Save Her Read online

  Save Her

  Abigail Osborne

  Copyright © 2021 Abigail Osborne

  The right of Abigail Osborne to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by her in accordance to the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  First published in 2021 by Bloodhound Books.

  Apart from any use permitted under UK copyright law, this publication may only be reproduced, stored, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means, with prior permission in writing of the publisher or, in the case of reprographic production, in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency.

  All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  www.bloodhoundbooks.com

  Print ISBN 978-1-913942-49-6

  Contents

  Love crime, thriller and mystery books?

  Also by Abigail Osborne

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Chapter 58

  Chapter 59

  Chapter 60

  Chapter 61

  Chapter 62

  Chapter 63

  Chapter 64

  Chapter 65

  Chapter 66

  Chapter 67

  Chapter 68

  Acknowledgements

  A note from the publisher

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  1

  Had her mother-in-law not been a cold, manipulative bitch from the first day she met her, Flora was sure she would have been distraught to be responsible for putting her in the hospital. As it was, she could not deny that the only reason she felt guilty was because of the anguish it was causing her husband.

  The waiting room was crammed full of people perched on clinical plastic blue chairs. The collective fear of the anxious relatives was palpable and it engulfed her like a thick fog. Her eyes followed her husband as he paced up and down like a metronome. The squeak of his shoes on the linoleum echoed around the room each time he turned, but he was oblivious to it. Lines had appeared on his face that had not been there before tonight. Flora’s heart ached for him. At least when her parents had died it had been quick. There was no agonising wait in a room full of posters warning about the risks of smoking and spotting the signs of cancer.

  Flora was ashamed to admit that it had crossed her mind that if Cecelia died her life would change for the better. She banished this thought to the dark recesses of her mind. Usually mild-mannered and warm-hearted, Flora was devastated that she was now capable of such thoughts. That she had developed such a capacity for hate was as a direct result of the war that Cecelia had waged upon her since their first encounter.

  It was laughable that Flora had ever thought that Cecelia Cavendish, the matriarch of the million-pound ancestral legacy Cavendish & Sons, was going to willingly welcome an orphan with no social standing into the family. But having lost her parents in a car accident at fourteen, the thought of belonging to a family had been seductive. Hearing Sam wax lyrical about his family had caused the embers of hope to burn. She had even harboured the possibility that she may find a surrogate mother and father figure. Visions of shopping trips, afternoon tea and family dinners had played like a cinema reel in her mind. It hadn’t helped that Sam had shared in her naïveté. His certainty that his family would accept her and welcome her with open arms prevented her from considering the alternative. The reality.

  ‘Sam, honey, come and sit down.’ It was a request she regretted immediately as soon as he sat down and his knee began to bounce up and down, shaking not only her seat but the whole row of connected seats. Sending an apologetic glance to the couple sat next to her she wrapped both her hands around his, attempting to calm him. Her two small pale hands were not even close to covering his one large hand. Her gentle giant. To the world, Sam looked like a force to be reckoned with. Intimidatingly tall with perfect blond hair, he looked like he’d stepped off Dragon’s Den. His ocean-blue eyes were never seen without a twinkle. He exuded the easy confidence that came from being born into money and status. But Flora knew that he was so much more than that. He was a man who loved to play Pokémon Go, cried at Love Actually and who loved to walk around in her fluffy pink dressing gown.

  ‘She’s going to be okay.’

  But he ignored her empty words. He stared at the door to the room with such intensity she was surprised it did not burst into flames. She willed the doctor to come through, give them the news they needed so she could get out of this place.

  The worst day of her life had ended in a hospital. She tried to ignore the memories, but the sickly smell of disinfectant seeped into her skin like a poison. She dared not breathe through her nose because she knew the memories would overwhelm her if she did.

  Sam placed his head in his hands, sighing loudly. She reached out and rubbed his back consumed by guilt and a sense of helplessness. Her husband was a good man. Which was why he had yet to acknowledge the elephant in the room. The fact that it was her fault that his mother was in the hospital. If Cecelia died, could Sam forgive her for killing his mother?

  2

  It was spite that made her do it.

