Heart of Bone: A gripping novel of psychological suspense, page 1
Table of Contents
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12 - Before
CHAPTER 13 - Now
CHAPTER 14 - Before
CHAPTER 15 - Now
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 - Before
CHAPTER 63 - Now
CHAPTER 64
CHAPTER 65
CHAPTER 66
CHAPTER 67
CHAPTER 68
CHAPTER 69
CHAPTER 70
CHAPTER 71
CHAPTER 72
CHAPTER 73 - Before
CHAPTER 74 - Before
CHAPTER 75 - Now
POSTSCRIPT
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
PUBLISHING DETAILS
CHAPTER 1
Greer Maddox remained in her car once she’d switched off the engine. Her gaze went to the third floor of Tom’s block of flats, to a window on the right, her view partly obscured by the rain that pounded her windscreen. A gap in the curtains showed the lights were on. Her son was home.
Still Greer didn’t move. Would Tom be annoyed with her for coming? If she left now, she’d be in bed before midnight, and he’d never know she’d been here. She’d not sleep if she did, though, what with worry weighing like a rock on her heart. Something was wrong with Tom, a darkness stretching beyond the depression that had marred his teenage years. The pain in his voice the last time she’d phoned—oh, how it had wounded her. As though, for Tom, living hurt too much these days.
A fortnight ago, he’d been so happy. All down to a former boyfriend, from the little he’d said. Tom never told her a great deal about the guys he dated. She didn’t know the man’s name, or how they’d met, but her son’s glow of happiness had warmed her heart. On that occasion, his joy had overridden his customary reserve around her. ‘Yeah, I’m seeing someone,’ he’d admitted, after subtle probing on Greer’s part. ‘We dated a couple of years ago, then split up. Now we’re back together. He’s all I’ve ever wanted.’ Then, as if he’d revealed too much, too soon, he’d clammed up. Greer, reluctant to antagonise her son, hadn’t pressed him.
Now, on this cold December night, she wished she had. Why hadn’t she been a better mother?
Greer scratched at the burn scars on her arms. Stress always made them itch. She got out of the car and hurried through the driving rain to the entrance. A few minutes to reassure herself Tom was all right, then she’d head home. So what if he was angry about her turning up unannounced? He’d not responded to any of her messages, leaving her with little choice. As a mother, it was her duty to check he was okay. Besides, they needed to plan their Christmas together. It was only a week away.
She punched in the access code, sadness tugging at her. How reluctant he’d been to give it to her. Greer hurried up the stairs, her pulse racing, until she reached Tom’s door. She paused for a moment to get her breath back. It was foolish to exert herself like this, what with her heart condition. Her doctor had warned her, more than once. Not that her health mattered right then. Tom’s welfare was Greer’s primary concern.
She pressed his buzzer, worry grating her nerves. No sounds came from inside Tom’s flat; Greer glanced at her watch. Ten pm, too early for her son to be in bed. Besides, the light in his bedroom, his car in its space—both clearly indicated Tom was home. Why wasn’t he opening the door? Her finger prodded his buzzer again, harder this time, as though to summon Tom by sheer willpower.
Still no response. Greer pulled open the cupboard to her left, which housed the gas and electric meters that served her son’s flat. He’d never allowed her a key, probably afraid she’d invade his life more often if he did. Hurt squeezed Greer’s heart at the thought. She reached up to access the top of the electric meter, her fingers scrambling through the dust. Ah, there it was. Greer closed the cupboard and inserted the key in its lock.
‘Tom?’ Her voice echoed through the small flat as she stepped inside. ‘It’s only me, sweetheart. You’ve not answered my messages, and I’ve been so worried—’ Greer’s heart leapt as she stared at Tom’s open bedroom door. In the gap, she spotted a foot hanging over the edge of his duvet, along with a hairy leg. Oh, God, what if it didn’t belong to Tom? What if she’d walked in on her son in bed with his boyfriend? He’d never forgive her. She shouldn’t have intruded.
Why had neither of them reacted to her arrival, though? Maybe they were asleep—but Tom had always woken up at the slightest sound. An icy fist clutched Greer’s heart. She edged towards the door. Her hand shaking, she pushed it fully open.
Tom was alone, lying on his back, his naked body sprawled across the bed, his cheek turned against a pillow. The rank stench of vomit filled the room. An inarticulate cry ripped from Greer’s throat as she ran to Tom’s side.
‘Tom! Darling, can you hear me?’
No response. He didn’t even stir. Greer grabbed his wrist to check for a pulse. Why couldn’t she find one? Panic drained the saliva from her mouth as her fingers pressed harder. Wait, she’d found a beat. Weak, but definitely there. He was alive, thank God.
Greer turned her son’s face away from the pillow, which was thick with vomit. His skin was a terrible greyish-white, his forehead clammy with sweat. Her gaze fell on Tom’s bedside cabinet, bare apart from a folded piece of paper, a drained bottle of whisky and several empty blister packs. She dropped Tom’s wrist as though his skin had burned her, and ran back to the hallway, where she’d left her handbag. Her fingers raked through it, desperate to find her phone.
