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  THE STEPDAUGHTER

  It began with Dylan. It was the way he had of charming everyone, drawing them into another world where anything was possible. When you felt the walls that held you prisoner fall away, glimpsed the glittering horizons of his world, you couldn’t go back. Not ever.

  Hollie didn’t have a chance. She was too fragile, too easily mesmerized by his promises. There was so much people never knew about Hollie. How her mind had found a way to twist her past, until she’d turned it into something that made sense to her. The blameless mother who screwed her up, then killed herself; the father who didn’t have time for her; the stepmother who wanted to love her, but couldn’t.

  It seemed inevitable that Hollie and Dylan would fall in love. For a while, it was glorious. They were a common sight around the village—hand in hand, his dark head towering above hers, dressed in the same ripped jeans and oversized coats. But when love consumed you the way theirs did, everything else was irrelevant.

  For months, they ran wild; then a new urgency seemed to fill them, as if time was running out and they had to make the most of every second. Run faster, speak louder, cram more into each day, while they still could...

  Until on a day of yellow sky and wild winds, it all stopped.

  Also by Debbie Howells

  The Bones of You

  The Beauty of the End

  Part of the Silence

  Her Sister’s Lie

  THE STEPDAUGHTER

  DEBBIE HOWELLS

  KENSINGTON BOOKS

  www.kensingtonbooks.com

  All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.

  Table of Contents

  THE STEPDAUGHTER

  Also by

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  1 - Elise

  Niamh

  2 - Elise

  Niamh

  3 - Elise

  4 - Elise

  Niamh

  5 - Elise

  Niamh

  6 - Elise

  Nicki

  7 - Elise

  Nicki

  Niamh

  8 - Elise

  Nicki

  Niamh

  9 - Elise

  10 - Elise

  Nicki

  11 - Elise

  Niamh

  12 - Elise

  13 - Elise

  Niamh

  14 - Elise

  Nicki

  15 - Elise

  Niamh

  16 - Elise

  17 - Elise

  Nicki

  18 - Elise

  Niamh

  Nicki

  Nicki

  Niamh

  19 - Elise

  20 - Elise

  Nicki

  Nicki

  21 - Elise

  Niamh

  22 - Elise

  Nicki

  23 - Elise

  Nicki

  24 - Elise

  Nicki

  Nicki

  Niamh

  Nicki

  25 - Elise

  Niamh

  Nicki

  26 - Elise

  Nicki

  Niamh

  Nicki

  27 - Elise

  Niamh

  Nicki

  Niamh

  28 - Elise

  Niamh

  Acknowledgments

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, or events, is entirely coincidental.

  KENSINGTON BOOKS are published by

  Kensington Publishing Corp.

  119 West 40th Street

  New York, NY 10018

  Copyright © 2020 by Debbie Howells

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.

  To the extent that the image or images on the cover of this book depict a person or persons, such person or persons are merely models, and are not intended to portray any character or characters featured in the book.

  Kensington and the K logo Reg. U.S. Pat. & TM Off.

  ISBN: 978-1-4967-1875-4

  ISBN-13: 978-1-4967-1875-4

  ISBN-10: 1-4967-1875-5

  First Kensington Trade Paperback Printing: July 2020

  For my sisters

  Sarah, Anna, and Freddie

  1

  Elise

  As the aircraft accelerates down the runway and takes off for London, from my crew seat I watch the woman in front of me. Her blond hair is shoulder length, her eye makeup minimal, her lips red. I envy the biker jacket over the green dress she’s wearing, as I’m drawn to a line on the cover of the magazine she’s reading. Only ten percent of people are good. Ten percent . . . It’s a small number. I frown, trying to work out if I’m one of them.

  The ground falls away and I glance through the window as the world shrinks and snowcapped mountains come into view. Then the seat belt sign goes out and I get up, glancing for a moment down the length of the aircraft. One hundred and twenty-three faces seeing my neatly pinned-back hair and mask of immaculate makeup, my navy uniform dress and smart shoes. One hundred and twenty-three lives I know nothing about, just as they know nothing about mine.

  As I set up the drinks trolley, the statistic on the magazine cover stays with me, and I think about how many people cause suffering to others. I used to believe that extreme behavior could be explained by abusive childhoods or desperation or personality disorders—and sometimes it can. But that was before I realized people have choices; make decisions. That innate brutality exists.

  The passengers are mostly students in big coats and running shoes; blank-looking business travelers; wealthy Italians in designer wear. As I serve cups of tea, I’d usually imagine them as parents, families, friends, vacationers. But today, as I look at their faces, I’m wondering which of them are in the ten percent. It’s impossible to tell. None of us know what we’re capable of in extreme circumstances.

  Now and then, I glance through a window to take in the bird’s-eye view I never tire of, a world that’s endlessly beautiful. Beneath a pale blue sky, mountains have given way to a sea of snowfields, broken here and there by a circular town or a spider’s web of serpentine roads; by monolith chimneys from which vertical smoke rises, scored into the whiteness. Over northern France, the snow reduces to an icing-sugar dusting. Then as we start our approach into London, as the clouds thicken, the reality of my life comes flooding back.

