{"product_id":"let-me-lie-isbn-9780451490544","title":"Let Me Lie","description":"\u003cb\u003eNow in paperback, the newest novel from Clare Mackintosh, the international bestselling author of \u003ci\u003eI Let You Go\u003c\/i\u003e and \u003ci\u003eI See You\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003eThe police say it was suicide.\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003eAnna says it was murder.\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003eThey're both wrong.\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eLast year, Tom and Caroline Johnson chose to end their lives, one seemingly unable to live without the other. Their daughter, Anna, is struggling to come to terms with her parents' deaths, unwilling to accept the verdict of suicide.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eNow with a baby herself, Anna feels her mother's absence keenly and is determined to find out what really happened to her parents. But as she digs up the past, someone is trying to stop her.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eSometimes it's safer to let things lie....\u003cb\u003ePraise for \u003ci\u003eLet Me Lie\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Shrewd, skillful.”—\u003ci\u003eEntertainment Weekly\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Instant gratification grip-lit of the highest order.”—\u003ci\u003eMetro\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Constantly surprising and very twisty.”—Shari Lapena\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Another one-more-chapter, stay-up-late sensation from Clare Mackintosh. No doubt about it now—she’s a major talent.”—Lee Child\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Clare Mackintosh has nailed it again.\u003ci\u003e Let Me Lie\u003c\/i\u003e is an emotional ride with fantastic twists.”—Fiona Barton, \u003ci\u003eNew York Times\u003c\/i\u003e bestselling author of \u003ci\u003eThe Child\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Raced through \u003ci\u003eLet Me Lie\u003c\/i\u003e...inventive, twisting, and perfectly controlled.”—Sarah Vaughan, author of \u003ci\u003eAnatomy of a Scandal\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e“Mackintosh’s three bar-raising psychological thrillers (starting with \u003ci\u003eI Let You Go\u003c\/i\u003e, 2016) have proven her adept at crafting compellingly flawed, authority-bucking characters and creating twists from the ripple effects of their relationships and personal issues, including abuse, mental illness, and alcoholism. This one’s perfect for Kate Atkinson and Tana French readers.”—\u003ci\u003eBooklist \u003c\/i\u003e(starred review)\u003cb\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ePraise for \u003ci\u003eI See You \u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“[A] deliciously creepy tale of urban paranoia.”—Ruth Ware, \u003ci\u003eNew York Times \u003c\/i\u003ebestselling author of \u003ci\u003eThe Woman in Cabin 10\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“An intense psychological thriller that I inhaled with my heart in my mouth...unsettling and claustrophobic read. Truly shuddersome.”—Mary Kubica, \u003ci\u003eNew York Times \u003c\/i\u003ebestselling author of\u003ci\u003e The Good Girl \u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003cbr\u003ePraise for \u003ci\u003eI Let You Go \u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Genuinely shocking...[a] cunning psychological thriller.”—Marilyn Stasio,\u003ci\u003e The New York Times Book Review \u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“An intense psychological thriller...[that] revels in surprises and twists…outstanding.”—Associated Press \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“I Let You Go is a master class in plotting, with a killer twist. I could not put it down.”—Jojo Moyes, #1 \u003ci\u003eNew York Times \u003c\/i\u003ebestselling author of \u003ci\u003eMe Before You\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cb\u003eClare Mackintosh \u003c\/b\u003eis an award-winning \u003ci\u003eNew York Times \u003c\/i\u003eand international bestselling author. She spent twelve years on the police force in England and has written for the \u003ci\u003eGuardian, Good Housekeeping\u003c\/i\u003e, and other publications. A columnist for \u003ci\u003eCotswold Life\u003c\/i\u003e, she is the founder of Chipping Norton Literary Festival and lives in North Wales with her family. She is the author of \u003ci\u003eI See You\u003c\/i\u003e and \u003ci\u003eI Let You Go\u003c\/i\u003e.CHAPTER \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e ONE\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Death does not suit me. I wear it like a borrowed coat; it slips      off my shoulders and trails in the dirt. It is ill fitting.      Uncomfortable.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I want to shrug it off; to throw it in the cupboard and take back      my well-tailored clothes. I didn't want to leave my old life, but      I'm hopeful for my next one-hopeful I can become someone beautiful      and vibrant. For now, I am trapped.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Between lives.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e In limbo.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e They say sudden good-byes are easier. Less painful. They're wrong.      Any pain saved from the lingering good-byes of a drawn-out illness      is offset by the horror of a life stolen without notice. A life      taken violently. On the day of my death I walked the tightrope      between two worlds, the safety net in tatters beneath me. This way      safety; that way danger.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I stepped.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I died.