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

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right and I should tell him I know about the sex of the baby.

      I don’t have to tell him she’s a girl. I can leave that surprise for him for the big day, but I shouldn’t keep from him the fact that I know. Not when I know how much of a spin it’s put me in to think he could be keeping something from me.

      Answering the call, I do my best to sound jolly, to sound just like the Eli he fell in love with and not the grumpy wife he’d had words with last night.

      ‘Hi, baby, how’s your day been?’ I say.

      He sighs, or maybe it’s a yawn. ‘Long and busy, but I wanted to check in with you before I settle down for the night. I didn’t like how we left things last night.’

      ‘We were both tired, let’s just file it under a “bad day” and let it go,’ I say.

      ‘How’s everything?’ he asks.

      ‘It’s fine, Martin. Mum came down early and made a big pot of her famous chicken soup. She insisted on doing the washing-up herself and packing me off to bed. I was just settling down. I’m in bed already.’

      ‘I wish I was there with you,’ he says softly.

      Something in me, the part of me that needs this man always, tightens. I wish I could see his face, feel his breath on my face, his skin touching my skin.

      ‘I wish you were here, too,’ I tell him. ‘I really do.’

      ‘I’ll be home in a few days,’ he says. ‘We can make up for it then. At least you’ve got your mother there for company while I’m gone.’

      ‘That’s true, but she’s not as good at spooning me as you are,’ I say.

      ‘Well, I do make for a very good big spoon,’ he says and I hear the longing in his voice.

      It makes me feel loved. It makes me feel love for him. It makes wonder how I could ever doubt him.

      He yawns and I know he’s too tired to launch into any deep conversation, so I tell him I love him and promise to talk to him tomorrow. Maybe I’ll tell him about the baby’s gender then.

      I also make a promise to myself to take the stupid note out of my bag in the morning and throw it in the bin where it belongs. And to leave it there this time.

       CHAPTER SEVEN

       Louise

      It couldn’t be that hard to follow someone, I figured. Especially at night-time when the roads are quieter. So I did. I walked behind her out of the supermarket. Left my basket abandoned in one of the aisles. Didn’t pay. I’d make do with toast for dinner.

      Fate smiled kindly on me. The woman had parked her car close to the supermarket exit and I got a full look at the make and model. I knew my own car was parked just two minutes away on the main road, and if I hurried I’d still be able to follow her.

      I got to my car as quickly as I could and switched on the engine, cursing that the windows of the old rust bucket I’d the misfortune to drive were so badly steamed up. I stuck the blowers on full. I didn’t have time to wait. I couldn’t let her get out of my sight and away. I grabbed the old chamois leather I kept in the glovebox and wiped the inside of the windscreen furiously. Just as I looked up, I saw the flash of headlights from the car park exit. Her car emerged and turned left towards the Foyle Bridge.

      I swore under my breath. My visibility was still shocking and I was pointing in the wrong direction. I needed to do a U-turn, but with my rear windows still clouded over I couldn’t see clearly enough to do it safely.

      I could take a chance, I supposed. I wound down my window and stuck my head out, tried to gauge what else was on the road. She was getting away, so I slammed my car into first and turned the steering wheel. The road was clear and I could make a go for it.

      But just as I moved off, the car juddered, stalling with a thud. And the road was no longer clear, and my engine wasn’t catching when I turned the key in the ignition. Her rear lights were moving further and further into the distance, blurring with the rain and the condensation and actually, my tears, too.

      I slammed my fist on the steering wheel in frustration, the horn blaring loudly.

      Kneading my forehead with the heels of my hands, I tried to regain my composure. This was just a setback. This wasn’t defeat. I’d still do this. Nothing of worth in this world was ever easily achieved. I reminded myself that I’d asked God to send me a sign and He had. He’d brought her to me and I had to keep faith that He would bring her, and her baby – my baby – to me again.

       CHAPTER EIGHT

       Eli

      The screech of the security alarm wakes me. Did I hear glass breaking? My heart’s thumping and I sit up in the darkness, afraid to turn on the light, trying to figure out what’s happening as my body adjusts to the rude awakening. I can’t think. The noise is too loud.

      I put my hand to my stomach – a protective instinct, maybe. It’s what a mother should do. Mother. I think of my mum. She’s two doors away down the hall. Is she awake? Is she safe? I want to call out, but what if someone’s near? An intruder. What if I’m drawing attention to us? My bedroom door’s closed but not locked. Why would it be?

      I curse the alarm. It’s so loud I can’t hear if anyone’s approaching, climbing the stairs, rattling the door handles.

      The security company will call, I remind myself. If I don’t answer, they’ll send the police. Or at least, I think that’s what they’ll do. I’ve never really checked; never felt like we’d really need the system. It was just one of those things.

      I try to place the breaking glass – had it happened or had I dreamed it? It has to be real. The alarms only go off if there’s a breach into the house.

      Climbing out of bed, I lift my phone, switch it to silent mode, creep to the en suite and lock myself in, keeping the lights out. I’m shaking. Adrenaline, I tell myself. A hormone. Just like all the other hormones. It won’t kill me. I’ll be fine. I hope my mother is. I need her to be okay. I need her to be here with me. And God, I wish Martin were here, too. And where are the police? The call from the security firm? I glance at my phone. They’ll call him first, I curse, if no one taps in the security code.

      I think of how isolated I am. Here in this beautiful home, which is to all intents and purposes in the middle of nowhere. People don’t just walk past. Most people don’t even know this house exists, closeted away as it is by the surrounding trees. No one outside these four walls will hear the alarms. No one else’ll come running to help us.

      I search my phone, fat fingers mistyping as I try to see if I have a number for the security firm saved. I should just call the police. I can’t think. The noise of the bloody alarm’s starting to hurt my ears and my stomach’s swirling, with both fear and pregnancy sickness. I realise that I’m going to throw up. I clamber to the toilet, try to be as quiet as I can.

      My mother’s still two rooms away. Or I hope she is. What if she’s hurt? I grab a towel, wipe my mouth, try to orientate myself after the sickness has made me dizzy. My phone lights up with the sight of an incoming call notification from a private number and I answer, trying to keep my voice low, which is ridiculous given the screeching of the alarms.

      A calm voice speaks, asks me for our password and asks if I’m safe.

      ‘I’ve locked myself in the bathroom,’ I whisper. ‘I can’t hear anything over the noise of the alarm. But I think, I think there

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