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Emma’s darkest secrets are buried in the past. But the truth can’t stay hidden for long.

Emma is a loving wife, a devoted mother…and an involuntary killer. For years she’s been hiding the dead body of the teacher who seduced her as a teen.

It’s a secret that might have stayed buried if only her life had been less perfect. A promotion for Emma’s husband, Alex, means they can finally move to a bigger home with their young son. But with a buyer lined up for their old house, Emma can’t leave without destroying every last trace of her final revenge…

Returning to the shallow grave in the garden, she finds it empty. The body is gone.

Panicked, Emma confesses to her husband. But this is only the beginning. Soon, Alex will discover things about her he’ll wish he’d learned sooner. And others he’ll long to forget.

Review:

Atmospheric, menacing, and incredibly riveting!

Silent Victim is a character-driven, thrill ride that reminds us that skeletons often find their way out of the closet no matter how well they are hidden or buried and highlights just how easily someone’s behaviour can be manipulated, misinterpreted, questioned, and used against them.

The writing is taut and complex. The characterization is spot on with a cast of characters that are distressed, raw and consumed, and a setting, Mersea Island, that is a character itself with its remoteness and isolation. And the plot, told from multiple perspectives, uses a past/present, back-and-forth style to create suspense and tension as it unravels all the histories, personalities, relationships, and motivations within it.

Silent Victim is a without a doubt a clever, masterfully plotted, twisty page-turner that keeps you on the edge of your seat from the very first page and leaves you shocked, surprised, and thoroughly entertained. It’s one of the best psychological thrillers I’ve read in a long time and is definitely a must read!

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Extract:

EMMA 

I am not a bad person, but I’ve done a very bad thing.
A sense of unreality washes over me, cushioning the consequences of my act.
I am a murderer. My soul is damned to hell.
My thoughts are speared by a seagull’s cry as it glides across the dusky sky. It is
mournful in its bidding, and I stand over the ditch, my knuckles white, gripping the shovel
in my right hand. A trickle of sweat rolls down the curve of my back, cooled by the twilight
breeze. From the bottom of the ditch Luke stares with empty eyes, the soil beneath his head
absorbing his blood. My lips part to accommodate my heavy breath while my lungs drive
the panicked rise and fall of my chest. Is he truly dead? Did I really kill him? Legs shaking,
I cling to the shovel – the only thing keeping me standing in this desolate field. The breeze
plays with my hair, blowing dark strands into my eyes and lips. I draw them back behind
my ear as I struggle for clarity. Just how long have I been standing here? The cogs of my
brain whirr, trying to snap back the pieces of the complex edifice that has toppled all around
me. My gaze falls to the shovel where his blood still stains the blade. You need to clean
that off. A voice inside me whispers. But first, hide the body.

My thoughts are cloaked in darkness as self-preservation kicks in. My husband will be
wondering where I am. He might even come looking for me. I should check Luke’s pulse,
call for an ambulance. Deep down, I know it’s too late for that now. The ditch is lined with
freshly shed leaves from the trees that border the field: a suitable resting place, if only for
tonight.
Pressing my boot against metal, I slice the shovel into the earth. I draw up a wedge of
soil, pausing only for a second before flinging it on to his face. As the dirt hits his parted
lips, my stomach rolls over, the gravity of the situation hitting me with the force of a punch.
I fall to my knees and vomit noisily into a patch of dandelions. Digging my fingers into the
earth, I try to ground myself, coughing and spitting until my throat has cleared. I dare not
look at Luke’s body as I stand and brush the soil from my jeans. Picking up my shovel, I
fling dirt into the ditch until my biceps ache. My armpits are damp with sweat; the skin on
my face burning with effort. Opposing thoughts circle my brain, like vultures ready to pick
over the carcass of my actions. I have committed a mortal sin. Hot tears of regret trail down
my face. A thought resurfaces, telling me that I had no choice