Chapter 1 Ruby The journey home seemed to take forever. I'd left the office early for a change, determined to get ahead of the evening rush, but still the traffic snarled to a halt within minutes. That's not uncommon on a Friday evening, but it was usually a relief; this was the first time in years that I was impatient to be home. It was a hot and humid summer afternoon in late June. The sky was overcast and showers threatened. The car's air con was on full blast but my skin still prickled with sweat. The radio was on and I flicked from news channel to music as I waited for the cars ahead to move. I couldn't find anything to focus on. My phone beeped and I glanced at the screen. It was a text from my husband, Tom. Just left London. Back at 7 x I read it and replied OK, then added X. I muted my phone and slid it into my handbag. I didn't want to be disturbed: I needed to think. Eventually the traffic started up again, with no indication of what had happened. There was no broken-down vehicle, no police cars or ambulance. Nothing but stationary traffic then a sudden release. I put my foot down on the accelerator, glad to be moving, to be on my way. The railway station is a couple of miles from our house and on impulse I turned into its car park instead of carrying straight on home. I needed to check. I had to be certain. As I drove in, I gave each car I passed a furtive glance. There was just the smallest chance I'd meet him on his way out; I wouldn't have put it past him to have said he was on the train when he was actually in his car coming home from the station. I had no reason to be there and, if he saw me, he'd assume I was going somewhere or returning. The suspicion would always be there, no matter what I said. But maybe that didn't matter now. The die was almost cast. Still, when I finally saw his car I breathed a huge sigh of relief. He'd parked quite a way from the station entrance, and I remembered that morning, when he'd left the house at six for the early train. He'd been annoyed as he couldn't find his wallet and would have to hurry. I was in bed, feigning sleep, my ears straining to hear what he was doing. Now I could see he hadn't straightened the wheels before getting out of the car and pictured him braking sharply, reaching for his briefcase on the backseat, and then jumping out and slamming the door after him. I could see his expression, knew his face would be grim, his mouth narrow. My stomach tightened at the thought, and I quickly left the car park. I needed to get home. Our house looked dim and unwelcoming under the cloudy sky. Automatically, I parked in my regular spot on the road outside the house and quickly looked around. There was no sign of anyone. IÕd made sure I was home before my neighbor Oliver arrived. Usually, he and I got back from work just after six and weÕd have a chat there on the path between our houses before Tom came home. I was glad he wasnÕt there that afternoon, but worried he might turn up at any time. I didnÕt want anyone to witness this. I reversed my car up the driveway to the garage, then went through the garden gate at the back of the house. I opened the kitchen door and listened, but the air was still and all was quiet. I took the key to the shed from its hook and went back outside. For just a second, when I was unlocking the shed, I held my breath, my stomach tilting at the thought of what I was about to do. Two large suitcases stood there, just where I'd put them at eight o'clock that morning. Quickly I moved them into the trunk of my car, checking the driveway each time in case I was disturbed. Another bag followed: my cabin bag that I'd bought for my last trip abroad. I hadn't thought then that I'd use it for this journey, too. Then there were other bags that I'd put in the shed that morning containing towels, bed linen, my hair dryer and toiletries. My laptop. None of my books were there; I didn't have room in my car to take them. I'd pick them up another day. Last to go into the trunk was a box file with all my documents: my birth certificate, our marriage certificate. Deeds to the house. Insurance. Bank statements. My passport. It had surprised me how much I'd had to take and how much I'd been able to leave. Each time I put a bag into the trunk, I closed it afterward, just in case. I was being paranoid, I knew. Tom wouldn't be here just yet. I had more than an hour to go. When everything was in my car, I rearranged the shed so that it didn't look as though the bags had been there and quickly swept the tiled floor, in case there were tracks in the dust. Then I moved my car. There was space for a couple of vehicles on our driveway, but one had to park behind the other and it could be a nuisance trying to get out in the morning. Long ago I'd gotten used to Tom's having priority. Now when I parked back on the road outside our house, I noted the irony that by doing something that he'd told me to do, I was able to easily escape. Back in the house, I put the shed key on the hook by the back door, and stilled it with my hand. I didn't want anything to give me away. The kitchen was clean and tidy. It was a large room with French doors that looked out onto the garden. The patio was a sun-trap and a riot of color with all the flowering plants I'd put into pots and hanging baskets. When we first moved in, this room and the garden had been my pride and joy. Back then I'd had fantasies of long lazy Sunday lunches with children running around on the lawn afterward, of Saturday-night dinners with friends, of late weekend breakfasts reading the newspapers in our dressing gowns and planning our day. Things hadn't exactly worked out like that. Gradually, insidiously, the kitchen had become the only room in the house that was truly mine. Even my books had been relegated to the spare room. But here I could do what I wanted, decorate it however I liked. Over the years, though, cooking changed from a pleasure to a chore, something I really enjoyed only when Josh, my teenage stepson, came to stay. Standing in the kitchen for what might be the last time, I panicked and for one mad moment I wondered whether I should cook something for Tom's dinner. He probably would have eaten it, too. Of course, I didn't. It would be too weird. What would I cook, anyway? An everyday dish to remind him what he wouldn't have again? Something special for a momentous occasion? What I should have been cooking was written on a notepad on the fridge door. Every week Tom put together a list of meals. Tonight's was Thai curry. My hands were damp with stress as I opened the