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big part of our life. I’m so sorry. It sickens me.
    That body wasn’t me. It could have been so easily. I had to be quick, seize my chance. I saw my opportunity and took it. Had to make them believe they had succeeded ... at whatever cost, no matter who it hurt. It was the only way.
    I’ll explain one day. I’m so sorry. Sorry for it all. Sorry for what will happen. Sorry for making you relive it. Sorry for deceiving you. Someone knows the answer, someone wanted me dead.
    Tommy, Adam, Lily, Genevieve, Grant ... none of them can be trusted, they all had their reasons for wanting me killed. Somebody at the club knew something. There’s more I could say, but can’t ... you will find out why. I want to tell you everything, let you know why this has happened but something inside is stopping me from writing it in a letter. It’s so weak. So pathetic. So many secrets and lies. God, I hate myself for doing this to you, Amy. I should leave you alone, but I can’t. But don’t try and find me. Not yet, it’s too dangerous.
    I have to go. Can’t risk them finding out. I have to post this. A letter, how old-fashioned, but I couldn’t email or message. This seemed safer somehow. Less traceable. I need this to get to you before it’s too late. One of them knows, one of them, maybe more ... they have their reasons, you see. So many reasons. They all could have done it, wanted me dead. Any of them. I don’t know what else to say. Words aren’t enough. I love you. So much.
    Love Riley x ’
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    N othing made sense . Nothing. How could Amy have spent the last six months believing that her husband was dead? Why would he do that to her? Cause all of that heartache? Should she believe that he was still alive? Why would somebody she loved do that to her, somebody who professed to have loved her, to still love her? The letter was in his handwriting, but its author seemed panicked, crazed. Like a dog backed into a corner. A man on the edge. Not solid like Riley.
    If the body wasn’t Riley’s then whose was it? Who had died? She tried to think of others that had been in the club that fateful evening. Somebody had lost their life? If it wasn’t Riley, then who? But she’d seen it, hadn’t she? There, slumped on the table ... a mass of tangled flesh and shot away bone. His image almost unrecognisable. Unrecognisable ...
    It was then that Amy had her first wave of nausea-inducing ‘maybe’. That instant that a spark of ‘what if?’ came into play. What if the body hadn’t been Riley’s? What if he was still alive? And if so, where the hell was he? She needed to find him.
    A second question slammed her conscience. Why would anyone, especially somebody at The Kitty Kat Club that night, want him dead ? Something didn’t add up. But someone had killed her best friend Laura and killed a man they thought was her husband. Someone had made the last six months of her life edge-to-edge misery. And now she was being told that she was the only one who had any hope of finding out who. She owed it to Laura, to her friend who had shared so much with her, always by her side through everything, to try and delve deeper. To uncover the truth, no matter what revelations raised their ugly heads.
    A third question hurtled into her brain ... how ?

6
    Then, 2005
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    â€˜ S o you think he may be the one, Amy?’ teased Laura, flinging herself onto the zebra-print throw covering the king-size bed of their Brighton guesthouse room. It was to be their home for the weekend, a girlie couple of days away sampling the seaside delights of one of the UK’s happiest towns. Two days of ‘kiss me quick’ British humour and fish‘n’chips on the pier with enough cocktails thrown in to keep the girls’ TV hero, Carrie Bradshaw, tottering around on her Manolo Blahniks for an NYC lifetime. And all paid for by Laura’s loaded Costa del Sol