sure…” Jennifer’s voice trails off.

  “Ok, we can find out later. Is he injured?”

  “Oh yes.” She is suddenly animated. “He’s still in hospital. Both of his legs are broken, he has a couple of fractured ribs, a punctured lung, and severe internal haemorrhage. Doctors aren’t sure if he’ll ever walk again.”

  “Ouch,” I wince; shuddering as I try to freeze out images of the unknown man’s wounded body.

  “Sarah suggested running the case by you, to see if you have time to take it on,” Jennifer continues.

  Taking a deep breath, I mentally run through my current workload. “I don’t know. You know how busy I am right now.”

  “Yes, but you’re always looking to help young women, girls who don’t have anywhere else to turn. And you haven’t taken a pro-bono case in a few months.”

  Jennifer’s right. Cases where the accused has a tough story, where others would have run a mile, always get to me and make me work my hardest.

  “Are you still there?”

  “Yes, yes,” I quickly answer, jolted back to reality. “I don’t know. It’s a hit-and-run. Is it worth the effort?”

  “Well, it’s not like the usual cases you tend to take on. But just because she’s not the victim of abuse doesn’t mean that she doesn’t deserve a solid defence.”

  “And you know how busy the public defenders are,” she presses. “Sarah is juggling eighteen other cases. She has no time to provide a proper defence. This girl is doomed.”

  Something about Jennifer’s description of the case doesn’t tally. There’s a small voice inside me warning against wasting time, telling me to move on. “Can’t her parents find a good barrister?”

  “I don’t know, but if she’s been referred to a public defendant, that’s probably her only choice. Just guessing.”

  Despite my reservations, I’m intrigued. “Can you ask Sarah for the case file?”

  “I got you a copy already. It’ll be on your desk when you get in.” A smile creeps onto my face. Jennifer’s extraordinary organisational skills allow me to focus on what really matters – defending clients.

  Jennifer hangs up and
I continue clearing the kitchen. This morning has been hectic as usual as I got my two children ready for their day, prepared their lunch, and made sure that they finished breakfast. As normal my husband ran out first, leaving me to deal with the mess of our harried morning routine. “Gotta go,” he’d said. “Want to beat traffic.”

  “You say that every day and you still always get stuck,” I responded, shaking my head as I looked at all the clutter.

  “Today’s the day. I can feel it,” he said, kissing me on the cheek before rushing out. His optimism is admirable but it would be nice if he helped me clean up for a change. I still cannot understand why he insists on driving to work instead of taking the Tube. It would certainly save him some time, not to mention the aggravation of being stuck in traffic. But then again, I too refuse to be like the vast majority of other Londoners and take public transport. Driving provides me with time to think, the ability to jump in my car and get away whenever I need to. And I hate being in close proximity to so many other people, squashed against the side of the carriage during rush hour.

  The dishwasher makes a rumbling sound as the cycle starts. As I turn around to leave, the bright Peppa Pig cup grabs my attention. Stretching to pick up my daughter’s cup from the other end of the kitchen island, I grasp the pink mouthpiece. As I do, the top comes off, spilling cranberry juice all over the white counter.

  A strangled scream escapes before I can stop it and I quickly close my eyes as my whole body shakes. Putting the cup’s lid down, I brace both arms against the counter to steady myself. I hate the colour red. Loathe it so much I go through extremes to try and avoid seeing it. For many years I avoided all red food. There were no strawberries, or beetroot, or tomatoes in my diet. And meat had to be cooked through, steaks singed to their core until every drop of blood had been dried out. That’s the only way I would eat it. My husband knows that my aversion towards anything red is related to my fear of blood, but I have allowed him, and anyone else who becomes aware of my hatred for red, to believe that it is a symptom of seeing a dog killed after being run over by a car just outside school when I was a teenager. Little do they know that it was another bloody incident, only a couple of years later, which cemented my hatred for anything that reminds me of blood.

  Chapter 2

  15 Years Earlier

  It had started as a normal day. I woke up late and ran to class in my pyjamas. Well, nobody needed to know they were my pyjamas. Only my black flannel trousers could be seen, tucked into my Dr Martens. I’d thrown a woollen jersey over my tank top and pulled my red hair into a bun as I ran from my room in halls towards the lecture theatre, my bag jumping up and down on my shoulders.

  I made it to the lecture room just in time, out of breath, and chiding myself for sleeping through the alarm again. It was becoming a habit and I no longer had Mum to make sure I was awake. I was all alone in my small room.

  Wednesdays were my easy days. I only had three lessons in the morning. But that didn’t mean I could go back to sleep. Instead, I’d have to bike to Chesterton where I’d spend the rest of the afternoon and evening stocking shelves at the supermarket. When I got into Cambridge, my first choice of university, my parents had been clear – they’d pay my tuition fees but I had to get a job and help with the bills. And if I wanted to go to law school, I needed to save every penny I could.

  To be fair my job was not strenuous. Yes, it meant going up ladders and carrying down boxes, but at least it was mindless work. I could listen to music or escape into an imaginary world as I stuck price stickers on products and lined them up on the shelves. The manager had asked me whether I wanted a job on the checkouts, but while I’d agreed to get the training, I wasn’t pushing to change my shifts. I wanted to be able to work in relative silence, without being bothered by people, able to lose myself in my dreams, imagine that one day I would be a successful barrister, making enough money so I didn’t have to struggle like my parents.