‘Ambulance. As soon as possible.’ Her mouth was so dry it would hardly work. Somehow she managed to give Tom’s address and her belief he’d overdosed. How else to explain the empty blister packs and the bottle of Scotch?
Once the call ended, Greer raced into the bathroom to wet a towel with warm water. Back in the bedroom, she flung the puke-covered pillow into a corner and knelt by the bed. She wiped the vomit from around Tom’s mouth while her other hand stroked his hair the way she’d done when he was a baby. How had she not foreseen this? Not been there for Tom when he needed her? She should have ignored his ‘keep away’ attitude, insisted he seek psychiatric help.
Tears streamed down Greer’s face. She’d failed him. Just like she’d done with Rose.
Where the hell was the ambulance? She knelt beside Tom’s inert body and clasped his hands. Why were they so cold? What torment had forced her precious boy to believe the only solution was a bellyful of whisky and pills?
Her gaze fell on the folded paper on Tom’s bedside cabinet. Greer got to her feet and moved as if in a daze towards it. Slowly, carefully, she unfolded the note.
Words danced, then blurred, before her eyes. How could she hope to read them through her tears?
A wail of sirens sounded from the street outside and flashing lights slashed through the gap in the blinds. Thank God; the paramedics were here at last. Greer stuffed Tom’s suicide note into her jacket pocket, next to his spare key, and hurried to let them in.
CHAPTER 2
Greer stared at the profusion of tubes entering and draining from Tom’s inert body as he lay in an intensive care bed at the Bristol Royal Infirmary. Around her, machines hummed and buzzed, along with the slow hiss from the ventilator that was breathing for her son. The sour whiff of vomit still clung to him. She didn’t need to be a doctor to know the prognosis wasn’t good.
She suppressed a sob. It was wrong to think that way. Tom would survive, because how could she live without him? He was her whole life. Especially since—
She mustn’t think about Rose. It wasn’t the time or the place. Right then, her focus needed to be on Tom.
‘Please let him live.’ Greer’s voice had shrunk to a mere whisper.
She picked up Tom’s hand, the one nearest to her, her fingers stroking his skin. Why was it so cold, so dry? Should she call someone? Then Tom’s arm twitched, although his eyes remained closed, and Greer’s attention flew to his face. Was he regaining consciousness? She waited, her heart pounding loudly in her ears. The machines around Tom’s bed continued to hum and hiss. Tom gave no sign that he was regaining consciousness, however.
Wake up, Tom. Wake up, damn you.
Things would be different once her son was out of the hospital. He’d need nursing; he couldn’t look after himself in that poky flat. Never mind what he or his new boyfriend might think. She’d insist on him coming home with her, back to his old bedroom, still decorated with his teenage posters. Greer would nurse him back to health, and they’d regain the closeness they’d shared when Tom was a child.
‘I love you.’ Greer spoke the words out loud, a tremor in her voice. Tom’s hand quivered, and she let out a gasp of shock. Her plea had worked. He was waking up.
In a second, she was on her feet, running towards a nurse. She clutched the woman’s arm with frantic fingers. ‘Please come. It’s my son. He’s regaining consciousness.’
The nurse walked over to Tom’s bedside, where she checked his monitors. A frown creased her brow as she turned to Greer. ‘He’s still in a coma, I’m afraid. A doctor will be round soon to check on him.’ With that, she moved away. With a supreme effort, Greer sat beside Tom again.
She needed to make more of an effort. Didn’t people still hear their loved ones, even when in a coma? Maybe feel touch, too? Greer reached under the sheet covering Tom’s body, taking care not to disturb any of the tubes keeping him alive. She grasped his hands and eased them away from the bed, clasping them tightly. Now all she needed was for him to open his eyes.
‘You can beat this, Tom.’ Her lips grazed his knuckles in a kiss. ‘You have to. I can’t survive Christmas all alone. Fight, darling. I know you’ll pull through this.’
Except that, deep down, she didn’t. Dread uncoiled like a snake in Greer’s belly. What if Tom died?
‘Live, sweetheart.’ She must, at all costs, keep the terror from her voice. ‘You’re all I have.’
A nurse, her face filled with concern, approached Tom’s bed.
‘Is there anything I can get you? Tea, coffee?’ Her tone was sympathetic.
Greer shook her head. All she wanted was her son, conscious and on the road to recovery. She couldn’t lose Tom. Not after what happened with Rose.
CHAPTER 3
On the morning after Tom’s hospital admission, Greer called in sick to work, then phoned Charlie Prescott.
He’d driven to the hospital immediately, as she’d known he would.
Charlie burst through the door, his hair wild, face pale. Greer almost didn’t recognise him. He looked a good ten years older than she remembered. He’d bulked up, but not with muscle; the surplus weight clung to his cheeks, strained his belly against his belt. Charlie’s eyes were bloodshot and tired, and his skin had that ruddy hue associated with heavy drinkers. He’d not eased up on the booze, then.
