Safe With Me

A Tense Psychological Thriller

K.L. Slater

Books by K.L. Slater

The Widow

The Evidence

The Marriage

The Girl She Wanted

Little Whispers

Single

The Silent Ones

Finding Grace

Closer

The Secret

The Visitor

The Mistake

Liar

Blink

Safe With Me

To my daughter, Francesca Kim

Thank you for your love and support

From the very beginning

Contents

Prologue

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

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

Chapter 53

Chapter 54

Chapter 55

Chapter 56

Chapter 57

Chapter 58

Chapter 59

Chapter 60

Chapter 61

Chapter 62

Chapter 63

Chapter 64

Chapter 65

Chapter 66

Chapter 67

Chapter 68

Chapter 69

Chapter 70

Chapter 71

Chapter 72

Chapter 73

Chapter 74

Chapter 75

Chapter 76

The Marriage

Hear More From K.L. Slater

Books by K.L. Slater

A Letter from K.L. Slater

The Widow

The Evidence

The Girl She Wanted

Little Whispers

Single

The Silent Ones

Finding Grace

Closer

The Secret

The Visitor

The Mistake

Liar

Blink

Acknowledgements

*

Prologue

So, they’re tucked up in bed at last. You take a handful of matches and you light each one, watching the burn die to a powdery black dot.

The embers in the open fireplace are dying down but there’s still the white hot core, deep in the centre, still powerful enough to help you set things good and straight one final time.

‘Two squashy seat cushions piled on the floor, four squashy seat cushions piled on the floor.’ It’s fun to sing to the tune of ‘Ten Green Bottles’.

You push the chair right up next to them so the fabrics are touching. You carefully extract two balls of molten coal from the ashes with the tongs, carefully placing each one in the middle of the cushions. Now you sit back to watch them melting in, deep down. The glowing balls sink greedily into the soft foam, and the scorched fabric cover of the cushion shrinks back as if it’s trying to escape.

There is no noise and you enjoy the silence.

Entranced, you watch as the small flames start to dance, flicking their pretty, lethal tongues. The power amazes, terrifies and comforts you, all at once. You feel the layers of protection you have tried to coat yourself with over the years being stripped away. You needed them so you had a chance of getting through each day and drunken night but you are safe now. The flames will make it safe.

You have tried to tell them many times, of course, tried to ask for help. But they didn’t understand what you were trying to get through to them. And now the rawness of your fear, your sadness – it’s here for all to see in the sharpness of the thick, sulphured air.

You mustn’t cough. You don’t want to wake them, set the sillies screaming and crying. Leave them to their dreams, they will learn soon enough.

The flames grow larger, then fuse together. You know it’s a sign that they are silently promising to help you and yet, for a second, you actually consider changing your mind. You could stomp down the flames and shout for help. You could wake them up.

Then you hear it.

‘Let us do our work,’ the flames whisper. ‘Everything will be better in the morning.’

And that’s when you decide to finally walk away.

One

Present day

Anna

The small silver car coming the other way is moving far too fast, and as it takes the bend, the driver loses control and veers over on to the wrong side of the road.

Everything happens so quickly: there’s no time for it to slow down or to even mount the kerb.

There is a hard, muted thud as the car hits the motorbike in front of me. The rider flies up into the air, sort of half-turns and lands face down in the road. As the metal bends and twists it whines like an injured animal, and my hand flies to my face, trying in vain to stem the acrid stench of burning rubber that starts to fill my lungs.

My foot slams down on to the brake, and I jump out, leaving the driver’s door wide open and the car in the middle of the road. I stand there, swallowing down the sickly taste that floods my mouth.

Everything seems to freeze in time, and a silence descends. It has a deafening quality all of its own and, for a moment, I am lost in the empty roar that surrounds me.

Then the spell is broken as the door of the silver car opens and a woman of about forty, dressed in jeans and a short pink coat, staggers out and vomits onto the side of the road. She holds her hair away from her face as if it’s somehow important to keep it clean.

