The Dead Ex by Jane Corry
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Jane Corry is a former magazine journalist who spent three years working as the writer-in-residence of a high security prison for men. She had never been inside a jail before and this often hair-raising experience helped inspire her Sunday Times bestselling psychological thrillers, Blood Sisters and My Husband’s Wife.
WHAT READERS ARE SAYING ABOUT
THE DEAD EX
‘I loved it – couldn’t put it down!’
Cathy, Netgalley
‘Recommended, especially if you think you can guess an ending - because you won’t’
Sharon, Behind Green Eyes
‘This book will take you on one hell of an emotional ride.
You will not want to put it down’
Kristal, Netgalley
‘Compelling storytelling that ramps up the tension and keeps you guessing right to the last page’
Mary, Live and Deadly
‘Fabulous’
Valerie, Netgalley
‘Wow the twist and turns in this book were definitely not what I expected. I was glued to the last 100 pages’
Anna, Netgalley
‘Wow! I have nothing else to say! I raced through this book and loved every page’
Kathryn, Netgalley
‘Brilliantly compelling’
Meggy, Chocolate’N’Waffles
‘Brilliant’
Stephanie, Netgalley ‘I don’t think I’ve read a book this fast before, I loved it!’
Gemma, Netgalley
‘I utterly adored it. Definitely a 5 star read!’
Aoife, Pretty Purple Polka Dots
For my husband, who makes me laugh every day, and to my wonderful, talented, loving children. Also to my ‘babies’, who light up my life.
DAILY TELEGRAPH, 5 NOVEMBER 2018
A body has been found, washed up on the shore at the outlet of Deadman’s Creek on the North Cornwall coast. A police spokesman said that no further details are available at this time.
Part One
* * *
Sage, savin, rue, red thyme. People assume that aromatherapy oils are safe. But these little beauties can be highly toxic if used in the wrong way.
Or so some say.
Often it’s hard to know the truth.
Take this woman I once knew, who killed the man she loved.
She didn’t mean to.
Well, that’s what she told the rest of us …
He’d been cheating, but he’d promised to give this other woman up.
Then she caught him on the phone.
So she reached for the object closest to hand – a screwdriver, as it happened, which she plunged into his neck.
Of course she meant to kill him, I thought at the time.
But now I’m not so sure.
1
Vicki
14 February 2018
I unscrew the lid, inhale the deep, heady smell – straight to the nostrils – and carefully measure out three drops into the glass measuring jug. Pure lavender. My favourite. More important, perhaps, this clever little remedy is renowned for its healthy level of esters, otherwise known, in my business, as ‘healing properties’.
Healing? Who am I kidding? Nothing and no one can save me. I might look like a fairly average woman in her forties. But deep down, I’m a walking time bomb.
It could happen any second. You might wait for weeks, maybe months. All quiet. And then, hey presto, along it comes when your guard is down. ‘Don’t think about it,’ they advised me. Easier said than done. Sometimes I liken it to an actress coming off stage to be consoled on her performance even though she can’t remember a single damn thing.
Standing on my tiptoes, I reach up to the shelf for a second bottle and add ylang-ylang, or ‘poor man’s jasmine’. Second-best can be just as good. Or so I tell myself.
But let’s be honest here. There is no escape from my underworld.
Now for petitgrain. I take down the third phial carefully, remembering the lesson in which I learned that the contents are made from the leaves of the bitter orange tree. Blend with grapefruit? Possibly. It depends on the client.
We all behave in different ways, especially in this ‘club’ of mine. Of course, there are things we can do to minimize damage, but at the end of the day, if something goes wrong, the ultimate price is death. The oils need to be treated with respect in order to reduce the dangers.
I love aromatherapy. Its magic is both distracting and calming.
But tonight isn’t about me. It’s about my new client. Though she’s not a fellow sufferer, her face bears similarities to mine, with those soft creases around her eyes, suggesting laughter and tears, and the slightly saggy, soft-looking pouches underneath them, which she has tried to hide with a light-reflective concealer.
Silently I admire her peach lipstick. I no longer bother with it myself. I always used to wear ‘Beautiful Beige’ to prove my femininity. The woman before me has blonde hair, tied back loosely with the odd wisp escaping. What I’d give for a colour like that! The ‘freckly redhead’ tag from school days still stings. But David had loved it. ‘My very own beautiful Titian,’ he used to say.