Free The Date: An unputdownable psychological thriller with a breathtaking twist by Louise Jensen Page B

them back onto our lawn, shoutingwe should cut the bloody thing down. One had hit Ben in the face once and insults had been tossed over the fence like a tennis rally; Mum and Dad hadn’t spoken to the neighbours after, but despite the feud I’d felt so content, so cosy. Visions dancing through my mind of hand-knitting jumper dresses, scarves so long I could wrap them around my neck three times. Ben had been in bed, small arms clutchingOllie the Owl to his chest, and from the kitchen ELO’s ‘Sweet Talkin’ Woman’ had drifted from the radio as Dad washed up the tea things. The gentle sloshing of water. The rhythmic click-click-click of Mum’s needles, her fingers moving so fast they blurred. She was already on her third square.
    ‘Oh.’ I’d swallowed my wine gum along with my disappointment. ‘Look at my square, Mum?’ To callit a square had been both optimistic and mathematically incorrect. It sloped, narrowing into nothing as the stitches had become tighter and tighter. I’d been so afraid of dropping a stitch I’d pulled the wool tautly to me, almost afraid to let it go, scared it would all unravel.
    ‘Sometimes you have to relax. Trust. Have faith it will all work out,’ Mum had said, and I had tried again butstill I couldn’t relax. Still couldn’t trust.
    And I feel that way now as I clutch my secrets to me as though they are that ball of wool. I’m so, so, scared it’s all going to unravel. And although I long to have faith it will all be okay, I know that faith in myself would be misplaced. I don’t deserve it, not really.
    ‘Karma,’ our snotty neighbour had sniffed after everything happenedand at that time I was too young to understand what she meant, but now I do. Dark things happen on dark nights. Payback. You can never escape the things you’ve done, no matter how hard you try. I’m tangled in each and every lie I’ve told, and somewhere along the way I’ve dropped a stitch. What goes around comes around they say, don’t they? What’s happening now can’t possibly have anything to dowith what happened then, can it? Enjoy the date, bitch? However bad this gets I’m frightened it’s divine punishment, of sorts, and I’ve only got myself to blame. And as scared as I am about what’s to come, in some strange way I welcome it, because as much as someone out there seems to hate me, it’s not as much as I hate myself.
    It’s still chilly. Stretching my arm over the back of the sofaI press my palm against the radiator. It’s pumping out heat. There’s definitely a draught coming from somewhere, snaking around my ankles, turning my toes to ice. I peel my weary body from the sofa, every muscle aches and I think I should perhaps run a hot bath. Throw in one of the bath bombs Chrissy loves that fizzes as it hits the water, colouring it yellow, overpowering the house with the zingof citrus. A bang slices through my thoughts. Branwell’s ears prick up.
    ‘What was that?’ I ask as though he can answer. Stepping out into the hallway, I am hit by a cold blast of air. The front door is swinging open as though someone has just gone out.
    Or someone has just come in.
    ‘Chrissy?’ I call cautiously, although there’s no handbag looped around the bannisters, no shoeskicked off on the mat. No ‘Honey, I’m home!’ as is her way.
    I bend to restrain Branwell, but, before I can grab him, he races outside, and I fly after him, frantically calling his name, as I replay coming home in my mind’s eye. There’s no way I’d have left the front door open, let alone unlocked. I see myself dashing towards the house, Branwell’s lead in one hand, mobile clutched in theother. I remember how desperate I had been to study my phone properly and have to admit there is a possibility that perhaps in my haste I didn’t lock the door. Didn’t even close it properly and it has swung open in the wind.
    Branwell hasn’t got far. He’s a few metres away being fussed over by a man. Paws trip-trapping over