The One Who Got Away. L.A. Detwiler

The One Who Got Away - L.A. Detwiler


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      The One Who Got Away

      L.A. DETWILER

One More Chapter Logo

      One More Chapter

      an imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers

      The News Building

      1 London Bridge Street

      London SE1 9GF

       www.harpercollins.co.uk

      First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers 2020

      Copyright © L.A. Detwiler 2020

      Cover design by HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2020

      Cover images © Shutterstock.com

      L.A. Detwiler asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

      A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.

      This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

      All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

      Source ISBN: 9780008324667

      Ebook Edition © February 2020 ISBN: 9780008324650

      Version: 2020-01-31

      Table of Contents

       Cover

       Title Page

       Copyright

       Dedication

       Epigraph

      Prologue

      Chapter 1

      Chapter 2

      Chapter 3

      Chapter 4

       Chapter 6

       Chapter 7

       Chapter 8

       Chapter 9

       Chapter 10

       Chapter 11

       Chapter 12

       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

       Epilogue

       Acknowledgements

       About the Author

       About the Publisher

       To my grandfather, Paul J. Frederick

      ‘I became insane, with long intervals of horrible sanity’

      – Edgar Allan Poe

       Prologue

       West Green, Crawley, West Sussex, UK

       Smith Creek Manor Nursing Home

       2019

      Clutching the chilled silver edges of the picture frame, my shaking hands rattle the loose glass shards that rest on the photograph. The peeling wallpaper of my room is marked with a mystic yet clear warning. I smooth my thumb over the ridges of the familiar texture on the frame, looking down at the unassuming, smiling faces in the photograph. They had no idea that years later, they’d be pawns in this sick and twisted game. How could they, after all?

      Claire brought me the photograph only a couple of days ago to replace the last one. Has it really only been a couple of days? So much has changed. I can’t even keep track of the days, the hours, the minutes. Tears splash onto the glass shards, swirling in small, delicate puddles over our faces. I can feel my heart constricting, tightening, and I wonder if this is where it all ends.

      ‘Charles, what is this? What is this?’ I whisper into the room, my breathing laboured as the glow from my lamp dances over the message on the faded, sickly wallpaper. I shake my head, trying to work out what to do. I could push the call button over and over until one of them comes. I could wait for a nurse to get here. They would have to believe this, wouldn’t they? They would have to see that I’m not mad, that this is real. They wouldn’t be able to feed me lines about my warped perceptions of reality or this disease that is degrading my mind.

      They’d have to see it.

      Then again, who knows anymore. No one seems to believe me at all. Sometimes I don’t even know if I can believe myself. I stand from my bed, setting the crushed picture frame down and leaning heavily on the tiny wooden bedside table. I pull my hand back, looking down to see blood dripping from where a piece of glass has sliced into me. The burning sensation as the redness cascades down my flesh makes my stomach churn.

      


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