The Perfect Mother (ARC) Read online

  A DVA NCE R E A DER’S COPY — U NCOR R EC TED PROOF

  PRAISE FOR SILENT VICTIM

  ‘ Silent Victim is fast-paced, twisty, and it chilled me to the bone … I loved every minute of it!’

  —Robert Bryndza

  ‘The very definition of a page-turner. Unreliable narrators mean you never quite know where you stand until it all

  builds to a richly satisfying climax. A fantastic psycho-

  logical thriller.’

  —John Marrs

  ‘Brilliantly gripping and deliciously creepy. Make sure

  you clear your day as you won’t be able to put Silent

  Victim down!’

  —Sibel Hodge

  ‘Dark, shocking and utterly compelling.’

  —Mel Sherratt

  ‘This lady writes compelling, atmospheric, unputdown-

  able psychological thrillers.’

  —Angela Marsons

  THE PERFECT MOTHER

  O T H E R T I T L E S B Y C A R O L I N E

  M I T C H E L L

  Individual Works

  Paranormal Intruder

  Witness

  Silent Victim

  The DI Amy Winter Series

  Truth and Lies

  The Secret Child

  The DC Jennifer Knight Series

  Don’t Turn Around

  Time to Die

  The Silent Twin

  The DS Ruby Preston Series

  Death Note

  Sleep Tight

  Murder Game

  THE PERFECT MOTHER

  CAROLINE MITCHELL

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Text copyright © 2020 by Caroline Mitchell

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

  Published by Thomas & Mercer, Seattle

  www.apub.com

  Amazon, the Amazon logo, and Thomas & Mercer are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.

  ISBN-13: [TK]

  ISBN-10: [TK]

  Cover design by [TK]

  Cover illustration by [TK]

  Cover photography by [TK]

  Printed in the United States of America

  For Isaac

  With what price we pay for the glory of

  motherhood

  — Isadora Duncan

  PROLOGUE

  Roz

  2019

  I gently rubbed my stomach. It was hard to fathom that

  behind the wall of expanding flesh beat the heart of my

  little girl. She was more than an accidental pregnancy.

  She was keeping me alive.

  If only I had listened to Dympna when she warned me

  that I was making a mistake. Tears welled in my eyes as I

  thought of my friend, so many miles away. How different

  my life would have been if I had taken her advice. Guilt

  sucked me in like quicksand, dragging me down until I

  could barely breathe. Was it the lure of New York that

  first drew me in? Or the empty promises that were made?

  I wiped away my tears with the back of my hand. How

  could I have predicted how this was going to turn out?

  ‘It’s OK,’ I whispered to my unborn child. ‘I’ll keep

  you safe.’

  I reined in my thoughts in case my baby sensed my

  fear. There was movement as she pressed against my

  ribcage. The thought of her entry into the world was

  making me sick with nerves. It was not the prospect of

  giving birth that worried me; it was what would happen

  the second she was born. I pressed my hand against my

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  mouth to stem the scream building in my throat. Keep

  it together. My self-preservation depended on me being calm, focused and ready.

  A door slammed on the floor above and a muffled

  argument ensued. I knew it was about me. My accom-

  modation was luxurious, but not soundproof, and I had

  learned a lot about the people up there. Slowly, I crept

  around the apartment and fetched a chair. As I dragged

  it to the air vent, its legs scraped the wooden floor. I bent my knees as I stepped up on to it, trying to hold it still.

  It was risky, but this was the best place to hear what was

  going on above. Holding my breath, I listened for key

  words. They thought I couldn’t hear them, but I knew

  what they were capable of. I snuffled through my conges-

  tion. The air was too dry, too cold, and goose bumps rose

  on my skin. The argument descended into soft murmurs.

  A decision had been made.

  I climbed down from my chair, every nerve-ending

  tingling as adrenalin coursed through my veins. It was now

  or never. Footsteps crossed the floor above my head. My

  hand trembled as I reached for the knife carefully hidden

  beneath the folds of my maternity dress. It was small but

  sharp enough to pierce skin. What choice did I have? My

  heart reverberated against the wall of my chest and my

  breath came in short, quick gasps. They were coming.

  There wasn’t a second to waste. I tiptoed to the side

  of my wardrobe, my fingers clasped tightly around the

  knife. The lift whirred as it escorted its passengers to my floor. A ding signalled that they were here. I held my

  breath as the lift doors slid open.

  It was time.

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  CHAPTER ONE

  Roz

  October 2018

  ‘How far apart do your legs have to be for a thigh gap?’

  Wearing her tightest skinny jeans and vest top, Dympna

  surveyed herself in the full-length mirror in my room. I

  lay stretched out on my bed, my head too full of my own

  worries to pay much attention.

  ‘It’s gone. It’s definitely gone,’ she moaned, mourning

  the loss of that all-important space between her thighs.

