Published by AVON

A Division of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd

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www.harpercollins.co.uk

First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers 2018

Copyright © L.A. Detwiler 2018

Cover design © Alison Groom 2018

Cover illustrations © Shutterstock

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 ebook on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, 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.

Ebook Edition © November 2018; ISBN: 9780008324636

Version: 2018-10-30

To my husband, Chad.

‘There are some secrets which do not permit themselves to be told.’

– Edgar Allan Poe

Table of Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Epigraph

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

Epilogue

Acknowledgments

About the Author

About the Publisher

Prologue

Looking back, there were warning signs. Flickers of who she was hiding, what they were hiding. I just didn’t want to see. Maybe I didn’t want the fantasy world I’d created to disappear. Maybe I wanted to keep believing their love story was perfect, would be my comfortable company for my final years. Maybe I hoped it would remind me of my own early love story, of that swooning feeling, of those first-kiss moments. Maybe I just missed him, and I was soothing that pain by watching them.

Whatever it was, I know this – things are changing now.

They’re changing.

They’re breaking.

I think it started as tiny cracks, almost unnoticeable signals of them coming undone. The angry gesture on the front porch over some argument I couldn’t hear, smoothed by a kiss on the cheek and what looked like an apology. Abandoned dinner one night in the kitchen, a screaming match ensuing as she stormed out … followed by a sweet, tender embrace at breakfast the next morning.

I thought they were running their course, fighting like couples do. I thought maybe the honeymoon years were just wearing off because we all know they do wear off.

I thought they were okay. Maybe they thought that too.

But as the weeks go on, I realise something I hadn’t before.

Something’s not right. Something’s not right at all. In fact, something’s so grotesquely wrong and hideously tainted, I don’t know if there will be any turning back.

Things haven’t been right for a while now, I’m starting to realise. Behind that bubbly smile, that sunshine yellow, she’s not perfect. Not even close.

Why with all bright stories is there a monster, unseen, that festers beneath the boiling surface?

As the weather gets colder, the frost settling in, it’s clear that maybe I didn’t really know my neighbour from 312 Bristol Lane at all.

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