  So, I was not exactly happy when I got to the supermarket to find out that one of the checkout girls had called in sick and they needed me to fill in. I was tired and grumpy and really didn’t feel like talking to anyone. But I couldn’t risk losing my job, so I just nodded and took my place at the checkout, smiling weakly at shoppers and answering their questions with one word replies. I’ve never been good at making conversation with strangers. I could never understand why people bothered to chat about the weather, or traffic, with someone whose name they didn’t even know. It’s probably what made it difficult for me to forge strong friendships. I was always the loner who preferred to spend hours in the library rather than on the playground. I hoped that my short answers would put shoppers off trying to make conversation, that they’d get the message and stop pestering me. But it was just wishful thinking and by the time I left the supermarket at 8 p.m., I felt mentally drained from being forced to make small talk for hours on end as the conveyor belt chugged on and the till beeped.

  Walking out in the brisk April air, I zipped up my jacket and put on my gloves. The winter was over but there was still a chill in the air. Tucking my jeans into my boots to avoid them catching on my bike chain, I started the fifteen minute ride back to college. I was so eager to get back to my room and have a shower before climbing into bed that I decided to take a shortcut through Midsummer Common, ride along the paths that meandered through the greenery, and not have to worry about oncoming traffic, allowing my brain to relax.

  It was a pleasant ride. I could smell the wildflowers that were in full bloom instead of fuel and pollution. I could see the stars glistening in the sky instead of the blinding headlamps of cars. Even the distant sound of trains sounded mystical rather than a menace. Perhaps it’s because I was distracted by my surroundings that I didn’t become aware of the pickup truck creeping slowly behind me until it was too late. It hit the back of my bike, sending it off course and me flying into the field.

  For a second I was in shock, trying to gather my thoughts and make sure that I hadn’t suffered any big injuries. Taking stock of every part of my body, I realised I was ok, just a little stiff from the fall. As I was scrambling up, I saw a man running towards me. “I’m so sorry.” His voice was etched with concern. “Are you hurt?” He stretched out his hand to help me up.

  “Are you ok?” he asked again and I nodded. “Yes,” I added, in case he couldn’t see me in the growing darkness.

  “I didn’t see you. I keep the lights off to see the stars. I must have been looking at the sky when I hit you,” he explained. Nodding my understanding, I walked towards my bike aware that he was following me. I picked it up and cursed under my breath. The front wheel was bent making it unusable. I’d have to walk to college and it would take forever.

  “Oh no, I’m so sorry,” he said. “Obviously, I’ll pay for the damage.” My sigh of relief was audible. The bike was only a few months old and I could scarcely afford a new wheel, and fix whatever other damages I couldn’t see right now.

  “Look, you can’t ride this now. Why don’t I drive you home and we can discuss getting your bike fixed?” he asked.

  In retrospect I know I should have known better than accept a ride from a stranger. But it was late and I didn’t feel like carrying the bike all the way back on foot. And the guy seemed nice enough. He was probably a few years older than me, with green eyes that sparkled in the moonlight and a soft smile. Maybe it was because he was so easy on the eyes that I threw caution to the wind and after seeing him put my bike in the back of the truck, I climbed into the passenger seat. The last thing I remember was turning to put on my seatbelt.

  *

  I don’t know how much time had passed when I finally woke up. The smell of chloroform was still burning my nostrils. At least I assumed it was chloroform. I’d never smelled it before so I couldn’t be certain. Opening my eyes, I looked around. I was lying on a thin foam mattress on the floor of a dark room. The only light came from a tiny bulb hanging from the ceiling. There were no windows, only a large wooden door.
<
br />   He was sitting on a chair, a beer bottle between his legs, his head resting on his chest, obviously asleep.

  My limbs felt heavy but my mind whirred as I tried to think of a way out of this situation. My heart raced as fear was replaced by a burning need to save myself. I’d have time to be scared later, to blame myself for my stupid decision to get in a car with a stranger, for going through the Common in the first place. I started to get up and realised that my legs were bare. The momentary confusion was replaced by panic, as it dawned that he had removed my shoes, jeans, and even underwear. Tears pricked at my eyes as I wondered whether I’d been raped and I held my breath for a moment to see if I could feel any pain. I couldn’t and the relief at the realisation was instantaneous. But I needed to find a way out.

  Twisting my neck, I looked around the room and spotted my jeans and shoes at the foot of the mattress. I didn’t have time to put them on, but I didn’t want to run home half naked or barefoot. Careful not to make any noise, I slithered towards the edge of the mattress and got to my feet, grabbing my jeans and shoes and holding them against my body. I remained bent over, not wanting to wake him up with any sudden movements and walked slowly to the door, holding my breath and hoping that the floorboards wouldn’t creak. I could hear his snoring; heavy breaths that gave way to low grunts. At least he was still asleep.

  When I got to the door I straightened, placed my still-gloved hand on the knob, and turned. My heart sank when the heavy wooden door didn’t shift. I willed myself to stay calm even though I could feel the panic bubbling inside my chest. A large metal bolt was drawn across the door and with shaking hands I reached out to unlock it. It slid open easily and miraculously without making a sound. Cool air blew in. The door led outside. I’d be able to get out and run to safety. Run until I got home or to a police station.

  The sound of glass shattering pierced through the silence. The door was slammed closed and I saw his hand in front of me, dark hairs springing from his uncovered arm. Before I could think, he grabbed me with his other hand and turned me around. “Where do you think you’re going?” he asked, his face contorted into an ugly scowl. The green eyes that had seemed so beautiful before were now blazing dangerously at me. I wanted to plead with him to let me go, not to hurt me. But it seemed that I couldn’t form the words. “We have some unfinished business,” he said, pulling me away from the door and pushing me into the room with such force that I fell onto my back.