  * * *

  While the passengers disembark; on the crew bus to the crew room; on another bus that takes me to the parking lot, I wear the mask. Only when I’m alone in my car does it slip. As I leave the airport perimeter road, I open the window and light a cigarette, suspending my reality for as long as I can: of the neighbors who think they know me; my cheating husband whose patients think he’s God; my changeling daughter, who lives in her own world; our family life tenuously held together by my silent promise.

  Abingworth is a thirty-minute drive from the airport. As I turn off the main road, I light another cigarette, my eyes narrowing when I think of Andrew, wondering who she is; grateful for small mercies. As far as I know, this is his fourth, though I’ve no reason to believe there haven’t been more. So far, she’s been discreet. The humiliation of not being enough for your husband is multiplied a hundredfold when everyone else knows.

  Slowing down as I reach the village, I pass the sign reading ABINGWORTH. When we moved here five years ago, it was with a tacit agreement that this was a chance for a new start. But under no illusions, I made another silent p
romise, to myself. If Andrew cheated on me once more, I’d make him pay.

  Now, as I drive toward our house, I try to remember the feeling I had back then. Hope, weighted with mistrust, a jaded anger with my husband, a need to protect my family. It isn’t Niamh’s fault her parents’ marriage is a mess. I’ve learned the hard way not to trust Andrew; that the most practiced liars hide behind blank eyes and cold smiles; wield blame, criticism, and belittlement to mold their world and everyone in it.

  Slowing down, I turn into our lane, then through tall gateposts into our driveway, feeling my tension ease. The garden is surrounded by flint walls, the cedar trees in front of the house giving it seclusion, privacy. There’s no sign of Andrew’s car. My relief that I’m alone is instantly squashed by the thought that’s never far from my mind. He could be with her.

  At one time, I would have phoned his practice, desperate, cobbling together an excuse for calling when I didn’t need to, but I no longer care enough. Today, I park by the back door and take my crew bag inside, thinking about the three days off I have, imagining tidying the house and going for a run; catching up with one or two friends before next week’s flight schedule starts. Maybe I’ll take Niamh shopping and get her out of those awful velour leggings she lives in. Maybe Andrew will dump his lover. Actually see me properly. See Niamh. See anyone but that fucking bitch he’s sleeping with. But even if he did, I’m not sure I’d want him. Swallowing hard, I blink away the hot tears filling my eyes, hating how the thought of him makes me feel.

  In the kitchen, my heart skips a beat as I see the light flashing on the house phone. I leave it until I’ve showered and changed, until I’ve made myself a cup of coffee. Putting it off until I can’t. When I play the message, there are no distinguishable words, just a faint crackle. After it plays through, I delete it, then retrieve the caller’s number, my blood like ice in my veins. I write it down with shaking hands, knowing it’s his most recent lover. It’s what always happens. It’s just a question of when.

  There is no escape from my husband’s betrayal. Even in my home, I’m surrounded by the ghosts of his lovers leaving their silent messages of possession. Most women would have left, but I haven’t. Not yet. But I will. The only way through this is to wear the mask. Hide the truth from Niamh, let Andrew do what he wants to do, knowing the day will come, one way or another, when it ends for good. Picking up my mug, I sip my coffee, finding it cold, bitter. My hands still trembling, I hurl it at the wall.

  Niamh

  As I get off the school bus, cold air rustles the leaves and blows my hair across my face; I feel the first spots of rain. While I walk up the lane, no traffic passes by. I live in a village of tall trees and stone walls, on a road to nowhere; a place of cold hearts and secrets. My stop’s the last. No one gets off with me.

  “Hey, Cat.” Each day, the cat waits, a motionless sentry perched on the wall at the side of the road, his yellow eyes unblinking, his black head battle-scarred. His presence is an honor, rather than a given. A cat belongs to no one but himself.

  By the time I turn into our drive, he’s vanished. Gravel crunches under my feet as I walk toward the house. It’s gray, austere, softened only by the wisteria that, in spring, is covered with racemes of lilac.

  As I walk around the side to the back door, music from the radio drifts outside. In the kitchen, my mother’s wearing jeans and a wide-necked sweater that slides off one of her tanned shoulders.

  “I need some money for the science trip,” I tell her, putting down my school bag and getting juice from the fridge, before going to the pantry for a bag of potato chips. Opening it, I take a handful, watching her leaf through today’s mail; her hand pausing on a letter, her intake of breath; the perceptible paling of her skin.

  “It’ll have to wait, Niamh. I don’t have any cash.” She adds, “Don’t eat all of those.”

  Taking another handful, I ignore her. “Whatever. You can pay online. Probably easier.” I shrug as her phone buzzes, her face closing over as she picks it up and glances at the screen.

  “Remind me later, honey. I have to get this.” There’s a catch in her voice.

  I stare at her. “Who is it?”