  Friday Night Dinner was a requirement in the Cavendish family. Each week they were obligated to convene at Cavendish Manor, the stately home that housed Sam’s parents Cecelia and Alistair, where Flora was treated to four courses of rich, decadent food along with generous helpings of thinly veiled criticisms and disparaging remarks. Over time she had learnt to deflect or ignore Cecelia’s subtle but persistent attacks. But still reeling from her day at work, she had returned fire with the only arrow she had in her quiver. One she knew would not miss its mark. If only she could explain to Sam about Linda, to explain why she had lashed out.

  Linda’s face filled her mind once more and tears pricked her eyes.

&nb
sp; From the first day since she had opened Harper’s Art Centre for Autism, Flora had had to force herself to leave each day. She would find art supplies that just had to be organised. As she held each brush and pencil, she would relive the tiny steps of progress in each child who had used it. She had opened the centre to give children with autism a place to thrive, to grow and meet others like themselves. It didn’t suit every child: some with severe social anxiety couldn’t cope with the sensory overload of being around other people. But for many of the children she worked with she was able to help them to use art to communicate. It was fulfilling, emotional and she loved every minute of it. That was until today, when she met Linda.

  On the first Friday of every month Flora ran an introductory session where parents could bring their children to see what facilities were on offer and how their children interacted in the sessions. Generally, the fathers came to see what their money was being spent on, whilst the mothers were normally brimming with hope that they might finally find a way to connect with their child.

  Flora made her way around the room, stopping to interact with each child. Some were hesitant at first, picking up their paint brush as if it was a bomb, whilst others confidently flicked paint onto their canvas. There was always mess, which horrified the mothers, but Flora quickly assured them that they could make as much mess as they want. It was important to her that the children had the freedom to express themselves in whichever way they chose.

  Whilst the rain lashed at the windows, Flora had been with a bespectacled and skinny young boy named Oliver. Oliver had decided to paint with his elbows much to his mother’s disgust. She kept trying to wipe the paint off his elbows and shove a paintbrush into his hand. A red tinge coloured his cheeks and Flora could see a ‘meltdown’ building.

  ‘Oliver! Cut it out,’ Oliver’s mother whispered sternly, looking around red-faced to check no one else was watching. Flora hastened to intervene when she saw the boy’s hands reach for the scissors to begin cutting, believing his was following the instructions to ‘cut it out’. Gently, she encouraged Alison, Oliver’s mother to let him paint with his elbows and suggested that they both joined in. Flora hid a smile at the horror on Alison’s face as her son began to smear dollops of red paint on her elbows. It was just as Flora was applying yellow paint to her own elbow to reassure Alison, that the door to the centre had flown open.

  A woman hurtled through the door, windswept and soaked through. She looked like she had tried to fight the elements and lost. Behind her stood a small boy with black hair plastered to his face and terrified brown eyes. Cleaning herself up, Flora had approached them with a warm smile. The woman was using her sleeve to wipe furiously at the rain trickling down her face, smoothing down her black bob that framed an angular face. Her son stood resolutely behind her, hiding from the room. Skin darker than his mother’s, he was striking, with his piercing and intelligent brown eyes and caramel skin. He couldn’t have been more than nine years old, but it was already possible to see he had the makings of a handsome man.

  ‘Can I help you?’ asked Flora.

  ‘We’re here for the introductory session. The bloody bus didn’t turn up, so we had to leg it.’ The woman’s jaw was tensed, and she squared her shoulders. She had the posture of a someone used to fighting for their right to exist. Some of the other parents were looking over at the bedraggled woman with obvious distaste, already making snap judgements. Flora bristled and shot them a pointed look that had them return their focus to their own children. Turning to the pair, she tried to smile as widely as possible.

  ‘Not a problem. Let’s get you dried off and then I can show you around.’ She gestured to them to follow her. ‘Sorry I didn’t catch your name?’

  ‘I’m Linda. This is Ethan.’ She pointed over her shoulder to her hidden son. Flora’s heart went out to him when she saw the unadulterated terror in his eyes. His little body was quaking where he stood, his knuckles white from gripping his mother’s coat so tightly.

  ‘Right, Ethan and Linda. My name is Flora. We are going to go to the room over there to take off your coat and hang it up to dry. Then I will show you the different rooms in the centre. Then, if you would like to, Ethan, you can try painting or drawing.’

