The Friend Who Lied Read online

  The Friend Who Lied

  A gripping psychological thriller

  Rachel Amphlett

  Copyright © 2019 by Rachel Amphlett

  All rights reserved.

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

  This is a work of fiction. While the locations in this book are a mixture of real and imagined, the characters are totally fictitious. Any resemblance to actual people living or dead is entirely coincidental.

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  Free copies of our books are always available in libraries (including online) and authors receive a small royalty when books are borrowed.

  Contents

  1. Lisa

  2. Lisa

  3. Lisa

  4. Lisa

  5. Hayley

  6. Lisa

  7. Lisa

  8. Hayley

  9. David

  10. Lisa

  11. Lisa

  12. David

  13. Hayley

  14. Lisa

  15. Lisa

  16. Lisa

  17. Bec

  18. Lisa

  19. Bec

  20. Hayley

  21. Lisa

  22. David

  23. Hayley

  24. Lisa

  25. David

  26. Hayley

  27. Lisa

  28. Hayley

  29. David

  30. Bec

  31. Lisa

  32. Hayley

  33. Lisa

  34. Lisa

  35. David

  36. Lisa

  37. Hayley

  38. Lisa

  39. Bec

  40. David

  41. Hayley

  42. Lisa

  43. David

  44. Hayley

  45. Lisa

  46. Bec

  47. Lisa

  48. David

  49. Lisa

  50. Lisa

  51. Lisa

  52. Lisa

  53. Lisa

  Reading Guide

  Detective Kay Hunter series, book 1

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Afterword

  1

  Lisa

  I’m alive.

  It’s the first thought that enters my head as I open my eyes, my eyelids sticky with dried tears.

  I can’t focus.

  It’s dark; I can sense that much. There’s a silence around me that suggests it’s night-time – a stillness that cloaks the space.

  I can breathe easily. My mouth and nose aren’t covered with anything, but then an overwhelming light-headedness seizes me and I scrunch up my eyes to ward it off.

  The muscles down my right side are tight and painful, as if I’ve been punched in the stomach. There’s bile at the back of my throat, a bitter taste that nauseates me, and I wrinkle my nose in disgust.

  I don’t want to be sick.

  I try to speak but all I can do is mumble as if I’ve forgotten how to form complete sentences. Even simple words are beyond me.

  Where am I?

  Why am I here?

  I lick my lips. They’re dry and cracked. My throat aches as if I haven’t swallowed for an age.

  A clatter of metal on metal shatters the silence, and my heart lurches as I fight against the panic that seizes me.

  I strain my ears to listen to what follows. I’m scared to breathe in case I miss it, so I count to ten, then twenty.

  That’s when I hear the echo.

  It’s faint at first as my brain tries to latch on to what I’m listening to. A distant beep and pressure on my arm.

  The fog lifts a moment, and I remember blue flashing lights, grim faces, a police officer taking notes and talking in a low tone.

  The thought escapes as quickly as it appears, and my head lolls to one side, my eyelids heavy once more.

  Two hours, four?

  I don’t know.

  I wipe at swollen eyes, scared at my weakness, my inability to stay awake.

  I sense others around me, beyond the periphery of my limited vision, and my heart rate ratchets up a notch.

  Why are they here?

  The light changes as a blurred figure moves past my feet with an efficiency borne of necessity, and I begin to understand.

  And then I’m clawing my way out of the darkness, my eyes opening, squinting in the dim light that fills the room.

  As the blurry outline approaches the bed and bends over me, before I see her lips move and the words form, I realise the awful truth.

  If I’m alive, then someone else has died.

  2

  Lisa

  The nurse smiles as she finishes taking my temperature and I fight down my embarrassment, colour flaming my cheeks.

  Minutes ago, she removed the catheter that had been inserted during the operation, so we’re well acquainted now, thank you very much.

  ‘Do you think you could manage some juice?’ she says, oblivious to my discomfort.

  I nod. ‘Please.’

  My throat constricts with anticipation. I’ve been sipping water all morning, and I’m bored. I need something sweet. Something that will trickle over my tongue and ease away the furriness that remains from being unconscious for so long.

  Only the pain in my abdomen keeps me from throwing back the bedcovers and escaping to help myself to the juice.

  Rain lashes against the window at the far end of the ward, and if I crane my neck, I can see the tops of the naked horse chestnut trees that surround the hospital car park, their branches stark against a churning grey sky.

  On cue, the glass shudders as a blast of November wind punches against it and howls with contempt when it can’t reach inside.

  I pull the blanket up closer to my chin, pausing my escape plan for the time being, and seeking warmth from the sheets instead.

