Broken Souls
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BROKEN SOULS AN ABSOLUTELY ADDICTIVE MYSTERY THRILLER WITH A BRILLIANT TWIST PATRICIA GIBNEY BOOKS BY PATRICIA GIBNEY THE DETECTIVE LOTTIE PARKER SERIES 1. The Missing Ones 2. The Stolen Girls 3. The Lost Child 4. No Safe Place 5. Tell Nobody 6. Final Betrayal 7. Broken Souls Available in Audio THE DETECTIVE LOTTIE PARKER SERIES 1. The Missing Ones (Available in the UK and the US) 2. The Stolen Girls (Available in the UK and the US) 3. The Lost Child (Available in the UK and the US) 4. No Safe Place (Available in the UK and the US) 5. Tell Nobody (Available in the UK and the US) 6. Final Betrayal (Available in the UK and the US) CONTENTS * November * December 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 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 Chapter 63 Chapter 64 Chapter 65 Chapter 66 Chapter 67 Chapter 68 Patricia’s Email Sign-Up Books by Patricia Gibney A Letter from Patricia The Missing Ones The Stolen Girls The Lost Child No Safe Place Tell Nobody Final Betrayal Acknowledgements To Marie Brennan For everything * The four-year-old boy tore off the paper and pushed the sweet into his mouth. The toffee stuck to his baby teeth. He tried to extract it with a finger. The toffee stuck to his fingers and he began to cry. The slap of the ruler across his knuckles caught him by surprise and momentarily stopped his whimpering. But once he felt the pain shoot up his hand, he screamed. ‘I want to go home!’ ‘Shut up. Not another word. You’re upsetting the other children. Look around you. You’re a mean little boy, and if you don’t stop, I’ll stand you outside the door in the rain. You know there are bad people out there and the bad people come to take away naughty little children. Do you want that to happen to you?’ He sniffed away his tears and bit his lip, feeling the toffee still stuck to his front tooth. ‘I asked you a question. Answer me.’ Another crack of the ruler, this time on the desk. ‘No.’ He nodded vigorously. He did not want to feel that ruler on his hand or anywhere else again. He would be a good boy. ‘Put that wrapper in the bin and open your spelling book.’ He had no idea which one was his spelling book. ‘Come up here!’ Making his way to the front of the classroom, he tried fruitlessly to tear the sweet wrapper from his hand. ‘It’s stuck.’ With the piece of paper sticking fast to his throbbing fingers, he faced the teacher. The ruler came down hard and sharp on his hand once more. ‘Get back to your seat.’ His first day at school was turning out to be even worse than life at home. As he walked back to his desk, he felt the warmth trickle down his leg and settle inside his white ankle sock. The ruler would surely visit him again many times, today and in days to come. He didn’t think he wanted to wait around for that. But where else could he go? He spent the morning sitting in his wet shorts; he didn’t even go out to the playground when the other children left for their break. He stayed at his desk, opened his lunch box and munched on the bruised banana. The teacher sat at her desk at the head of the classroom, her eyes blinking with every movement of his jaw. ‘Come here,’ she said when the other children returned. He looked up fearfully and the banana lodged in his throat. Not wanting to feel the timber of the ruler again, he put down the fruit and made his way forward. When he reached her desk, barely able to see over the edge, she leaned forward and grabbed his hair. He shrieked when he saw the long-bladed scissors in her hand. ‘Your hair is much too long. You can hardly see out through it. You need a trim.’ He tried to say no, but the words stuck to the roof of his mouth like the toffee had stuck to his fingers. He loved his hair. Shoulder length. It reminded him of the photo of his mother. He had her hair. The teacher waved the scissors in front of him before tugging his fringe. She looked at him triumphantly, a lock of his hair clasped in her hand. ‘Now I can see your horrible little face.’ Silently, he wished for the day to end. NOVEMBER * Is there ever a good day to die? The man didn’t think so as he silently answered his own question. The sky was a greyish blue. Murky. The clouds on the horizon forewarned of a touch of rain to come. Otherwise, the day wasn’t too bad. He moved slowly into the forest of trees that skirted the narrow road around the lake. He wanted to see the lake before he did what he had to do. It was late evening and he was sure the fishermen would have departed. Not that there were many fish to be caught in November, he thought wryly. The forest floor foliage was green and lush, and smelly. The branches above his head, winter bare. Broken twigs and ferns crunched beneath his feet. Had someone walked this exact same way recently? His brain was crowded with so many unanswered questions, it was like a bubble waiting to be pricked with a spike. And he knew that there was no one in the world to care; to really care for him. He was totally alone. Desolate as the branches, at peace with himself. Almost. A knotted branch tangled in his hair as he delved further through the dense forest to where it was dark and more than a little bit damp. He paused and listened to the sounds of animals he could not see scurrying through the long grass. I’m not afraid any more, he thought. Not afraid of any living thing. He crouched down and, virtually crawling, scrabbled his way through thorns and briars. The sound of water reached his ears. The trumpet of winter swans pierced the air. Pausing once again, he listened. Followed the sound. Reaching a clearing, he found the source of the water. Not the lake, but a stone mound spewing a fresh spring from a crevice between the rocks. He leaned over. Scooped some water into his mouth and relished the taste. He made up his mind. He was going to fight back. That was when he heard another sound. As he turned his head, a hand circled his mouth and another clenched tightly on his throat. His last thought was: it is a good day to die. DECEMBER CHAPTER ONE WEDNESDAY Ragmullin in December presented itself as a beautiful place. From a distance. Lottie stared out through the window at the early-morning sky. No hint of blue, just flat grey. Even the snow looked like gunmetal. The snowman her son Sean had built for her fifteen-month-old grandson Louis, stood rock solid in the garden. It was too early to go to work. She forced herself to load the washing machine and then the dishwasher. Moving to the hall, she listened at the foot of the stairs. No sound came from above, so she returned to the kitchen and switched on the kettle. Tea, rather than coffee, was her choice of drink at the moment. Too much coffee gave her the jitters. Waiting for the kettle to boil, she absently folded a stack of clean clothes, separating them into bundles for her three children. The girls were officially adults now. A few weeks ago, they’d celebrated Chloe’s eighteenth birthday. The party had been organised by twenty-one-year-old Katie and fifteen-year-old Sean. Sean was already taller than Lottie and possessed the same startling blue eyes as his father had. She was momentarily catapulted back to a time before Adam had died. Five years ago. Cancer. Too young. Too quick. Too hard to believe. Too long grieving until Mark Boyd had proposed to her. She’d dithered for a while, unsure what to do, but she knew she loved him. The night of Chloe’s party, she’d said yes to him, though they had yet to sort out the details, like setting a date and telling people. So far, it was their secret. Her choice. The kettle purred. She fetched a mug and popped a slice of out-of-date bread into the toaster. Added bread to the whiteboard list attached to the refrigerator. Hopefully Katie would run to the shops later. Some hope, she told herself, and snapped a quick photo of the list in case she had to do it herself after work. When the toaster popped, she took out the bread and chewed.