The Lies He Told | PSYCHOLOGICAL THRILLER ROMANCE |

CHAPTER ONE

Not again.

Three nights in one week is too much for any ordinary person, never mind someone diagnosed with a temporary impairment of mental capacity. My head was foggy on a normal day, but paradoxical sleep exasperated memory problems. I will have a non-alcoholic-related hangover in the morning, difficulty concentrating and headaches galore because of the evil goddess and her thirst for rampant fear-mongering.

I have done this nightmarish dance too many times for it to be considered normal. Yet, with each painstaking step along the cobblestone pavement toward the magnificent gothic revival mansion, with arched windows and stone clock tower, situated on the edge of sculpted cliffs and dense vegetation, I know, hiding from my innermost fears and craven apprehensions, is not an option.

A full moon, the only source of light, is barely visible through the thick layer of mist. With a powerful sense of unease, I crept past the old, rusty arbour of gnarled branches and ominous shadows and teetered into the low-walled garden, where long, unkempt grass and dry, wilted flowers snaked through the fine cracks of frost-covered pavers.

The wind howled hauntingly as my body approached the beautifully handcrafted church-style door, the ornate brass handle falling into my fingers. I almost knocked and interrupted the clandestine meeting of hypocrisy and irresponsibility, but my gut instinct told me to cease fire, not make it easier for them by giving myself away too easily or too hastily.

Why should I facilitate the root cause of disloyalty and betrayal amongst everyone involved in this quagmire of unrepentant wrongdoers? I do not owe them anything, especially patience and understanding.

They started it.

They provoked me.

The dramatic blend of Renaissance architecture, coastal picturesqueness and eerie familiarity, which quite literally belonged in the mediaeval times of young noblemen and local dignitaries, is restricted to the public. But the prohibition of unlawful entry will not prevent intrusion. To hell with steel mesh fences, boundary signs and restricted zones. I had to see, for myself, if there was any truth behind the crescendo of vicious rumours that townsfolk whispered under the table when they thought I was out of earshot.

Is it wrong that I pretended to look distracted and feigned obliviousness when pestiferous scandalmongers silently passed judgement when I showed my face in the village? That's what busybodies and troublemakers are good at, talking shit behind my back as if they know me, which they do not.

My social circle is small. The only women that talked to me around here were the wives of my husband's golf buddies. My best friends, apparently. Three amazing women with impeccable taste in fashion and a devilish palette for fruity wine and traditional charcuterie.

I never said boo-ba-shit to anyone else.

Not anymore.

I somehow managed to upset the locals when, on the rare occasion, my head was not in the gutter, and I graced them with my appearance, a random shopping trip to the town centre or a flying visit to the supermarket. That's when people watched fixedly, almost fascinatedly, and resembled volatile ventriloquists as I drifted through aisles.

Of course, I never left the house by myself. Daniel had to accompany me on the terrifying trek from the clifftop to the strip of attractions: bars, clubs and restaurants.

A sky of lights.

If, by car, we travelled further afield, to The Big Smoke, for example, Daniel had to drive. I did not trust myself behind the steering wheel, not after I lost control of the last vehicle and toppled through the air, plummeting downwards to the densely forested ditch of thick smoke and hungry flames.