Behind Shadows: A Psychological Mystery Thriller (The Adam Stanley Series Book 1) Read online

  Behind Shadows

  Netta Newbound

  Junction Publishing

  New Zealand

  Copyright © 2014 by Netta Newbound.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, write to the publisher, addressed “Attention: Permissions Coordinator,” at the address below.

  Netta Newbound/Junction Publishing

  Waihi 3610

  New Zealand

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  www.nettanewbound.com

  Publisher’s Note: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination. Locales and public names are sometimes used for atmospheric purposes. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or to businesses, companies, events, institutions, or locales is completely coincidental.

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  Quantity sales. Special discounts are available on quantity purchases by corporations, associations, and others. For details, contact the “Special Sales Department” at the email address above.

  Behind Shadows/ Netta Newbound. -- 1st ed.

  ISBN

  Contents

  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

  About the Author

  Acknowledgments

  For my gran—forever in my heart

  No trait is more justified than revenge in the right time and place.

  ―Meir Kehane

  Chapter 1

  Amanda

  I stood in the doorway, staring at my sorry excuse for a husband.

  Michael was sitting on the lid of the toilet, his back against the cistern, jeans around his ankles and the buttons of his blue-and-white striped shirt open to his chest. He had his hands twisted in the red hair of a woman kneeling in front of him, her head bobbing up and down in his lap.

  Eyes rolling in ecstasy, he caught sight of me standing there. He stared blankly for a few seconds, the colour draining from his face. He jumped to his feet, knocking the woman to the floor in a sprawling heap. His penis went from rock hard to flaccid in an instant.

  I could hear stifled laughter and whispers as a crowd of fellow-guests gathered behind me.

  My heart pounding in my chest, I turned and hurried down the stairs—the gawking audience parting for me, sending the odd pitying glance my way.

  I reached the front door and heard a commotion behind me. Over my shoulder I saw Michael was charging down the stairs, still buttoning his shirt.

  "Wait, Amanda. Let me explain."

  I ran into the street, ignoring the demands and excuses pouring from his lying mouth. A strong gust of wind blew my pink cotton jacket open, the fabric flapping violently. I pulled it tight and fastened the large black buttons.

  I raced along the street, heading where was anybody’s guess, but I needed to put as much distance between us as possible.

  I couldn’t believe he could do this to me. So what if we’d been arguing quite a bit lately—every couple has their rocky patches, but to do this! To humiliate me like this!

  Hot tears began to coat my cheeks and made it difficult to see where I was going. I stopped and leaned against a high wooden fence to catch my breath and wipe my eyes. I almost shot out of my skin as something heavy smacked into the fence behind me and a dog began barking ferociously.

  I set off running again, but was gaining little ground with the squally wind hammering into me.

  I knew I should have stayed at home with the children. At least I'd be certain they were safe and tucked up in bed—not left with a young girl we hardly knew.

  As I reached the bottom of the road, another gust of wind almost blew me over, making me stagger backwards. A McDonald's bag swirled in front of me and its greasy contents fell into the gutter.

  I had no idea where the hell I was heading. This suburb of London was unfamiliar to me. The taxi journey had taken twenty minutes from my home in Pinevale. I fished the phone from my jeans' pocket. 'No Network Coverage' flashed across the screen. A fresh bout of tears filled my eyes.

  Without a phone signal, I didn’t know which direction to head in. I pulled the collar up on my thin jacket, shoved my hands in the pockets, and turned to the left—at least that way the wind would be to my back.

  My blond hair whipped around my face. A huge raindrop hit me on the shoulder, another landed in front of me on the pavement.

  There was a squeal of brakes as a black cab stopped beside me. I sighed as relief flooded through me and I reached for the door handle. Just then, the window wound down and Michael stuck his head out. My stomach clenched as I stifled a scream.

  I snatched my hand away as though I’d just been burned and spun away from the cab, continuing along the road. The raindrops were now gaining momentum, I was seconds away from being soaked to the skin.

  "Get in, Amanda. We need to talk." The howling wind absorbed most of his voice, but not enough for my liking. I’d have preferred to not hear him at all.

  I ignored him.

  Michael jumped out of the cab and fell in step beside me. "Come on, get in. It's dangerous around here at this time of night."

  His whining voice irritated me.

  "Piss off, Michael! Leave me alone. I'll come home when I'm good and ready." A thick wad of hair blew into my mouth. I gagged as I picked it out, and then pushed the mess off my face with both hands.

  "Don't you wanna check on the kids?"

  My stomach flipped. That stopped me in my tracks. I didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of being right, but I did need to check the children were safe. Especially after the uneasy feelings I'd had recently.

