Saving Sophie: A compulsively twisty psychological thriller that will keep you gripped to the very last page. Sam Carrington

       CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

      ‘Did you go?’ Mike emerged through the kitchen door. He banged his rucksack on the counter then bent to untie the laces of his walking boots.

      ‘I’m guessing you already know the answer to that, so why don’t you cut the crap and say what you really want to say about me letting Rachel down. Get it over with.’ Karen crossed her arms and hugged her chest. She turned her head away from him, waiting for the critical analysis of her obvious lack of loyalty. She’d heard it all before, albeit in a different guise.

      ‘Don’t jump down my throat the second I walk through the door.’ He kicked off his boots, propelling them under the breakfast bar, flakes of dried mud leaving a trail. Karen tutted.

      ‘Then don’t attack me with nasty questions as soon as you set eyes on me.’

      They both fell silent, the bitterness settling for a moment. This was how it had been for a long time, before Erin’s murder, before Karen’s attack. The two of them on stand-by, waiting for a single reason to strike, or go on the defensive – waiting to inhabit the roles they had each given themselves in this marriage. The hostility seeped through the cracks every now and then, when they couldn’t be bothered, or didn’t have the energy to fill them temporarily with tactful, carefully chosen words.

      ‘It wasn’t a nasty question. It was a question, because I wondered, if you hadn’t yet made it over to Rachel’s, whether you’d like me to take you this evening.’

      Evidently, he was in the ‘we’ll paper over the cracks and be nice to each other’ mode. Karen’s arms loosened and slipped to her sides.

      ‘Um, well …’ She darted to the cupboards, clattering the tins around. ‘I’ve got dinner to start … um, and then …’ There was no and then, but she continued to flit from drawer to fridge, rummaging for the items for a dinner she hadn’t even given thought to until now, hoping he wouldn’t push the matter further.

      ‘Karen.’

      She ignored him as she went about choosing the right pan size for the unidentified meal.

      ‘Karen, stop.’ He came to her side, took the pan from her hand and forced her around to face him. ‘Look at me.’ He tipped her chin up with two fingers.

      ‘What?’ She faced him, but averted her eyes.

      ‘I’ll take you.’ Softly spoken, compassionate, almost caring – the way he’d been a lifetime ago.

      ‘I should wait for Sophie to come home.’

      ‘Sophie’s old enough to take care of herself, she doesn’t need you.’

      ‘She doesn’t need me? What’s that supposed to mean?’ She pulled away.

      ‘Christ. Just that she can cook for herself, she doesn’t need you to worry about it for her.’ He’d swapped the compassion for irritation like a flicked switch but she’d been the one to do the flicking.

      ‘I know that. But she’s vulnerable at the moment, and she does need me. She needs me here.’ Karen stood firm. Mike’s eyes travelled to the pan she’d picked back up. He took a step away from her.

      ‘She will need you for support, yes, but at the moment I think Rachel’s needs are greater, don’t you?’

      ‘Look, I’ve spoken to Rach today, she understands that I can’t be with her in person, she knows I’m only a phone call away.’

      ‘And that’s good enough, is it? When you were attacked, how would you have felt if Rachel hadn’t physically been there for you?’

      ‘That was different—’

      ‘Too right it was.’ He moved towards Karen again, his finger jabbing in the air in front of her. ‘You were a wreck, she drove straight over as soon as she heard, she stayed all night with you, sat with you, comforted you. And you hadn’t lost your daughter, you’d just been a victim.’ Mike’s face was too close to hers, a fine spray of spittle overlaying her skin. He looked right into her eyes, then whispered: ‘But, I guess you always are the victim.’

      Karen’s mouth fell open. No words came to her. Thrusting the pan into his stomach, she turned and walked into the lounge.

      The television was muted, but the images jumped from the screen. Karen rushed to the controls and turned it up. Erin’s face was in the background, the newsreader’s voice low, serious. It was the first time Karen had seen anything official about the murder; she gagged on a mouthful of sick but managed to swallow it down, acid burning her throat. She paused the telly, not ready to hear more yet.

      ‘Mike,’ she shouted, his horrible dig at her temporarily forgotten. ‘Come here … it’s on the news.’ Her voice faltered; she took some deep breaths, sat down on the sofa.

      Mike strolled in, but didn’t make eye contact with Karen. She restarted the news. Briefly, they were joined in their horror, their anguish, and both watched in silence as the story unfolded. Footage of the scene where Erin’s body had been found, the detective inspector – a red-headed wispy-looking woman with a strong, firm voice – telling the bare facts, some fuzzy CCTV footage depicting Erin walking down the main street of Coleton. Karen gasped. Even though she knew Sophie had been with her, now seeing her familiar form tripping along beside Erin brought a jolt; her daughter, together with a number of other girls who weren’t easily distinguishable in the grainy image, walking side by side with a murdered girl. How can this be happening?

      An appeal followed. DI Wade spoke in her firm monotone again, this time asking for help: an appeal to the public for information and witnesses from Saturday night, from anyone who may have seen Erin, so they could chart her last known movements. She stated they had some CCTV from the early evening, but none after Erin left the White Hart pub.