When She Was Good by Michael Robotham EPUB & PDF – eBook Details
- Author: Michael Robotham
- Genre: Kidnapping Thrillers, Women’s Domestic Life Fiction
- Publish Date: July 28, 2020
- Size: 14 MB
- Format: PDF / EPUB
- Status: Avail for Download
- Price: Free
Cyrus
May 2020
Late spring. Morning cold. A small wooden boat emerges from the mist,
sliding forward with each pull on the oars. The inner harbour is so mirror
smooth it shows each ripple as it radiates outwards before stretching and
breaking against the bow.
The rowing boat follows the grey rock wall, past the fishing trawlers and
yachts, until it reaches a narrow shingle beach. The lone occupant jumps out
and drags the boat higher up the stones where it cants drunkenly sideways,
looking clumsy on land. Elegance lost.
The hood of an anorak is pushed back and hair explodes from inside. True
red hair. Red as flame. Red as the daybreak. She takes a hairband from her
wrist, looping the tresses into a single bundle that falls down the centre of her
back.
My breath has fogged up the window of my room. Tugging my sleeve over
my fist, I wipe the small square pane of glass to get a better view. She’s
finally here. I have been waiting six days. I have walked the footpaths, visited
the lighthouse, and exhausted the menu at O’Neill’s Bar & Restaurant. I have
read the morning newspapers and three discounted novels and listened to the
local drunks tell me their life stories. Fishermen mostly, with hands as
gnarled as knobs of ginger and eyes that squint into brightness when there is
no sun.
Leaning into the rowing boat, she pulls back a tarpaulin revealing plastic
crates and cardboard boxes. This is her fortnightly shopping trip for supplies.
With her hands full of boxes, she climbs the steps from the beach and crosses
the cobblestones. My eyes follow her progress as she walks along the
promenade, past shuttered kiosks and tourist shops towards a small
supermarket with a light burning inside. Stepping over a bundle of
newspapers, she knocks on the door. A middle-aged man, red-nosed and
rosy-cheeked, raises a blind and nods in recognition. He turns the deadlock
and ushers her inside, pausing to scan the street, looking for me perhaps. He
knows I’ve been waiting.
Dressing quickly in jeans and a sweatshirt, I pull on my boots and descend
the pub stairs to a side entrance. The air outside smells of drying seaweed and
woodsmoke; and the distant hills are edged in orange where God has opened
the furnace door and stoked the coals for a new day.
The bell jangles on a metal arm. The shopkeeper and the woman turn
towards me. They’re each holding matching mugs of steam. She braces
herself, as if ready to fight or flee, but holds her ground. She looks different
from her photographs. Smaller. Her face is windburned and her hands are
callused and her left thumbnail is blackened where she has jammed it
between two hard objects.
‘Sacha Hopewell?’ I ask.
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