  The nurse checks her watch, scrawls a note across the clipboard in her hand and tweaks something on the machine near my shoulder, then turns to the next in line as she pulls one of the curtains closed, shutting out half of my meagre view.

  I sigh and lean my head back on the pillow, listening to the soles of her shoes squeaking as she works her way across the ward to the next patient, then wince as the movement pulls my beat-up muscles.

  Part of me is tempted to lift the gown and take a look, but the other half of me is too terrified to contemplate what might be down there. Once I know, there’s no going back.

  I can guess what’s happened, but denial is a fine place to be.

  The surgeon didn’t talk much when he came around earlier. He lifted my gown, poked and prodded, spoke to his junior staff who trailed around after him like a motley collection of ducklings, and then shot off out of the ward and down the corridor, the ducklings in his wake.

  I don’t need to imagine what the bruises look like. I can feel each and every one of them.

  Apparently, some people hardly bruise at all. Some people can be out of bed within twenty-four hours.

  Some people are freaks.

  I can hear the nurse at the far end of the ward now, making her way past each and every one of us, taking the time to check we’re all right. I can’t see her now the curtain has been pulled. I can only see beyond my feet and to the right towards the window. I can’t see what’s going on in the ward, or out in the corridor.

  My blinkered view creates a cocoon that suffocates and compresses my thoughts.

  It’ll be at least another twenty minutes before I see that juice.

  I stare at the d
amp patch on the ceiling and try to work out if it’s widened since I last looked at it half an hour ago. It might be an old stain, but I want to be sure. Its uneven edges trace across the plasterwork like an ancient map seeking new adventures, and I’m reminded of books I read as a kid: fantastical stories that described battles and quests across mystical lands.

  There’s a commotion over near the door, and I prop myself up on my elbows, my breath catching in my throat.

  I hear murmurs as they approach.

  ‘It’s unprecedented.’

  My dad sounds confused; my mum efficient. As always.

  They’re moving closer.

  ‘Unusual, but—’

  ‘It’ll break her heart.’

  It’s as if they’ve forgotten that I’m nearly twenty-seven, that I’m an adult, that I’m here, that I’m capable – am I? – of making my own decisions.

  ‘She’ll find out anyway. One of them will tell her.’

  My patience snaps.

  ‘Tell me what?’

  The curtain is brushed aside before the surgeon peers in.

  I’m surprised to see him again.

  His smile is faint; he probably thought I was asleep, resting after the trauma my broken body has been through. ‘Your parents are here.’

  Having stated the obvious, he steps to one side.

  My mum’s face breaks my heart, and the way my dad’s hand shakes as he reaches out for me leaves me speechless for a moment.

  They’ve been crying, but force smiles. Relief, happiness and hope have replaced the worry lines they’ve worn these past twelve months. Despite being only in their early sixties, they appear older than their years.

  It’s now that I realise my illness has affected those around me much more than I’ve anticipated. I’ve been so wrapped up in my own grief for my shortened lifespan, I’ve forgotten what it has inflicted on them.

  They’ve already been through so much – at three years old, I’d been diagnosed with a heart condition. And now, this.

  Dad’s not usually one for grand gestures but he’s the first to the side of the bed, wrapping me in a bear hug the likes of which I haven’t had since I was a toddler.

  When he releases me, Mum is dabbing a tissue to her eyes.

  As we embrace, I feel tears damp against my cheek.

  ‘It’s okay, Mum. I’m okay.’

  Mum wraps her fingers around my hand and squeezes. ‘You got a new kidney, love. They say the operation was a success, and you should be able to come home soon.’

  ‘How?’

  It’s not the stupid question you might think it is.

  Three weeks ago, I was told to prepare for the worst. Three weeks ago, none of this was a factor in my life. Three weeks ago, I’d given up.

  We had driven here in silence then. The return trip was worse – I had to put my earbuds in so that I couldn’t hear my mum’s quiet sobs over the dull thrum of the car engine.

  Now, the surgeon speaks first.

  ‘Unusual circumstances,’ is all he says.

  ‘That’s impossible. You said there was no hope.’

  My gaze travels from him to my parents, then back.

  Mum and Dad look at each other, and I see the fear in their eyes.

  The knowledge that it’s up to them to tell me because the surgeon isn’t saying anything. That they know there’s no going back from this moment. It won’t be undone; whatever they’re about to tell me can’t be unsaid.

  ‘Who?’ I ask, terrified of the answer as soon as the question passes my lips.

  Mum shakes her head and turns away, then Dad strokes my hair and says—

  ‘I’m sorry, love. It was Simon. Simon died.’