  That had been the cause of an on-going argument and Michael accusing me of paranoia, but I didn't care what he thought anymore. Somebody was watching me, and I knew it.

  With a weighty sigh and an equally weighty heart, I got into the taxi. Sitting sideways on the seat, I faced the window with my back to Michael.

  The rain, heavier now, pelted the windows and the wind buffeted the sides of the cab. The metallic, twanging sound of the recorded Indian m
usic filled the awkward silence.

  The cab stank of smoke. A pine tree shaped air-freshener hanging from the rear-view mirror gave off no scent at all. To be fair, a full-sized pine tree on the passenger seat would struggle to mask the stale stench.

  My stomach churned, and my mouth filled up with saliva. I prayed I wouldn't throw up. The driver was deluded if he thought we wouldn't notice the stench. Any fool could work out he must have a sneaky puff when he was alone. He didn't even have the sense to hide his cigarettes and lighter, they sat on the dashboard in plain sight.

  Michael reached for my hand. A feeling, similar to an electric current, zapped up my arm. I tore my hand away. “Get off!" I hissed.

  A sharp intake of breath was the only sound he made. He moved to the other end of the seat, no doubt planning his next move.

  We pulled up outside the house. I got out of the taxi and left Michael paying the driver. The rain had settled to a fine mist yet seemed wetter than regular rain. I ran up the concrete path and searched out anything unfamiliar looming in the garden shadows.

  Every shape looked different and seemed more sinister in the dark. The squally wind and rain fuelled my imagination and I shuddered as the hair stood up on the back of my neck. The feeling of being watched was stronger than ever.

  I tapped on the lounge window and sensed movement behind the curtain. A couple of seconds later the front door opened.

  "Charlotte, I thought I made myself clear. Check who it is before you open the door!" I hurried inside and stood in the hallway, shivering. My breath escaped in short, noisy gasps and blows. I struggled to ignore the urge to lock and double lock the door and leave Michael on the other side of it.

  "I'm sorry, Mrs Flynn. I forgot," she said as she backed into the lounge.

  "You forgot? I shook my head. "Great—just great. So if a mad axe man burst in and chopped you all up into little pieces that would be okay, hey? Because you forgot." I knew I was over-reacting, but I couldn't help myself.

  Her huge brown eyes stared at me, and her mouth turned down at the corners, quivering.

  "It's okay, Charlotte," Michael said as he stepped inside. "Get your coat—I'll walk you home."

  Charlotte lived on the next street, it would take all of five minutes to get her home but we were responsible for getting her there safe and sound.

  I glared at Michael, my face flushed with anger at him for not backing me up. Taking a deep breath, I exhaled in a controlled blow, forcing myself to calm down. I didn't want to lose it in front of Charlotte. Her mother was the local gossip and anything I said would be twisted in triplicate and all over the estate by morning.

  "How have the children been?" I asked when she came back from the kitchen, her bag and coat over her arm.

  "Jacob didn't stir at all and Emma fell asleep after the first story." Her tone was more clipped than usual. I guessed she wouldn't babysit again, which suited me fine.

  Once they'd gone, I went into the lounge. After almost five years of living in a dated, seventies time warp, we'd begun modernising. This was my favourite room. It was normally immaculate and the kids didn't come in here very often. We used it at night once they were in bed.

  Charlotte had flung the expensive, lime-green cushions onto the floor, but not before smearing one in melted chocolate. I threw it back down angrily before picking the rest up and placing them onto the sofa, then sat down, hugging the dirty cushion to my chest. I was more upset over a chocolate covered cushion than my husband's indiscretions.

  I knew most people would be hysterical by now. They would be throwing their own, or their partner’s, belongings into a suitcase and talking divorce and child custody. But numbness had kicked in with me instead. Doctor Freda always said I didn't process things like normal people do. She explained my reactions were understandable considering what I’d been through. But I didn’t think it was a problem, who wanted to have emotional displays every two minutes? I know I didn't. I’d had a cry and now I would deal with the situation my way.

  Still clutching the cushion, I checked the windows, making sure they were locked with the key, and then went through to the kitchen-dining room. We used this room most of the time. There was a small sofa at one end as well as a dining table and chairs. It had a cosy, lived-in feel. The children's toys covered the rug in front of the gas fire.

  I placed the cushion on the sink and then checked and double-checked the back door and windows before heading upstairs.

  In the light from the landing, I could make out Emma's beautiful curls tumbling over the pillow and my heart contracted in my chest. I bent to kiss her cheek, my nostrils filling with the unique scent of my daughter.

  Princesses, crowns and flouncy fabric filled the shocking-pink room—a total contrast to the bedroom I'd had growing up, which wasn’t that hard to achieve. My children would never have to experience a cold hard mattress and grimy threadbare blankets.

