Apple of My Eye: The gripping psychological thriller from the USA Today bestseller - Claire Allan

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his innocence. Told me he loved me. I’d replied with a ‘See you then.’ I couldn’t bring myself to type more.

      My mother doesn’t look happy at my decision. Nor is she happy that Martin isn’t already at our front door.

      ‘Surely there’s an earlier flight than lunchtime?’ she says before apologising. ‘Sorry, Eli, me getting cross won’t help. I just worry about you. I worry about you both. This is very upsetting.’

      She says it like it should be news to me, even though I’m painfully aware of just how upsetting it is.

      ‘He’ll be here soon enough,’ I tell her. ‘I’ll be at work anyway.’

      ‘I can’t say I approve, but you always were a stubborn one, Eliana Johnston.’

      ‘Hughes,’ I remind her. ‘Eliana Hughes.’

      ‘You’ll always be Eliana Johnston to me, my darling,’ she says.

      She tells me she’ll stay, not go back to Belfast. She’ll deal with the SOCO people. I tell her to call the hospice directly if the police need more information. I’ll call back as soon as I get a minute.

      ‘I’ll call a glazier and get someone out to fix that window,’ she says. ‘It shouldn’t be too expensive. You don’t want to lose your good record with your insurance company.’

      Ever practical, my mother. And good in a crisis – much better than I am, anyway.

      My head is already thumping when I reach work. I’m rubbing my temples when Rachel walks into the nurses’ station and sits down beside me.

      ‘Tough night?’ she asks.

      ‘You’ve no idea. We had someone peg a rock through the window.’

      Her eyes widen.

      ‘Seriously? At your house? Jesus, Eli, are you okay?’

      I know I can tell Rachel everything if I want to. All about the rock, and the note and what the note said. She’ll be there for me. But for some reason I can’t face it. Not today. Maybe it’s just that I don’t want her looking at me with her sad eyes and inwardly welcoming me to her ditched wives’ club. Martin isn’t like her ex. Martin and I aren’t like they were.

      So I nod. ‘I am, apart from this headache. But I’ll take a few paracetamol and get on with things. Can you give me fifteen minutes to pull myself together and I’ll get stuck in? Mr Connors, is he still …?’

      ‘With us? Yes, but his resps are slowing. The family are here. I think we need to make sure we’ve a nurse near them at all times. I sense of a bit of tension between two of the sons.’

      Losing a parent is always tough, and we’re used to seeing emotions overspill, so I nod to Rachel. ‘I’ll keep a special eye.’

      ‘That’d be good,’ she says as I fish in my bag and pull out a packet of paracetamol. ‘Eli,’ she says as she makes to leave. ‘Are you sure it’s just a headache? I mean, with the stress and all? Do you want me to check your blood pressure? Have you any swelling in your feet or fingers?’

      ‘Rachel, I love you but it’s just a headache and I’m going to say this as nicely as I can. Can you stop fussing around me? I’ve had enough fuss for one day from my mother.’

      I’m snappy and I can hear it in my voice. I don’t like it.

      Rachel looks put out. She mutters something about only wanting to help and says she’ll leave me to it before turning on her heel and leaving. I swear under my breath and wish I’d started the whole day differently.

      I fill a glass with water and take my tablets. Decide I need to get on with my work, where I’ll probably watch someone else die. That’ll be the least distressing part of my day.

       CHAPTER TWELVE

       Eli

      Work always has the ability to take me away from everything. Even on days like today, when I’m existing after just a few hours’ sleep and trying to wrap my head around the notion that my husband might be cheating on me.

      And that someone out there seems intent on doing whatever it takes to let me know about it.

      I’m too busy to allow it anything more than fleeting space in my head. I have other people to care for. People to keep comfortable. An emergency respite admission for a young woman who has stage four breast cancer and can’t get any relief from her pain. Emotional support to offer to Mr Connor’s family to keep them from hitting out at one another as their grief rages.

      I know how to do this job well.

      There’s a comfort in that. There’s stress involved, of course, but it’s a good stress – an adrenaline buzz, but of the good kind.

      There’s a huge sense of achievement that comes with making sure someone suffers as little as possible in their last hours and moments. It’s always sad, yes. Don’t get me wrong. I have cried and will cry for many of our patients and for their families, but I feel proud that I can make a horrific experience less so.

      So, although I’m dead on my feet and my head’s still aching, I’m almost sorry when my shift ends. I’d happily have stayed on at work for another few hours if they’d let me, but Rachel is ushering me towards the door as soon as staff changeover is done.

      ‘I’ll be following you out of the door, so on you go. You’re exhausted and I can’t have you taking ill on my conscience. Try, if you can, to relax on your days off.’

      I shrug and she gives me a sympathetic look. ‘You know where I am if you need me. The kids are still with their dad, so I’m a free agent.’

      ‘Well in that case, I’m sure you’ll have much more you could be doing than being bothered with my worries,’ I tell her.

      ‘You’re my friend, Eli. You and Martin both. I care about you.’

      I feel bad for being snappy with her earlier, so I reach out for a hug. ‘I don’t know what I’ve done to deserve you, but thanks for listening.’

      ‘You’d do the same for me in return,’ she says before opening the door and giving me a gentle push outwards.

      When I get into the car, I take my phone from my bag and see a series of messages from Martin, the last of which says his flight was delayed and is now due to land at Belfast just before six. He hopes to be able to make it home before 8.30 p.m. He’s going to call into the police station on his way home and speak to Constable Dawson.

      For a moment or two I wonder whether we can just forget it all. Brush it all under the carpet. Can I live with knowing what I know?

      I’m afraid to ask him about the allegations. I’m afraid of the argument we’ll have. If he continues to deny it, should I believe him? If he admits it, should I leave?

      The thought hits me in the stomach with the force of the kick from my baby that follows. This is not how we planned it. This is not how it’s meant to be.

      I know I’ll make it home before him by half an hour or so. I wonder whether to stop and pick up a takeaway on the way home, like I often do on a Saturday night. But this is hardly any normal Saturday night. I’m going home to ask him again, only this time directly, if he’s having an affair. I need to see his face as he answers me. See if I can tell if he’s lying.

      I shake my head – I won’t pick up a takeaway. I won’t act as if everything’s normal when it so clearly isn’t. Everything feels sullied.

      As I pull out of the hospice driveway and turn left towards the Foyle Bridge, I’m glad my mother’s at home. I imagine Martin won’t feel as glad, even though the pair of them have always

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