One Little Lie: From the best selling author comes a new crime thriller book for 2018. Sam Carrington

roots. What did she mean by ‘looked after me, in his own way’? She made a mental note to come back to that in a later session.

      ‘That must’ve been hard, to manage on your own. Did you seek any help?’

      Alice gave a guttural laugh. ‘Help? What kind of help? He wasn’t a child, he was sixteen. No one was interested in helping.’

      ‘You said before that he was always in his room, that you tried to get him to interact with others, but failed. How then did he come to commit the murder?’ Connie spoke softly, in an attempt to take the hard edge off her question.

      ‘Well, they said the victim was someone he met online.’ Alice straightened. ‘On some stupid gaming site. He spent hours on it. I could hear his low voice, even through the soundproofing he’d put on the walls. Always chatting – you know, on the headphone mic, into early morning.’

      ‘What was he talking about?’

      ‘Not sure. On the few occasions I was allowed to be in his room when he was talking, it was mostly about the game. Tactics, medi-packs – or something like that … Killing. The game was about killing.’ Alice closed her eyes. ‘It was only a game, though. How could I have known he was going to go one further – take it into real life?’

      ‘Do you think you should have known?’ Connie said.

      ‘I’m his mother. Yes, I should’ve known. I should’ve seen something bad coming. Done something about it.’

      ‘What do you think you could’ve done to prevent it?’

      ‘Talked to him. Given him more of my time; attention.’ She sighed again, gently shaking her head. ‘I don’t know. Something. I could’ve done something. Instead, I went for the easy life, the easy option. When he was in his room, I could relax, I didn’t have to worry about any conflict. If I gave him what he wanted, we could get on with each other.’

      ‘What he wanted?’

      ‘Yes. Privacy, to be left alone. Not to be challenged about anything. Not to go on about him getting a job. No nagging.’

      Connie thought back to her own tempestuous teenage years. Her behaviour had got out of hand after her brother Luke was stabbed. She became unruly, disobedient. Promiscuous. Her parents’ numerous warnings and well-meaning interventions – their constant nagging – went ignored. The consequences of that had been far-reaching and had followed Connie into her adult life. A shudder shot along the length of her spine as the memory of That Night flashed in her mind. All she’d wanted after that was to be left alone – shutting herself away in her bedroom with only her shame and rock music for company. She’d not spoken to her mum or dad for days on end.

      Hadn’t Alice’s son behaved like a lot of teenagers? How could she have known, really, that he would go on to commit a terrible crime? Unless there were other indicators. Perhaps Alice wasn’t telling the whole story, yet. Connie had the feeling there was a lot more behind Kyle’s behaviour. It was one thing to kill in a game, quite another for that to escalate into killing in real life. Despite what the anti-gamers wanted people to believe, it was not common for violent games to make a violent person. There was usually something already in them, or something predisposing them to violence.

      Like growing up with an abusive parent.

       CHAPTER SIX

       Alice

      I think that went well. Connie is going to be helpful, I feel sure of that. I must be guarded, though. Be careful not to tell too much; think about how I’m saying things. She’s smart – she’s going to chip away, use her psychological knowledge to get under my skin. Attempt to get to the root of my issues. I want that as well, to a degree. But I need to protect my son, still. I know what he did is bad, and to some, unforgivable. But he’s my flesh and blood. A product of me. And him.

      We created him, and I nurtured him. Despite what I try to tell myself, it’s my fault he’s turned into this monster.

      The walk back to the house is slow. The sun is shining, and it’s quite pleasant – a mild day for February – but I feel heavy. Cumbersome. I stop a few times, looking into random shop windows. I know I’m not really seeing anything. My eyes don’t focus on the displays. It’s like I’m looking past them into the distance. Into my past. My future. Both are equally messed up.

      I need to jolt myself out of this mood.

      Should I attempt another visit to her house? I think getting to the next stage will pull me out from under this dark cloud. It’s been over a week since I was last there. Standing at her door full of dread, but with an inkling of hope.

      Hope is what I need right now.

      I turn and head back to the lower end of town. I’ll get the bus, go there while I’m feeling bold. No guarantee she’ll be there, of course. I should try to figure out her schedule so I don’t waste these bursts of courage by getting there and her being out.

      I need to be more organised if I’m to achieve what I want.

       CHAPTER SEVEN

       Connie

      Connie stared at the phone, one hand twiddling a piece of her sleek black hair around and around her fingers. She’d just looked at her accounting records – it didn’t make for good reading. Her client base was growing, but slowly. She needed an injection of cash for advertising.

      A piece of A4 paper was placed next to the phone with two columns: one showing the ‘pros’, one showing the ‘cons’ of going back to Baymead to do the reports. Connie picked it up. The only thing in the pros column was ‘extra money’. Not really the best reason for stepping back into the lion’s den, she mused. Maybe another pro could be that by going back, facing her demons, she’d be able to move on more successfully. Had she really put everything that happened behind her or was she avoiding anything that brought the memories back?

      Connie had often thought about her actions, examined them, considered what else she could’ve done – should’ve done – and, each time, she concluded that she wouldn’t have handled Hargreaves any differently than she had back then. She wasn’t the last gatekeeper either – as the psychologist, she’d merely handed her report to the parole board for them to make the final decision of whether to release him or not.

      Still, Connie never shook the feeling that her favourable report gave considerable weight to proceedings, and ultimately led to the rape of a woman. The ripple effect of her involvement had caused so much hurt and pain. If she went back, would something similar happen again? But then, could she go through the rest of her life worrying about whether a single action of hers could cause something bad to happen?

      It had in the past, she reminded herself.

      She sighed and tried to refocus. If she did take up Jen’s offer of work, and nothing bad happened, maybe she could finally put her paranoia to rest. She pushed the competing thoughts from her mind and, without analysing it any further, dialled the number on the Post-it note she’d had tucked beneath her fern desk plant for the past week.

      ‘Hi, can I speak with Jennifer Black, please?’ Her voice shook.

      She cleared her throat, and sat up straighter, waiting for the person on the end of the phone to speak. Connie hoped Jen was in the office; she wasn’t sure if she’d have the nerve to call back again.

      ‘Just a moment, I’ll transfer you,’ the voice said.

      There