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e We used to joke about dying-when we were young enough, still vital      enough, for death to be something that happened to other people.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Who do you think'll go first?\" you said, one night when the wine      had run dry and we lay by the electric fire in my rented Balham      flat. An idle hand, stroking my thigh, softened your words. I was      quick to answer.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"You, of course.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e You aimed a cushion at my head.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e We'd been together a month; enjoying each other's bodies, talking      about the future as though it belonged to someone else. No      commitment, no promises-just possibilities.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Women live longer.\" I grinned. \"It's a well-known fact. Genetic.      Survival of the fittest. Men can't cope on their own.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e You grew serious. Cupped my face in your hand and made me look at      you. Your eyes were black in the half-light; the bars of the fire      reflected in your pupils. \"It's true.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I moved to kiss you but your fingers held me still; pressure on my      chin as your thumb pushed against bone.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"If anything happened to you, I don't know what I'd do.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e The briefest chill, despite the fierce heat from the fire.      Footsteps on my grave.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Give over.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"I'd die, too,\" you insisted.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I put a stop to your youthful dramatics then, reaching to push      aside your hand and free my chin. Keeping my fingers tangled with      yours, so the rejection didn't sting. Kissing you, softly at      first, then harder, until you rolled backward, and I was lying on      top of you, my hair curtaining our faces.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e You would die for me.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Our relationship was young; a spark that could be snuffed out as      easily as coaxed into flames. I couldn't have known you'd stop      loving me; that I'd stop loving you. I couldn't help but be      flattered by the depth of your feeling, the intensity in your      eyes.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e You would die for me, and in that moment, I thought I might die      for you, too.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I just never thought either of us would have to.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e CHAPTER \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e TWO\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Anna\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Ella is eight weeks old. Her eyes are closed, long dark lashes      brushing apple cheeks that move up and down as she feeds. One tiny      hand splays across my breast like a starfish. I sit, pinned to the      sofa, and think of all the things I could be doing while she      feeds. Reading. Watching television. An online food shop.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Not today.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Today is not a day for the ordinary.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I watch my daughter, and after a while her lashes lift and she      fixes navy eyes, solemn and trusting, on me. Her pupils are deep      pools of unconditional love, my reflection small but unwavering.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Ella's sucking slows. We gaze at each other, and I think how      motherhood is the best-kept secret: how all the books, all the      films, all the advice in the world, could never prepare you for      the all-consuming feeling of being everything to one tiny person.      Of that person being everything to you. I perpetuate the secret,      telling no one, because whom would I tell? Less than a decade      after leaving school, my friends share their beds with lovers, not      babies.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Ella's still gazing at me, but gradually the focus in her eyes      blurs, the way morning mist creeps over a view. Her lids drop      once, twice, then fall closed. Her sucking-always so ferocious at      first, and then rhythmic, relaxed-slows, until several seconds      elapse between mouthfuls, and she stops.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I lift my hand and gently press my index finger onto my breast,      breaking the seal between my nipple and Ella's lips, then pull my      nursing bra back into place. Ella's mouth continues to move for a      while; then sleep takes her, her lips frozen into a perfect O.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I should put her down. Make the most of however long she will      sleep. Ten minutes? An hour? We are a long way from any kind of      routine. Routine. The watchword of the new mother; the single      topic of conversation at the postnatal coffee mornings my health      visitor bullies me into attending. Is she sleeping through yet?      You should try controlled crying. Have you read Gina Ford?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I nod and smile and say, I'll check it out; then I gravitate      toward one of the other new mums. Someone different. Someone less      rigid. Because I don't care about routine. I don't want to leave      Ella crying while I sit downstairs and post on Facebook about my      \"parenting nightmare!\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e It hurts to cry for a mother who isn't coming back. Ella doesn't      need to know that yet.