  I picked up a lifelike baby doll from the floor and placed the ugly thing next to Emma on the bed. Emma took her thumb from her mouth and cuddled the doll protectively. I perched one knee on the window seat and checked the window was secure, glancing out into the shadows of the back garden. I shuddered again and closed the curtains.

  In the room across the landing, I bobbed my head to miss the giant, luminous stars hanging from the ceiling. I detested them. They were tacky and didn't go with the Noah's ark theme I'd designed. However, Michael's parents had bought them for Jacob and he loved them.

  Jacob's duvet was off and scrunched up underneath him. One fat little leg stuck through the bars of his cot. Being extra careful, so as not to wake him, I squeezed it back through, then pulled his duvet out and covered him up. Noah and Mrs Noah adorned the duvet's centre, and numerous pairs of animals and birds surrounded them.

  I checked the window, then sighed as I closed the bedroom door.

  Once in the bathroom, I slid the bolt in place and switched on the shower. I took off my brown, leather boots, followed by my jeans, T-shirt and underwear, leaving them in a pile in the corner. I stepped under the hot jets of water, praying it would wash away the images of my cheating husband, but instead it had the opposite effect.

  Silent tears fell and mixed with the shower water. I rubbed my eyes, then my face. My hands moved from my neck and chest, and cupped my small, round breasts. I picked up the sponge and began scrubbing my skin, starting at my neck and moving further down.

  Short gasps escaped from my parted lips.

  I was ashamed at the way my body betrayed me. The more I thought about Michael with that woman, the more aroused I became and the harder I scrubbed myself with the sponge—as though I was punishing myself.

  My skin raw, sobs mixing with pants, I let the roughness of the sponge rub between my thighs, not able to shake the images of Michael and his tart.

  It was over in seconds. I dropped the sponge then slid to the tiles, sobbing out loud.

  What the hell was wrong with me? I couldn't understand how the evening's events had me feeling like this. It wasn't normal.

  I wasn't normal.

  Downstairs the door banged, followed by the sound of the TV. He was home.

  I got out of the shower, swiped my hand across the fogged up mirror, then applied moisturiser to my bright-red cheeks, calming the tell-tale flush of my orgasm.

  My pale-blue eyes had a dull lifelessness to them that I hadn’t seen in a long, long time. It was no surprise that Michael had gone for the redhead. The mass of strawberry curls he’d had twisted in his hands looked sexy and wanton compared to my fine, lank and colourless tresses and that wasn’t the only notable difference. My boyish body was no comparison to her voluptuous curves.

  I pulled my comfortable, Cookie Monster nightie on, then crept onto the landing and padded down the stairs. I knew Michael wouldn't have secured the dead bolt on the front door and I'd get no sleep tonight if I didn't do it.

  I placed my cupped hand on top of my keys on the hall table and scooped them up, gripping them in m
y fist to stop them jangling. I wasn't in the mood for another argument—not tonight.

  Suddenly, the volume went up on the TV and the football commentator's yell made my feet leave the floor. I twirled around, locked the front door and ran back up the stairs.

  In the bedroom, I slid the flimsy bolt into place, more as a statement than for protection. No way was he going to sleep in my bed.

  My legs were fidgety and I couldn't get comfortable. One minute they were out of the duvet, the next back in. I thought about tonight, unable to understand why Michael had insisted I go with him, only to ignore and humiliate me. Five years of marriage must mean something to him—or maybe not. Too hot again, I sprawled out onto the cool sheets on Michael's side.

  Startled by a loud bang, I shot off the bed, my heart in my mouth. Disorientated, I realised I must have fallen asleep after all.

  Michael was shaking and banging the door. "Amanda!" he yelled.

  "Leave me alone, Michael," I said, moving to stand inches away from him, my fingers on the handle.

  "Open the door or I'll kick it in," he slurred. He must have been at the whisky downstairs. He’d had a few drinks at the party, but he hadn't seemed drunk, not like now.

  I opened it slightly. "Shush!" I nodded towards the children's rooms. "Not tonight, Michael—we'll talk in the morning." My lips trembled.

  "Open the fucking door. Now!"

  "Be quiet!" I realised it was pointless. "Fine, come in. I'll get in bed with Emma."

  I stepped back and he slammed the door into me, knocking me off balance. I fell backwards onto the bed and he pounced on top of me in an instant. The look in his eyes warned me not to mess with him. Blood surged through my veins, and my stomach churned.

  "Michael, wh-what are you doing?" I didn't think he would hurt me, but I'd never seen him this angry before.

  "Shut up, bitch! You're so high and fucking mighty, aren't you? Snooty Amanda, never does anything wrong. Now you have the excuse you've been waiting for to get rid of me," he said as he gripped both of my wrists.