  In the time it takes her to respond, the hairs on the back of my neck prickle. “No one you know. A friend.” As she glances in my direction, I notice the semitone rise in sharpness in her voice, the five seconds of fake brightness in her smile. Turning her back, only when she’s out of earshot does she start talking.

  That’s when I know it’s another of her lies. She’ll tell herself I haven’t noticed anything wrong, then forget all about it. My mother sees what she wants to see. But I know the password on her phone. I can find out who’s called if I want to.

  Taking the chips, I go outside, shaking off my uneasiness as I wander down to the end of the garden that borders the road, wondering if all families lie to each other. Pulling myself up onto the same flint wall where the cat was waiting for me just minutes ago, I envy the simplicity of his life, his past forgotten, his future uncontemplated; his only concern the eternal present.

  As cars pass, I watch the people inside them, just as I watch everyone, see unreadable faces, imagine sunlight bouncing off their armor. Like my father in his doctor’s office, my mother in her airline uniform, all of them are practiced, unemotional, closed.

  From under the shadow of the eucalyptus tree, I look across the lane into the Addisons’ garden. Through the branches, I can just about make out dimly lit windows, hear faint strains of violin concerto drift across the lawn.

  The breeze picks up and I shiver. Slipping down, I cross the road, wandering past their drive toward the next, registering the absence of cars parked there, the closed curtains in the windows. It’s the kind of house I’d like to live in one day, with sharp lines and a modern glass extension, sparsely planted with spiky plants and grasses.

  The Enfields, who live here, are away in their vacation home in Marbella. I make my way across their garden, hidden from next door by the fringe of silver birch trees that separate their drives. At the back of the house, no one sees me peer in through the window at the bland interior with white sofas and no photographs. It’s a house without an identity, not a home.

  * * *

  It’s dark when Hollie appears in my bedroom doorway. Her hair is windswept. I can tell from her eyes she’s been crying. Staring at her face, I know before she tells me what’s wrong.

  “Your dad?” I ask. He’s the only person Hollie cares about. She nods, words, tears, snot, pouring out of her as she starts to blubber. I watch, fascinated. I’ve never seen anyone cry like Hollie does.

  “He was talking to someone on his phone.” Her hair gets in the way as she breaks off to wipe her face on her sleeve. “Whoever it was, they’re a bastard.” There’s hatred in her voice. Not wanting my mother to hear, I glance toward the open door.

  I lean toward her, curious. “What were they talking about?”

  Her lip wobbles. “I can’t tell you.” Then her shoulders start to shake. “I can’t tell anyone! Do you know how that feels? To know something no one else will ever believe?”

  I stare at her, appalled. I’ve no idea what she’s talking about. “You can tell me, Hollie.”

  She shakes her head. “I can’t. You’re too young.” Coming over, she awkwardly strokes my hair, before perching on the end of my bed as she tries to get control over herself. When she turns to look at me, her face is tearstained. “Have you ever found out something really shocking?”

  I frown. “Like when someone dies, you mean?”

  “Worse.” She whispers it, her eyes huge. There’s a silence before she takes a deep breath. “There’s someone I thought I could trust. With anything. With my life. And now...” She breaks off again, her body shaking with silent sobs, while I wait for her to stop.

  “It’s happening again.” Her eyes are wild as she stares at me. “I don’t know what to do, Niamh. I can’t tell anyone.”

  2

  Elise
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  The new message on the house phone unsettles me. I have an hour or so before Niamh’s bus gets back. The sky threatens rain but I pull on running clothes and shoes, needing to shift the sense of unease hanging over me.

  Slipping the back-door key into a zip pocket, I pull up my collar and walk briskly down the drive onto the lane, breaking into a run as I reach the main road, the cold clinging to my hands, my cheeks; running harder, feeling the slow spread of heat thaw them.

  Through the village, I see no one. Windows are closed and dark, drives are empty. Only as I pass Ida Jones’s house are there signs of life: the warm glow from her downstairs windows, the wood smoke spiraling from her chimney. The thought comes to me. Ida knows everyone around here. Maybe she knows who she is.

  I could ask her, but not today. Without stopping, I carry on past the last houses, where a footpath slopes down through woods and across a stream, then up the other side to the village church. Under the trees, the path is dark and muddy, fallen leaves making it slippery underfoot, and I pick my way carefully, winding my way down, then over the narrow bridge, before coming out of the trees into the churchyard. Here, amongst the dead, I stop.

  The graves have become familiar to me. My eyes pass over their inscriptions as I walk through them, always pausing in the same place to read words I know by heart about a life that ended too soon. Never forgotten. Most days, I find a sense of peace here, but today, I’m thinking of the magazine statistic again. Only ten percent of people are good. The rest are like Andrew—they do what they want, or whatever it takes to sate blind ambition, to slake lust.

  As I stand there, a desperate sense of hopelessness washes over me. Instead of fighting my tears, I let them stream down my cheeks. I used to have hopes and dreams, but nothing in my life has worked out as I’d imagined it would. Now, I’m driven by Niamh’s future. It’s the only thing in my pointless world that’s important to me.