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e She stirs in her sleep, and the ever-present lump in my throat      swells. Awake, Ella is my daughter. When friends point out her      similarities to me, or say how like Mark she is, I can never see      it. I look at Ella, and I simply see Ella. But asleep . . . when      Ella's asleep I see my mother. There is a heart-shaped face hiding      beneath those baby-plump cheeks, and the shape of their hairlines      is so alike I know that, in years to come, my daughter will spend      hours in front of a mirror, attempting to tame the one tiny      section that grows differently from the rest.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Do babies dream? What can they dream of, with so little experience      of the world? I envy Ella her sleep, not only because I am tired      in a way I never experienced before having a baby, but also      because when sleep comes, it comes with nightmares. My dreams show      me what I can't possibly know. Supposition from police reports and      coroner's court. I see my parents, their faces bloated and      disfigured from the water. I see fear on their faces as they fall      from the cliff. I hear their screams.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Sometimes my subconscious is kind to me. I don't always see my      parents fall; sometimes I see them fly. I see them stepping into      nothing and spreading their arms and swooping low above a blue sea      that sends spray into their laughing faces. I wake gently then, a      smile lingering on my face until I open my eyes and realize that      everything is just the way it was when I closed them.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Nineteen months ago, my father took a car-the newest and most      expensive-from the forecourt of his own business. He drove the ten      minutes from Eastbourne to Beachy Head, where he parked in the car      park, left the door unlocked, and walked toward the cliff top.      Along the way he collected rocks to weigh himself down. Then, when      the tide was at its highest, he threw himself off the cliff.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Seven months later, consumed with grief, my mother followed him,      with such devastating accuracy the local paper reported it as a      \"copycat suicide.\" I know all these facts because on two separate      occasions I heard the coroner take us through them, step by step.      My parents died seven months apart, but their linked deaths meant      their inquests were held the same week. I sat with Uncle Billy as      we listened to the gentle but painfully thorough account of two      failed coastal rescue missions. I stared at my lap while experts      proffered views on tides, survival rates, death statistics. And I      closed my eyes while the coroner recorded the verdict of suicide.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I learned lots of things on those two days, but not the only thing      that mattered.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Why they did it.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Assuming they did do it.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e The facts are inarguable. Except that my parents were not      suicidal. They were not depressed, anxious, fearful. They were the      last people you would expect to give up on life.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Mental illness isn't always obvious,\" Mark says when I raise this      point, his voice giving no hint of impatience that the      conversation is, once again, circling back to this. \"The most      capable, the most upbeat, people can have depression.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Over the past year I've learned to keep my theories to myself; not      to give voice to the doubts that lie beneath the surface of my      grief. No one else has doubts. No one else feels unease.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e But then, maybe no one else knew my parents the way I did.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e The phone rings. I let the answerphone pick up but the caller      doesn't leave a message. Immediately I feel my mobile vibrate in      my pocket, and I know even before I look that it's Mark calling.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Under a sleeping baby, by any chance?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"However did you guess?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"How is she?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Feeding every half an hour. I keep trying to start dinner and not      getting anywhere.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Leave it-I can do it when I get home. How are you feeling?\"      There's a subtle change of tone that no one else would notice. A      subtext. How are you feeling today, of all days?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"I'm okay.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"I can come home-\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"I'm fine. Really.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Mark would hate to leave his course halfway through. He collects      qualifications the way other people collect beer mats or foreign      coins; so many letters they no longer fit after his name. Every      few months he prints new business cards, and the least important      letters fall off the end into oblivion. Today's course is The      Value of Empathy in the Client-Counselor Relationship. He doesn't      need it; his empathy was evident the second I walked through his      door.