The Mother-in-Law
Sally Hepworth
For my mother-in-law, Anne, who I’ve never thought about murdering. And for my father-in-law, Peter, who, on the odd occasion, I have.
Acknowledgments
Here we are again, another set of acknowledgements—my fifth to date. Fifth! I can’t quite believe it.
I’d like to start by pointing out that I while I have had fleeting murderous thoughts about many people in my life (you know who you are!), I have never once fantasized about murdering my mother-in-law. I suspect this is the reason I was able to write this book without blowing the entire family apart. So thank you, Anne, for being astoundingly good humored through this whole process. I’m not sure all mother-in-laws would have been so gracious upon hearing the title of her daughter-in-law’s upcoming book.
To my amazing crew of police who fielded my unorthodox questions—Megan MacInnes, Andria Richardson and Kerryn Merrett. Thank you for answering my emails, reading the manuscript, and even helping me brainstorm murder techniques (reminding me that if my mother-in-law was to suddenly die of unknown causes, it would all be on the record). Ladies, I am forever in your debt.
And where would I be without my incredible editor, Jennifer Enderlin? Thank you for trusting my instincts and helping me regain control of my manuscript when I stop trusting them. You embody what a good editor is. Thank you also to the team at St. Martin’s, many of whom I had the pleasure of meeting in New York last year. I look forward to many more meetings.
I’d like to extend my thanks to my publishers around the world. Special thanks to Cate Paterson and Alex Lloyd at PanMacmillan Australia for your keen editorial eye . . . and for taking me out for lunch occasionally. I love lunch.
To my publicists—the irreplaceable Katie Bassel and the incredible Lucy Inglis—if I could bottle the two of you, I would. If anyone knows a way to do this, please let me know.
To my gorgeous Rob Weisbach. How did I get so lucky? You are the best in the business and a true gentleman. I’m so grateful for all that you do. (Also thank you for starting to use emojis—you know how I love them.)
To my writing squad a.k.a The Bellotta Girls (it has a nice ring to it, doesn’t it?), thank you for sharing the joys and indignities of being a published author with me. As far as I know I’m still the only one who has had a book shoplifted during a signing, and I’ll wear that badge with honour. Special thanks to Jane Cockram and Lisa Ireland for reading this book in draft form and giving me feedback. Also special thanks to Meredith Jaeger, my critique partner and friend.
To my family and friends who live in terror of being cast as a villain in one of my books. It’s a valid fear. Be nice to me.
And finally, to my readers—thank you for allowing me to share these characters with you. I hope they touch you, move you or entertain you in some way. If they do, my job here is done.
1: LUCY
I am folding laundry at my dining room table when the police car pulls up. There’s no fanfare—no sirens or flashing lights—yet that little niggle starts in the pit of my stomach, Mother Nature’s warning that all is not well. It’s getting dark out, early evening, and the neighbors’ porch lights are starting to come on. It’s dinnertime. Police don’t arrive on your doorstep at dinnertime unless something is wrong.
I glance through the archway to the living room where my slothful children are stretched across different pieces of furniture, angled toward their respective devices. Alive. Unharmed. In good health apart from, perhaps, a mild screen addiction. Seven-year-old Archie is watching a family play Wii games on the big iPad; four-year-old Harriet is watching little girls in America unwrap toys on the little iPad. Even two-year-old Edie is staring, slack-jawed, at the television. I feel some measure of comfort that my family is all under this roof. At least most of them are. Dad, I think suddenly. Oh no, please not Dad.
I look back at the police car. The headlights illuminate a light mist of rain.
At least it’s not the children, a guilty little voice in my head whispers. At least it isn’t Ollie. Ollie is on the back deck, grilling burgers. Safe. He came home from work early today, not feeling well apparently, though he doesn’t seem particularly unwell. In any case, he’s alive and I’m wholeheartedly grateful for that.
The rain has picked up a little now, turning the mist into distinct, precise raindrops. The police kill the engine, but don’t get out right away. I ball up a pair of Ollie’s socks and place them on top of his pile and then reach for another pair. I should stand up, go to the door, but my hands continue to fold on autopilot, as if by continuing to act normal the police car will cease to exist and all will be right in the world again. But it doesn’t work. Instead, a uniformed policeman emerges from the driver’s seat.
“Muuuuum!” Harriet calls. “Edie is watching the TV!”
Two weeks ago, a prominent news journalist had spoken out publicly about her “revulsion” that children under the age of three were exposed to TV, actually going so far as to call it “child abuse.” Like most Australian mothers, I’d been incensed about this and followed with the predictable diatribe of, “What would she know? She probably has a team of nannies and hasn’t looked after her children for a day in her life!” before swiftly instating the “no screens for Edie rule” which lasted until twenty minutes ago when I was on the phone with the energy company, and Edie decided to try the old “Mum, muuuum, MUUUUUM . . .” trick until I relented, popping on an episode of The Wiggles and retreating to the bedroom to finish my phone call.