fridge door and saw all the ingredients there, waiting. That curry hadn't a chance of being made now. There was plenty of food, though; it wasn't as though he'd starve, and the wine rack held dozens of bottles. There would be fewer tomorrow morning, I knew. I walked from room to room, running through my mental checklist, double-checking I'd taken everything I needed. It was as though I was leaving a holiday home, a place I'd always known I would leave one day. Though I'd lived here for nearly twelve years, now I could see how little space I'd taken up. On the mantelpiece in the living room was a recent photo of Josh; his expression made it clear he hadn't wanted his dad to photograph him. Another was of the three of us, taken at Disney World on our first holiday together when Josh was seven. I'd been with Tom for two years then. Josh was beaming at the camera in this earlier photo and I looked happy, too. Well, I was, then. I reached out to touch it. My face in the photo was unlined, free from worry. I couldn't remember the last time I'd felt like that. A couple of days before, when Tom was in the shower, I photographed the recent photo, then zoomed in on Josh's face in the earlier one and clicked. I planned to get copies printed as soon as I could. I looked around for my iPad. It had been my thirty-sixth birthday a few months before and Tom had bought it as a surprise. It was a newer version than his, though, and he used it more than I did. I remembered he'd charged it up the night before; he must have taken it on the train to London with him. It didn't matter. He could have it. My pulse quickened. None of this mattered now. I checked that the driveway was still clear and quickly ran upstairs. The bathroom looked just as it always did; I'd left everything that we both used. My toothbrush and toiletries were gone from their cabinet. I knew he'd note their absence. The linen cupboard was still full; I'd taken some of the bed linen and towels we used in the spare room, but intended to start afresh as soon as I could. Our bedroom looked just the same, though of course as soon as Tom opened the drawers and closets he'd see the gaps. I couldn't take everything, but it was pretty clear that things were missing. My heart thumped at the thought of Tom searching this room later, opening doors and drawers to check what I'd taken, furious that I'd gone, that he hadn't realized I was preparing to run. That morning I'd had only an hour or so to pack and of course I couldn't make lists in case they were found, so for the last couple of weeks I'd been memorizing items like in a children's memory game. I'd lie in bed each night going through the lists in my head. When I drove to work I'd test myself, saying the items out loud, frustrated when I couldn't remember something. On the landing outside the spare room was a plastic bag that Tom had filled for the charity shop several months earlier. It had been his birthday and I had bought him some presents. He'd hinted at these for a long time, a book on a photographer he loved, a new camera case, and a Paul Smith shirt he'd bookmarked online. "Interesting choices," he'd said, and set them to one side. My stomach had dropped. I should have known not to buy anything without his agreement. Permission, even. He thanked me for the gifts, but something about his expression had made me say, "What? What is it?" He'd just shaken his head and said, "Nothing. I was just thinking how it's a shame that when you're an adult you don't enjoy birthdays anymore." I'd spent a fortune on Tom that day, on a whiskey-tasting session for him and his friends in the daytime and a meal for us in Liverpool in the evening. I hadn't wanted to and I couldn't really afford it, but I'd done what I thought would please him. It wasn't enough. Of course it wasn't enough. And just a few days later the plastic bag had appeared on the landing. "Drop that off at the charity shop for me, will you?" he'd asked. When I'd looked inside, my gifts were there and I'd wanted to cry. I hadn't touched it and the bag remained there, a symbol of everything that was wrong with us. Now I felt like kicking it out of the way but knew he'd see that as a sign of victory, so I stepped past it and went into the room. I looked around. Apart from the books on the bookcase there was nothing here that I wanted. I'd come back for them later. Next to the bookcase was a closet for our winter jackets. I hadn't packed mine as I wouldn't need them for a few months. And then I realized I'd forgotten to pack something on my list and grimaced. I thought I'd remembered everything. There was a box on the shelf in the closet, squashed behind the spare pillows. I hadn't seen it for a long time; I'd never felt strong enough. How could I have forgotten it? Just as I reached for it, I heard Oliver's car pull up into his driveway next door. His car door slammed and I pushed the box back behind the pillows, so that it was out of sight again. If Oliver saw me go down the drive to my car, he might see me and come out to chat. If he saw my car, full to the brim of my belongings, he'd want to know what I was doing, where I was going. I couldn't risk that. I'd come back for the box another day. Downstairs I paced the living room as I waited for Tom to come home. My heart thumped at what lay ahead but I had to do it. Now that I'd found the courage to go, I just wanted to get it over with. I checked the clock. Where was he? I pulled my phone from my bag. There were no messages. I looked up the live departures page of the railway website; his train had arrived on time. He would be here soon. I tried to do some deep breathing, to count my breaths, but it just didn't work. My breathing was too shallow; I could hear myself pant. And then he was here, driving up the road, past my car, and turning into our driveway. My knees buckled and I sat down suddenly. All of my senses seemed heightened with stress and my skin prickled furiously as I heard the bang of the back door, his voice as he called my name, his hesitation as he realized dinner wasn't cooked. And then the living room door opened. Chapter 2 Ruby Tom stood in the doorway, his tall, solid body almost filling the frame. His dark hair was damp with the heat of the day, his shirt crumpled now after the journey home. He could tell that something was up the moment he saw me. I was sitting on the sofa, frozen. His eyes darted around the room, but I was the only thing that was out of place. Excerpted from The Closer You Get by Mary Torjussen All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.