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e He let me cry. Pushed a box of tissues toward me and told me to      take my time. To begin when I was ready, and not before. And when      I stopped crying but still couldn't find the words, he told me      about the stages of grief-denial, anger, bargaining, depression,      acceptance-and I realized I hadn't moved past first base.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e We were four sessions in when Mark took a deep breath and told me      he couldn't treat me anymore, and I asked if it was me, and he      said there was a conflict of interest and this was terribly      unprofessional but would I like to have dinner sometime?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e He was older than me-closer to my mum's age than my own-with a      confidence at odds with the nerves I now saw hovering beneath the      surface.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I didn't hesitate. \"I'd love to.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Afterward he said he felt guiltier about interrupting my      counseling than about the ethics of dating a patient. Former      patient, I pointed out.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e He still feels uncomfortable about it. People meet in all sorts of      places, I remind him. My parents met in a London nightclub; his      met in the frozen food section at Marks \u0026amp; Spencer. And he and      I met in a seventh-floor apartment in Putney, in a consultation      room with leather chairs and soft woolen throws, and a sign on the      door that read Mark Hemmings, Counselor. By Appointment Only.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"If you're sure. Give Ella-bella a kiss from me.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Bye.\" I hang up first, and I know he has the handset pressed      against his lips, the way he does when he's deep in thought. He'll      have gone outside to make the call, forgoing coffee, or      networking, or whatever thirty counselors do when they're released      from the classroom. In a moment he'll rejoin the others, and he'll      be lost to me for the next few hours, as he works on his empathy      for a made-up problem. Pretend anxiety. A fictional bereavement.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e He'd like to work on mine. I don't let him. I stopped seeing a      therapist when I realized all the talking in the world wasn't      going to bring back my parents. You reach a point where the pain      you feel inside is simply sadness. And there's no cure for that.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Grief is complicated. It ebbs and flows and is so multifaceted      that unpacking it makes my head hurt. I can go for days without      crying, then barely be able to breathe for the sobs that rack my      body. One moment I'll be laughing with Uncle Billy about something      stupid Dad once did; the next I'll be filled with rage for his      selfishness. If Dad hadn't killed himself, Mum wouldn't have done,      either.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e The anger is the worst part of all of this. The white-hot fury,      and the guilt that inevitably follows.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Why did they do it?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I've gone over the days preceding my dad's death a million times;      asked myself if we could have done anything to prevent it.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Your dad's missing.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I'd frowned at the text, looking for the punch line. I lived with      my parents, but I was away overnight at a conference in Oxford,      chatting over morning coffee with a colleague from London. I      excused myself to call her.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"What do you mean, missing?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Mum wasn't making sense. The words came slowly, as though she was      dredging them up. They'd had an argument the night before; Dad had      stormed off to the pub. So far, so normal. I had long since      accepted the storminess of my parents' relationship; the squalls      that would pass over as quickly as they blew in. Except this time      Dad hadn't come home.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"I thought he might have slept at Bill's,\" she said, \"but I'm at      work now and Bill hasn't seen him. I'm out of my mind, Anna!\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I left the conference straightaway. Not because I was worried      about Dad, but because I was worried about Mum. They were careful      to keep the causes of their arguments from me, but I'd picked up      the aftermath too many times. Dad would disappear-off to work, or      to the golf course, or to the pub. Mum would hide in the house,      pretending to me she hadn't been crying.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e It was all over by the time I got home. Police in the kitchen,      their hats in their hands. Mum shaking so violently they'd called      a paramedic to treat her for shock. Uncle Billy, white with grief.      Laura, Mum's goddaughter, making tea and forgetting to add milk.      None of us noticing.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I read the text Dad had sent.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I can't do this anymore. The world will be a better place without      me in it.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Your father took a car from work.\" The policeman was about Dad's      age, and I wondered if he had children. If they took him for      granted. \"The cameras show it heading toward Beachy Head late last      night.\" My mother let out a stifled cry. I saw Laura move to      comfort her, but I couldn't do the same. I was frozen. Not wanting      to hear but compelled to listen all the same.","brand":"G.P. 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