She’d last seen him eighteen months ago, before he flew to Australia to go backpacking. Not long after—
Greer clamped down firmly on that thought. Charlie stared, his expression haunted, at the inert figure in the bed. Then he enveloped Greer in a fierce hug. She clung to him, desperate for the comfort he offered, his aftershave strong in her nostrils. Charlie understood what Tom meant to Greer. He’d always loved her son like a brother. They’d been best friends since primary school.
Now Tom lay pale and immobile, unaware of anything around him. Around his bed, the machines continued to pulse and hum. Greer squeezed his hands in hers, but Tom didn’t respond.
‘I don’t understand.’ Charlie’s voice, hoarse and ragged, roused Greer from her thoughts. ‘Why would he try to kill himself?’
She stepped away, fumbled in her pocket for a tissue. Her hand closed over the suicide note she’d taken from Tom’s bedroom. Greer dragged it out with shaking fingers. ‘He left this.’
Charlie pulled up a chair beside Greer’s and sat down. He guided her to do likewise. He scrubbed a hand over his jaw.
‘What does it say, Mrs M?’ His affectionate name for her. ‘I need answers. So do you.’
Greer nodded. She handed him the note. ‘You read it. I can’t bear to.’
Charlie unfolded the slip of paper. His face grew paler, something she wouldn’t have believed possible. Tears swimming in his eyes, he screwed up the note and flung it across the room. Then he buried his head in his hands and sobbed, his large frame shaking with anguish.
Greer stared at the scrunched-up wad of paper like it was a demon from hell. ‘Charlie? Do you know who did this to Tom?’
He wiped his eyes. ‘I can’t—’
Greer summoned every ounce of courage she possessed to walk over and retrieve the scrap of paper. Her heart pounding, she resumed her seat next to Tom’s bed. She unfolded the note and read words that burned her eyeballs.
I wanted so badly for us to be together again. The lies have been the final straw.
A tsunami of torment swept through Greer. Tom’s new boyfriend—he’d driven her beloved boy to try to take his own life. A tortured howl escaped her lips.
Greer’s hands clenched in her lap. Her nails dug deep into her palms. Had the guy been in front of Greer right then, she’d have throttled him and gladly served time for his murder.
But he wasn’t. There was only Charlie, and Greer, and sadness.
She needed to probe deeper. ‘Did you ever meet this man he’s been dating?’
‘No.’
‘You must know something about him. The two of you have always been so close.’
Charlie didn’t reply at first. When his eyes met Greer’s, she saw he was crying. Through gulps, he said, ‘Tom doesn’t tell me much about his love life. It’s as if he thinks that, because I date women, I’ll judge him. Like he’s worried I’ll stop being his mate because he’s gay.’
‘But you knew he’d been seeing someone?’
Charlie scrubbed his hand over his face to wipe away the tears. ‘I think they split up. Well, they must have done. That’s what the note, and this—’ He gestured towards Tom. ‘Is all about, right?’
Greer’s gaze roamed over Tom’s beloved face. Had it not been for the rise and fall of his chest, she might have thought him dead, so ashen was his skin.
He needed to get well. Then, together, they’d deal with everything, and everyone, that had hurt him.
‘He’s been so down recently.’ Why hadn’t she been more supportive? ‘Depression—it’s a terrible thing, Charlie. I’d been hoping he was getting better, and now this.’
Charlie took the note from Greer. ‘“The lies have been the final straw.” I wonder what he means.’
Fury shot through Greer. ‘He’s obviously fallen in love with some bastard not fit to shine his shoes. A man who lied to my Tom, then dumped him, like he’s worthless.’ Her nails gouged blood from her palms, the pain a welcome relief. ‘Whoever he is, I hate him.’
‘Yeah,’ Charlie echoed. ‘Me too.’ For a moment, they sat in silence, apart from the thrum and hiss of the machines keeping Tom alive.
‘He will get better, won’t he?’ The agony in Charlie’s eyes stabbed through Greer’s heart.
‘He has to.’ Anything else was unthinkable. ‘He’s all I have left.’
OVER THE NEXT TWO DAYS, Tom showed some signs of improvement; he no longer needed a ventilator to breathe, but remained comatose. Greer spent every moment possible at the hospital, having negotiated compassionate leave with her boss. Not that she cared about work. Her data entry job barely paid enough to cover her bills, and was the least of her worries. As for sleep and food, who needed them?
Tom’s doctors could offer little in the way of a prognosis. ‘Your son ingested a large quantity of painkillers,’ one told Greer. ‘We’re doing everything we can, but some of his internal organs have suffered extensive damage. Let’s hope for a miracle, but you need to prepare yourself for the fact he might not recover, Mrs Maddox.’
CHAPTER 4
Greer filled her kettle. A quick coffee, and then she’d visit Tom. Her darling boy hadn’t responded yesterday when she’d sat at his bedside. Not even a twitch. His colour hadn’t been good, either, the waxy pallor of his skin a painful reminder of that terrible night she’d found him. Had that really only been a few days ago?
She spooned coffee granules into a mug. Tom had to get better. Didn’t he realise she needed him?