  3

  Lisa

  Mum and Dad left half an hour ago.

  I’m not supposed to know who my donor is. That’s not how it’s supposed to work, but someone made a mistake and let it slip within earshot of my parents.

  Someone is probably looking for a new job right now.

  Since they left, I’ve been staring at that stain in the plasterwork above the bed opposite me, trying not to panic.

  No-one’s answering my texts or calls, and I don’t go on social media. I haven’t used it for years.

  Mum and Dad didn’t give me any details. I was too upset to listen anyway, and now I’m angry with myself. I should’ve asked, no matter how much it would have hurt to know.

  I look up from my clenched hands at the sound of a steady shuffle, and see the old lady from the bed two along from mine walking past in her slippers, clutching an IV stand as if to anchor herself.

  I wonder if she should be up and about.

  My suspicions are confirmed when one of the nurses bustles forward, all efficiency and bossiness, gently demanding to know what the woman is doing out of bed, and where she’s going.

  ‘I want to go home.’

  The woman’s bottom lip wobbles, and I look away, embarrassed.

  I want to go home, too. I want to hide away and pretend that none of this is happening, and that Simon is still alive.

  The nurse steers the woman back to her bed, coaxing her to do what she’s told in the way only health workers can, her voice cheerful while she tucks in the blankets and rests her hand on the old woman’s.

  I turn my attention to the bed on my left as soft snores emanate from a layer of sheets and blankets, the only sign of the occupant a shock of greying black hair.

  A woman in the bed opposite smiles at me, her features too eager, too open, her hands clasped on top of an open gossip magazine. She’ll want to know why I’m here, what happened, everything.

  I close my eyes. I don’t want to talk to her.

  I don’t want to talk to anyone right now.

  I want to remember Simon.

  Raven-haired, green-eyed, and my first teenage crush.

  I remember the first day he appeared at the steel gates leading into the paved yard of the grammar school, his bag slung over his shoulder and his tie askew, wearing a glare for anyone he caught staring at him. An air of rebellion radiated from him as he stalked towards the classroom.

  Not enough to get reported; just enough to make heads turn.

  Our school was a dark brick and low-slung construction, the last building added in the early 1970s when the local council realised just how fast their population was increasing.

  Black painted railings separated us from the street beyond, with the gates propped open between two red-brick pillars during term time. One gate bore signs banning anyone entering from smoking or driving over five miles per hour.

  The cracked and pitted asphalt of the break area fell silent as he passed, conversations forgotten as we watched him wrench open the door to the scuffed and pockmarked building that housed the science block, and then disappear without a backward glance.

  I smile to myself at the memory.

  He had a dimple at the side of his mouth. Only on the left, not the right. He didn’t smile often; not in that full unbridled joyous way that most people do. When Simon smiled, it had a cool and calculating air about it, as if he knew something you didn’t and he’d get a kick out of it when you finally found out.

  He somehow breezed through sixth form without drawing the attention of the bullies or the cool kids. He simply hovered at the edges, observant.

  It took six months to break through the icy exterior he maintained, and it wasn’t me that did it.

  It was him.

  I loved the art classes at school. I loved the fact that I got to spend three hours of uninterrupted bliss creating something. It was where I found my calling, and I was determined to get a university place based on the strength of my growing portfolio of work.

  It was one of the few classes where we all got on reasonably well with the teacher, too. I can’t remember his name now but he had the habit of playing seventies rock music in the background while we worked and somehow that seemed to take the wind out of the sails of any of the potential troublemakers.

&nb
sp; I was trying to use acrylics to emulate a still-life photograph I’d cut out of my dad’s Saturday newspaper supplement, when I became aware of a presence at my elbow.

  I glanced up and almost dropped the paintbrush in surprise when I found Simon hovering there, transfixed by the painting.

  ‘That’s quite good,’ he said, then pointed at the wine bottle to which I’d been adding shadow. ‘If you add a hint of white there, it’ll sort out the perspective better.’

  My natural reaction would have been to argue the point if it was anybody else, but this was Simon. I was too shocked at his speaking to me to do anything else but what he suggested.

  And, damn it, he was right.

  I took a step back from the easel and, just for a moment, felt a rush of adrenalin that it had worked. I turned to find him grinning at me, that dimple on the left-hand side out of sight.

  I smiled back. ‘Thanks.’

  ‘No problem.’ He gestured to the paintbrush. ‘Can I have that now? They’re all gone and I need one that size.’

  I handed it over, disappointed that he’d only thought to help me because I had what he wanted.

  But I’d have done anything for him, I would.

  I frown as another memory resurfaces of Simon, who was alive the last time I saw him.