  Flora was always careful of her words when she was at work. It was so important to be clear and unambiguous. She’d learnt the hard way on her placement at university when she had told a girl she had been working with to ‘go and wash your hands in the toilet.’ She had found the girl washing her hands in the actual toilet.

  After taking them into the back room and introducing them to her assistant, Charlotte, she had hung up their coats, trying to ignore the tell-tale smell of the charity shop that wafted from them along with the scratches and stains. She settled Ethan and Linda at the chalk station and the rest of the afternoon had gone as planned. At the end of the session the room had begun to empty.

  Flora felt elated as each family who left seemed excited to return. Squeezed budgets and over-worked teachers meant that the mainstream education system was failing children with autism. Consequently, many autistic children found it hard to integrate and have a normal life. Flora had been determined to do her part and had fought tooth and nail against the odds to open her centre, a place with the tools that could help autistic children to express themselves in a world that seemed unable to accept them because they did not conform or act ‘normal’. Flora had seen so many parents gaze in wonder when previously hidden depths in their children were revealed as they began to communicate and develop by being given an alternative way to express themselves.

  Flora went to lock the door, when movement in the corner of her eye stopped her. Linda and Evan were still where she had sat them earlier, at a table allocated for chalk painting. Ethan’s head was down, his tongue pointed out at the corner of his mouth, his now dry black hair tucked out of his way behind his ear. He was utterly absorbed in his task. Linda had her back to the table, looking down at her lap, seemingly lost in thought. Her short black hair was covering her eyes as she looked down, picking at a hole in her faded black shirt.

  ‘I am sorry, Linda. I didn’t see you both there. Time’s up I’m afraid, the session is finished now.’

  Linda looked up and Flora had been shocked to see tears were tracking down her face. The pain and desperation in her eyes pinned Flora to the spot. In the light, Flora could see how gaunt she was, her cheekbones jutting out. Her eyes were sunken into her face with large dark circles underneath that only the severely fatigued and malnourished could achieve.

  ‘Linda, is everything okay?’

  Linda didn’t answer straight away, she just stared at Flora. The silence became deafening and Flora was about to insist that they leave when Linda spoke in a quiet voice. ‘I just want the best for my boy.’

  ‘I can understand that.’ Not sure where this was going, Flora pulled a chair over from another table until she was sat opposite Linda.

  ‘You don’t understand, though. Look at me, I can’t afford a place like this for Ethan. I can’t even afford new clothes.’

  Flora’s face burned hot. Linda’s shirt had most likely been as black as night at some point but was now a faded dirty grey and stretched from being washed too often. It hung off her too skinny frame denoting the size she used to be. All of a sudden it hit Flora like a ton of bricks. She knew where this was going. Aware of what was coming next, she panicked trying to work out what she could say. Her brain was firing random words that she tried to piece together into a placatory answer. She wished she could help but if she gave one person a free place, then how could she justify charging everyone else?

  ‘Listen, Linda, I’m sorry but…’

  Linda cut her off. ‘Don’t. Just don’t. I know it was stupid of me to come when I can’t afford to send Ethan here. But I just thought.’ Tears choked her off. She cleared her throat and continued. ‘I just thought if you could see Ethan, meet him… you’d wanna help. I saw your advert on the internet and watched videos on yo
ur website. Read the reviews from parents whose children have “thrived” here.’ She looked around at the room with longing in her eyes. ‘I couldn’t help myself. I brought him here knowing I couldn’t afford it. But I had to come just in case there was the slightest chance you might help us. I had to do that for my boy. The school he’s in, they don’t know how to help him. They talk about getting him in-class support or moving him to a special school, but they pass his case from pillar to post. They don’t care about him.’

  She looked imploringly at Flora again. ‘I work three jobs just to put food on the table,’ Linda added with an it-is-what-it-is shrug which told Flora she did not say this to garner sympathy. ‘I can’t afford a special needs school for him. I can’t do anything apart from watch my talented, clever boy be let down by ignorant people. Each day he comes back from school, he loses a bit more of his sparkle. You know what I mean? I am spending so many days holding him on the floor as he screams because his senses are just overwhelmed. He can’t communicate with me. With anyone. He needs your help. Please, is there any way that you can help us?’