Her Last Breath: The new gripping summer page-turner from the No 1 bestseller. Tracy Buchanan

of course. I gave her up for adoption.’

      Seb raked his fingers through his dark hair. ‘Jesus, Estelle.’

      ‘I know it’s a shock.’

      ‘A shock? That’s an understatement. This is huge.’

      ‘It’s in the past, Seb. I’m not that girl anymore.’

      ‘But people won’t see it like that. Your readers. The press. Our friends.’

      Estelle frowned, surprised by the venom in his voice. ‘Friends? If they’re true friends, they’d understand. I thought you’d understand. You do, don’t you?’ She looked into his eyes but he avoided her gaze.

       Great.

      ‘How’s this all connected with the police?’ Seb said. ‘And the photo you got?’ That was when she saw it dawn on him. ‘The runaway girl. Is she your …?’ Estelle nodded and his face paled. ‘This is even worse than I thought.’

      ‘You mustn’t tell anyone.’ She thought of Detective Jones’s plea for her not to tell anyone. But how could she continue withholding information from her own boyfriend? It wasn’t fair.

      ‘Too bloody right,’ he said. ‘This could be disastrous for us.’

      ‘Us? I’m more concerned about Poppy!’ Estelle said, biting her fingernails as she looked out of the window over London’s rooftops, imagining Poppy out there alone.

      ‘Concerned for the girl? You don’t know her!’ Seb exclaimed.

      Estelle looked back at him in shock. ‘She’s my daughter; I gave birth to her.’

      ‘Yeah but …’ He sighed. ‘Look, all I’m saying is if this gets out, especially this close to the launch of your book, it won’t look great. We’ve worked so hard for it.’

      ‘We? I wrote the book, Seb. And this isn’t about my image.’

      He laughed. ‘You think people would watch your YouTube videos if they knew you were once a pregnant teenager? It’s all about image, Estelle. Why do you think they offered you that six-figure deal in the first place? Image, image, image. Especially the fact you’re the girlfriend of an Olympic rower.’

      Estelle resisted the urge to slap him. ‘Oh, so it had nothing to do with my cooking and writing skills, did it?’

      He crossed his arms, looking her up and down. ‘Be realistic, Estelle, come on.’

      Estelle shook her head. That was the problem with Seb, he could be so shallow sometimes. But then he’d go and do something kind and true – like leave pink petals stuck to the wall leading to a gift in their bedroom. Or cook her (admittedly terrible) chicken soup when she was ill – and she’d forget how unfeeling he could sometimes be. But the petals and chicken soup were starting to wane, especially since he’d had to take a break from rowing. He seemed to be more and more reliant on her growing success – on her money too. She sometimes wondered if he truly loved her for who she was, or for what she was becoming: a published writer able to support him in the lifestyle he’d grown accustomed to.

      And this conversation was bringing that right home.

      Estelle sighed, standing up. ‘I’m going upstairs. Let’s talk again when we’ve both calmed down.’

      She went to walk past him but he grabbed her wrist, stopping her. ‘Don’t you dare let that kid ruin everything, Estelle. I can see it in your eyes. It’s got to you.’

      She yanked her wrist away. ‘That kid is my fucking daughter.’ Then she stormed out of the kitchen.

      ‘Let me guess,’ he called out after her. ‘You’re going to go up to your secret junk food stash to stuff your face like you always do when you’re stressed?’

      She paused, turning around to look at him. ‘Says the man who’s done nothing but drink since he got his injury?’

      His face exploded with anger. ‘Don’t play the holier than thou act with me, not you: the daughter of a junkie who got knocked up as a teenager just like her mother.’ Estelle looked at him, shocked. She’d only told him about her parents after he’d forced it out of her a few months ago, moaning she never talked about her past. Now he was using the information she’d been so desperate to keep to herself against her. He stood up, pointing his finger at her. ‘Clearly history likes to repeat itself with your family. Be careful, Estelle, or your dreams could come collapsing on top of your head like a pack of cards and you might well find yourself back in that scummy council estate you grew up in.’

      Estelle opened her mouth to retort but found she couldn’t. As Seb looked her up and down in disgust, she suddenly felt like that pregnant girl again, huddled in the corner of her room, the shame of her situation washing over her in dark ugly waves.

      ‘That was cruel,’ she finally said, finding her voice.

      A brief flicker of remorse showed in Seb’s eyes. But then his face hardened again. ‘I’m going to the pub,’ he hissed. Then he stormed out.

      Estelle took some deep breaths then she forced herself to walk upstairs, making her way to the bedroom and curling up on their bed, going over Seb’s cruel words in her head. Was he right? Could she find herself back to square one again because of all this, despite all her hard work?

      But that wasn’t what mattered now, even though the thought terrified her. All that really mattered was Poppy getting home safely.

      After a while, she found herself falling asleep. She dreamt she was standing outside a small room. Inside, Poppy was held captive with her hands bound, masking tape pressed over her lips, the walls around her shaking. Estelle banged desperately on the window but Poppy wouldn’t look at her. Then, as she watched, Poppy suddenly grew younger and younger until she was a newborn, her tiny body wrapped in masking tape, desperate eyes turned to look at Estelle, then the walls of the room started to crumble.

      Estelle woke to darkness, strangling a scream. She grappled for the light switch, turning it on as she calmed herself. Seb’s side of the bed was untouched. She looked at the time. Five in the morning. She’d slept that long? And was Seb still out? She checked her phone, no calls or messages from him. Then she checked for updates on Poppy, but nothing. She found the photo of the Polaroid she had on her phone, staring into her daughter’s eyes.

       Her daughter.

      Poppy was in danger; Estelle could feel it in her bones.

      She got up and grabbed an overnight bag, shoving as many items into it as she could fit, and slung it over her shoulder. Then she stepped out into the darkness of the hallway and walked down the stairs. She saw Seb asleep on the living room sofa. So he was back. She paused, watching him for a few moments. She realised she felt nothing. When she’d left Lillysands, her heart had ached for Aiden. It seemed to her as though that intensity of feeling had been there from the very first moment she’d seen him, the first afternoon she arrived in Lillysands eighteen years ago. He’d been scrunched up in a cave, tears falling down his face, his long blond hair dirty. He’d looked up at her with green eyes that were vivid against his tanned skin, holding her gaze as he continued to cry, and something had gone ‘pow’ in the core of her. She’d felt nothing like it since.

      As she watched Seb sleeping, she wondered if he was just another man in a succession of men who weren’t Aiden.

      She sighed and scribbled a note for him, sticking it to the fridge.

       Going away for a couple of days. Need some space. xx

      As she opened the door to step outside, something inside her told her she might be saying goodbye to this place forever. A look in Seb’s eyes the night before. The exasperation in her own voice. The writing had been on the wall for a while: arguments, not as much affection as there used to be. She looked around her. Could this really be goodbye?

      She’d learnt