  ‘I mean, look at me, I’m a whale!’

  She was not a whale. Red-haired and feisty, she was

  beautifully rounded, and I envied her curves. We had

  been friends ever since she shared her sandwich with me

  in school at the age of four. People said we made a striking pairing – her with her red hair, me with my white-blonde

  locks tumbling past my shoulders. Rhubarb and custard,

  they called us, after the sweets. We were never apart. We

  moved on to secondary school, sat through mass for an

  hour in church every Sunday and both got housekeeping

  jobs in the same Jurys hotel. It was a natural progression

  for us to share a flat; but the rent in Dublin was astro-

  nomical compared to my hometown in Ferbane, and I

  didn’t have the heart to tell my best friend that I had just 1

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  lost my job. If only that’s all it was. There was far worse on the horizon for me. My stomach rolled over as the

  implications punched me like a fist to the gut.

>   ‘You’re grand,’ I said, taking a slice of pizza from

  the box on the bed. Another wave of nausea hit me as I

  nibbled on the crust. I’d barely been able to eat since I’d discovered the news.

  ‘I suppose you’re right.’ Dympna sighed, my mattress

  bouncing as she plopped down beside me. She grabbed

  a slice of my pizza. ‘Besides, the curvy look is in. Kim

  Kardashian’s bum is twice the size of mine.’

  ‘Then you’ve got some ground to cover. You’d bet-

  ter finish the lot.’ I laughed as I spoke, but I was numb

  inside. Dropping the pizza slice back in the box, I realised I couldn’t cope with it on my own. ‘Oh, God,’ I gasped

  as a lump rose in my throat. ‘What am I going to do?’

  Dympna’s mouth dropped open and she froze

  mid-chew.

  Dympna was always the strong one. After her family

  moved to Dublin, she encouraged me to go, too. She’d

  got us our flat, organised our jobs, even learned how to

  drive. I, on the other hand, was creative, scatty, and too

  impetuous for my own good. But I had grown up since

  moving in with her, and developed a routine. Now here

  I was, drowning in guilt, trapped in a no-win situation.

  Panic consumed me as I cried like a child, big fat sobs

  clogging my throat.

  The takeaway box slid to the floor as Dympna wrapped

  her arms around me, and I realised her slice of pizza was

  sticking to my hair.

  ‘What is it? What’s wrong?’ she demanded, squeez-

  ing tightly. I garbled that I needed some air to breathe.

  Dympna had always been a hugger. It was her answer to

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  The Perfect Mother

  everything. She even hugged a teacher once when she

  broke down in class. Hug now, ask questions later. It was lucky that she was a girl. It’s true, though, it did make me feel better. But by now my hair smelt like yesterday’s

  cheesy feast. I noticed from the corner of my eye that

  some of my blonde strands were streaked tomato red.

  Disentangling myself from her grip, I prepared to give

  her the news I had not yet come to terms with myself.

  ‘I’m pregnant,’ I blurted, unable to look her in the

  eye. I stared at my chipped nail varnish as I waited for the telling-off. The last thing I needed was a lecture about

  contraception. It had been a one-off; I’d been too drunk

  to exercise any form of self-control.

  ‘Merciful hour!’ Dympna had picked up the term from

  her mother and it was usually reserved for catastrophic

  news. She looked at me with complete and utter shock.

  ‘When? Who? How far are you gone? Are you keeping

  it? What about your mam and stepdad … do they know?’

  Her questions fired like bullets, making my head

  spin. I consoled myself that at least she had not asked the question I dreaded.

  ‘Who’s the father?’

  There it was. My chin wobbled as my tears threatened

  to overflow again. At least if I was sobbing, I couldn’t be expected to respond, but I knew Dympna would keep

  digging away until I did.

  ‘It was a one-night stand,’ I said, grabbing a tissue

  and blowing my nose. ‘And before you say it, I know. I

  was drunk and stupid, and the condom must have split.’

  ‘And you weren’t on the pill?’ was Dympna’s instant

  response. ‘Are you nuts?’

  Dympna’s judgemental words made me feel even

  worse. I was not the type of person to sleep around. I

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  was feeling lousy because I was struggling financially,

  and when he said he’d help out, well, I melted. It was a

  long time since any fella had cared about me like that.

  But my friendship with Dympna meant more to me than

  anything. She must never find out who he was.

  ‘If I wanted a lecture, I would have told my mother.’

  I sniffled. Another person who could never know.

  ‘Sorry.’ Dympna’s forehead scrunched as she tried to

  work a way out of this mess. ‘What are you going to do?’

  I delivered a weak smile, twisting my tissue, now

  sodden with tears. I had thought about nothing else

  since a home pregnancy test confirmed my worst fears.

