Remember Me: An absolutely gripping psychological thriller with a brilliant twist. D. White E.

      His cigarette end glowed orange in the shadows. ‘I don’t even have your number, Ava. How could I possibly do that?’

      ‘I just wondered…’ She studied his face for a moment longer. As always, it was impossible to tell when Leo was lying. The whispers that lay below the surface of her mind grew louder for a moment, but she forced them away. ‘I thought Paul might have given it to you. Or Penny?’

      ‘No. They haven’t really mentioned you in ages – I thought you all communicated strictly by email, and only then when absolutely essential. Just another happy Aberdyth family. Until we knew about Paul, of course.’

      The note of sarcasm was so subtle it might have been lost on someone who didn’t know him, but Ava caught it. Happy families. She swung away, abruptly ending their conversation. ‘I need to go.’

      He didn’t try to stop her, and she didn’t look around. But she knew he was standing in the shadows, watching her all the way back to the village. It had happened so many times before. Well, this time was different.

      The main street was deserted, even so early in the evening, and her boots echoed hollowly on the tarmac. The neat, ugly rows of pebbledash houses were decorated with yellow-lit windows, and the pub doors were flung open despite the cold. The roar of laughter and clink of glasses mingled with luscious scents of fish and chips and roast lamb. Ava’s stomach growled, but she could just imagine the sensation if she marched up to the bar and demanded dinner and a beer. She’d probably get a punch in the face – and she probably deserved one.

      Ava pushed on past the lights and the company, turning instead up a dirt track to her left. A few rusty car wrecks decorated the roadside, and she forced her cold, aching legs faster up the hill. She was fit enough, and back home in LA she hiked in the hills, did spin classes and kickboxing. But she’d lost that innate childhood toughness and grit required to tackle the countryside around Aberdyth. That, and the fact she was jetlagged up to her eyeballs, and sick with worry about her imminent first meeting with her now-teenage son.

      Despite her good intentions, her mind was flickering back over the events of the past week. Fuck, she couldn’t wait to get back to LA. Here in Wales, the sickly mix of emotions was like a box of dead weights lodged in her heart. Guilt about Ellen, guilt about her son, Stephen. But most of all a nagging fear that by trying to make things right she might tear apart the years of hard work. She would have to tread carefully, but it was far too late to confess to teenage crimes. Too many lives would be irrevocably broken apart, and any precious thread that might remain between her and Stephen would be gone forever. Ava dredged in her pockets and produced her phone. She scrolled down with numb fingers, reaching her folder of photos. Every picture she had managed to scrape from Stephen’s social media sites, every photo she had begged from Paul, was there. Stephen had been told his mother didn’t care about him, and she knew Paul had made her out to be a hard bitch, who cared only for her job.

      When she recovered from the trauma of her teenage years, her counsellor had urged her to build bridges with her son. But Paul was having none of it, and resorted to threats that could have ruined her career. Although she never truly believed he would tell the police about Ellen and their drug-addled childhood, it was the final fence he needed to keep her out of Stephen’s life. If someone told you long and hard enough what a crap mother you were, and that you didn’t deserve a child, eventually you believed it. She sighed, flicking back to her emails, looking for the message that had ripped everything apart.

      Although she was trudging up the hill in the darkness, instantly she was hundreds of miles away, about to start her night shift in LA.

      * * *

      ‘Dear Ava,

      This is a tough thing to write, but Penny feels you need to be told. I’m dying. I expect you are wondering why the hell you should care? Obviously you don’t, but it isn’t all bad news – I will be leaving this earth a bit sooner than I ever thought. The doctors reckon I have two months at the most. Time for you to take on a few responsibilities. Much as I hate to tell you, Penny says our son will need you, and I want her to have some kind of support that doesn’t come from the village, or her uncle. I’m sure you understand that, at least, as you are aware of her situation. Let us know when you will be arriving. I suggest the Birtleys’ for your accommodation.

      Paul’

      ‘Fuck!’ Perching on someone else’s desk, Ava automatically scrolled down to check the rest of her emails, before returning to Paul’s message. He had always written to her in this slightly over-formal, stilted style. It was as though they had never shared a bed, or a life, together. Just like that, her delicately balanced world was being pulled apart.

      He was wrong, she did care – about her son and her ex-husband. It was just buried so deep that the love for them had gotten entwined with other memories. Like barbed wire twisted round a baby’s hand.

      From the control room she heard the clicking of keyboards, and the repetitive murmur of voices as the emergency dispatchers dealt efficiently with incoming 911 calls, their trained responses smooth and calm. There was a buzz of chatter from the crowd round the coffee machine, and through the open door she could see an elderly cleaner in a blue overall pushing a mop round the reception area.

      But even the yells and crashes of the drunks in the cells couldn’t pierce the sudden mist that engulfed her mind. A male voice came from miles away, but the hand on her backside was much too close.

      ‘Hey, Ava, much as I welcome your cute bum on my desk at any time, I need to get this paperwork, so if you wouldn’t mind, honey…’

      Fighting her way back to reality as the cop grinned before snatching up the pile of printed notes and heading back to the conference room, Ava walked over to her own neatly organised desk. She grabbed her now lukewarm coffee and downed it in one gulp. The Los Angeles sun slashed a golden knife blade through the dirty blinds, picking out the empty takeaway cartons, piles of paperwork, blinking computers, and jumbled family photos that cluttered the other desks. Ava had one photograph, framed in white wood, of her with her parents at graduation. No boyfriends or kids watched her as she worked, or distracted her with ‘I love you, please come home’ phone calls. Usually she didn’t mind; this was her and this was the life she had finally chosen. But today, she would have given a lot to get one of those phone calls. Occasionally, in unguarded moments, she would drift off to sleep imagining an email or text from Stephen that began, ‘Dear Mum…’

      * * *

      The sound of singing snapped her out of her memories. Soft, lilting and slightly disturbing, the voice reached out through the icy air. The track had widened and she was passing the old garage – ‘Mick’s Place’, it had always been called. But now the sign was hanging by one nail, and the petrol pumps were surrounded by a tide of rusty vehicles in various stages of disintegration. The smell of fuel was still strong, and it mingled alarmingly with the smoke from a fire.

      Ava paused, straining her eyes in the darkness, peering past the crackling flames. The fire, in an old oil drum, was bright and pure against the sullen winter evening. The warmth reached out to her. The soft chant continued, but whilst she was drawn by the brightness and promise of defrosting her numb hands, she was repelled by the words.

      ‘From starlight, to flame-bright,

      Who will be burning tonight?’

      The song floated like smoke dancing on the cold air, and the crunch of boots on gravel stamped out the beat. A few moments later a guitar joined the song, its melancholy thrum adding to the menace of the words.

      ‘Burning to the death,

       Until a last dying breath,

      Brings redemption to us all.’

      The singer halted abruptly but carried on strumming his guitar. The fire crackled and spattered a handful of glittering sparks onto the dirty concrete of the yard.

      ‘Oi! You… didn’t you used to be Ava Cole?’

      ‘I… oh, Christ, it’s