And it is in that split second that I recognise her.

There is no mistaking that face.

I remind myself to breathe. My throat feels tight and dry, and my heart squeezes in so hard on itself I can almost sense it hanging in my chest like a dried-out apricot stone.

Twelve years ago, when I got out of hospital, even though I had met her only briefly on just a couple of occasions, I spent every spare minute I had trying to trace her again.

I was so young, desperate and naïve back then. With nobody to help me I hit a complete brick wall: she had simply vanished into thin air.

Eventually I was forced to acknowledge I’d lost her. Then all I could do was pray that karma really did exist and that she’d get what was coming to her for what she did to us.

And now she is here, right in front of me. Ruining yet another life.

I watch as the silver-haired driver from the black Mercedes that stopped behind me shrugs off his expensive-looking jacket and drapes it around her shoulders. He comforts her with a protective arm, murmuring reassuring words into her ear.

Something about her draws people in, gives them the impression she is a decent person.

So ironic.

Knots of people start to appear, seemingly from nowhere.

I think about getting back in my car, leaving the scene. Part of me is pulling to get away from her, but, of course, that’s not going to happen.

I could never just let go of her again.

Amid the chaos my eyes are drawn to the long, broken shape lying in the road. Pieces of motorbike are scattered all around him like fragments of jagged chrome confetti.

I ignore the rapidly growing crowd on the other side of the street and crouch down beside him, feeling for a pulse. My hand shakes as I press his wrist gently and, for a moment, I think she’s done it again, because I can’t feel any movement at all under my fingers. No sign of life.

Then his eyes flicker, and I release my breath.

People pour out of the small, terraced houses lining Green Road, fingers pointing and mouths all frozen wide.

I look down at him again.

He is hanging on to life by a thread; I can sense it. If he slips away now, I will never be able to forgive myself.

That terrified young girl who didn’t know what to do for the best is long gone now.

Maybe, this time, I can make a difference.

The rider has landed face down on his left-hand side. A thick pool, like ruby molasses, blossoms out from the underside of his head.

I reach down to stroke his face but I don’t let go of his hand.

He looks a little older than me: early to mid-thirties, I’d say. His skin is smooth, lashes long and dark and twitching as if he is caught in a dream.

Over the other side of the road, where all the attention is, she is howling.

There is barely a scratch on her but then she was always so good at playing the victim, so I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised.

I try to stop staring in case I give myself away, but I’ve no need to worry – she’s oblivious to anyone but herself.

She hasn’t got a clue who I am or what she did to me all that time ago.

Granted, I look very different now. It’s been a long thirteen years; I’m much darker-haired and carry nearly four stones of extra weight. There is no trace of the naïve, slender girl who gave up her trust so easily.

See, people like her never really notice the insignificant people around them.

They go through life making their selfish decisions, leaving a trail of destruction in their wake, and never giving it a second thought.

Until it all comes back with a vengeance, that is.

Then they have to suck it up good.

I hear someone call: ‘The ambulance is on its way.’

There are hordes of people standing around now, rubbernecking.

Their eyes are trained on the motorbike rider but I don’t see much compassion, more a thinly disguised hunger for the gory details that might be revealed if they hang around long enough.

I move stiffly from my knees to my haunches and prepare to stand up, to walk away before the ambulance arrives.

I know I’ll be able to keep tabs on her now through the local newspaper reports about the accident, and I can identify myself later to the police as a witness.

A big part of me wants to stay but I learned a lot from my therapist. Like how to stand back from my thoughts and evaluate a situation calmly and logically so I make the best decision.

If I stay, I don’t think I can trust myself not to cause a scene. This time I need to make sure that every action, every step I take, is carefully planned and considered.

So that there are no mistakes.

I feel something brush over my hand and I glance down as the injured rider’s fingers close around mine.

His slate-blue eyes are bloodshot and wide open now but he seems oblivious to all the people standing around, as if he can’t see past my face.

A sharp intake of breath and he looks right at me.

‘Help me,’ he whispers.