  Aged twenty-four, I was old enough to raise a baby, but

  I wasn’t ready to be a mother. I wanted to travel the

  world, to draw on my experiences and create portraits

  of the people I met. My artistic nature made me long for

  adventure. I wanted a life outside Ireland and the bubble

  I grew up in.

  Dympna looked at me hopefully. She’d love nothing

  better than for me to keep the baby. We’d had several

  conversations about what kind of strollers we’d buy when

  we became mothers one day. Dympna wanted something

  modern and snazzy, while I mused about owning a Silver

  Cross pram. But it was her dream to have kids sooner rather than later, not mine; her relationship with Seamus

  had gone from strength to strength in the last six months.

  The last thing I wanted was to put some poor unfortunate

  baby through a childhood like mine.

  ‘I’m not getting an abortion,’ I said, clearing my throat.

  That much I was adamant about. I had nothing against

  women who choose that path, but I had sat through too

  many ‘burn in hell’ Sunday sermons to consider it an

  option for me.

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  The Perfect Mother

  Dympna nodded knowingly. Father Vincent had put

  the fear of God in her, too. It was a spittle-laced subject the Catholic priest was terrifyingly passionate about.

  ‘So you’re keeping it?’ Her face brightened. ‘We could

  rear it together. Like in the film. Three Men and a Baby. It would be great craic!’ Dympna was proud of her vintage

  video cassette collection and insisted we watch one old

  movie a week on her battered VCR.

  ‘Except we’re girls, we’ve no money and we both have

  to work.’ I shook my head. ‘Not that I have great job pros-

  pects now.’ There was a last resort: tell my mother. I didn’t need to factor my father in – he ran out on us years ago.

  ‘Are you going home then?’ Dympna slid her tongue

  over her teeth, and I knew she was doing the maths. If

  I left her high and dry, she wouldn’t be able to afford to

  stay in our flat on her own.

  ‘No way,’ I said, pulling a face. ‘You can’t tell Mammy

  either. She’s not to know.’

  ‘But…’

  ‘I mean it. Swear on your life.’

  Dympna crossed her heart with her finger. It was

  something we’d done since childhood and we had never

  broken our vows. I prayed she wouldn’t ask me to fess

  up about the baby’s father. She would never speak to me

  again if she knew.

  ‘There’s one more option.’ Flicking back my hair, I

  reached for my battered laptop and opened it up. I brought

  up the ‘Miracle-Moms’ site I’d bookmarked earlier in the

  week. Guilt consumed me as I recalled how I’d spent my

  last €500 on registration costs instead of rent. But the fees ensured the site’s exclusivity; otherwise all sorts of people would be trying to fob their babies off. Surely it would b
e worth it if it helped me out of this mess? At first, it had 5

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  seemed crazy. The very thought of giving up my firstborn

  made me turn cold. But what choice did I have? My pri-

  orities lay firmly with the cluster of cells growing inside me. More than anything, they deserved a decent start in

  life. I’m not saying that money buys you happiness, but it

  certainly would have improved my upbringing no end.

  No child should have to go to bed cold and hungry, or

  listen to their mother cry themselves to sleep at night.

  Besides, Mam had finally met someone nice. She was

  settled now, with her own life to lead.

  ‘What do you think?’ I said, watching Dympna for a

  reaction as I scrolled through the page.

  ‘An adoption site? In America?’ She peered at the

  screen, her red curls shadowing her face. ‘Hang on … they

  buy your baby?’ She pushed my hand aside and clicked on a page. ‘Will you look at all these bumps – it’s like

  Tinder for pregnancies.’

  ‘Not buy,’ I said sharply, for fear of being talked out

  of it. ‘The couple pay my expenses. If we like each other,

  they fly me over and put me up until the baby is born.’

  ‘Then pay you a wad of money when you leave the baby

  there,’ Dympna snorted. ‘Have you checked them out?’

  ‘The site vets all the couples, so I don’t need to worry

  on that front.’

  They vetted participants too. The pinprick on the

  crease of my inner arm was the result of the private blood

  test I’d had to take. It not only confirmed my pregnancy,

  but the potential sex of the baby. Not that I’d wanted to

  know; it wasn’t mine to keep, after all. I straightened my

  legs, which were fizzing with pins and needles. My size

  ten jeans felt tight around my midriff, which was stupid

  as I was only eight weeks pregnant and hadn’t gained a

  pound.

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  The Perfect Mother

  I gave my friend a warning glance. ‘You can’t tell a

  soul. I’ll say I’ve got a new job … an internship. That

  will cover the six months I’m over there. They’ll pay me

  enough to cover my rent here, too.’

  ‘But you’ve still got to carry the baby. Can you really

  give it up? What if you don’t like the couple? What if the

  baby’s disabled? Would they want it then?’

  ‘Disabled?’ My voice rose an octave as I clambered off

  the bed. ‘I thought you’d support me, but all you’re doing