Excerpt from I Let You Go by Clare Mackintosh, plus links to reviews, author biography & more

"I'll be fine. Thank you."

As they pulled away, Kate looked back at the scene, where the CSIs were still hard at work. "What sort of bastard kills a five-year- old boy, then drives off?"

Ray didn't hesitate. "That's exactly what we're going to find out."

2

I don't want a cup of tea, but I take it anyway. Cradling the mug in both hands I press my face into the steam until it scalds me. Pain pricks my skin, deadening my cheeks and stinging my eyes. I fight the instinct to pull away; I need the numbness to blur the scenes that won't leave my head.

"Shall I get you something to eat?"

He towers over me and I know I should look up, but I can't bear to. How can he offer me food and drink as though nothing has happened? A wave of nausea wells up inside me and I swallow the acrid taste back down. He blames me for it. He hasn't said so, but he doesn't have to, it's there in his eyes. And he's right—it was my fault. We should have gone home a different way; I shouldn't have talked; I should have stopped him . . .

"No, thank you," I say quietly, "I'm not hungry."

The accident plays on a loop in my head. I want to press pause but the film is relentless: his body slamming against the windshield time after time after time. I raise the mug to my face again, but the tea has cooled and the warmth on my skin isn't enough to hurt. I can't feel the tears forming, but fat droplets burst as they hit my knees. I watch them soak into my jeans, and scratch my nail across a smear of clay on my thigh.

I look around the room at the home I have spent so many years creating. The curtains, bought to match the cushions; the artwork, some of my own, some I found in galleries and loved too much to leave behind. I thought I was making a home, but I was only ever building a house.

My hand hurts. I can feel my pulse beating rapid and light in my wrist. I'm glad of the pain. I wish it were more. I wish it had been me the car hit.

He's talking again. Police are out everywhere looking for the car . . . the papers will appeal for witnesses . . . it will be on the news . . .

The room spins and I fix my gaze on the coffee table, nodding when it seems appropriate. He strides two paces to the window, then back again. I wish he would sit down—he's making me nervous. My hands are shaking and I put down my untouched tea before I drop it, but I clatter the china against the glass tabletop. He shoots me a look of frustration.

"Sorry," I say. There's a metallic taste in my mouth, and I realize I've bitten through the inside of my lip. I swallow the blood, not wanting to draw attention to myself by asking for a tissue.

Everything has changed. The instant the car slid across the wet tarmac, my whole life changed. I can see everything clearly, as though I am standing on the sidelines. I can't go on like this.

When I wake, for a second I'm not sure what this feeling is. Every- thing is the same, and yet everything has changed. Then, before I have even opened my eyes, there is a rush of noise in my head, like an underground train. And there it is: playing out in Technicolor scenes I can't pause or mute. I press the heels of my palms into my temples as though I can make the images subside through brute force alone, but still they come, thick and fast, as if without them I might forget.

On my bedside cabinet is the brass alarm clock Eve gave me when I went to university—"Because you'll never get to lectures, otherwise"— and I'm shocked to see it's ten thirty already. The pain in my hand has been overshadowed by a headache that blinds me if I move my head too fast, and as I peel myself from the bed every muscle aches.

I pull on yesterday's clothes and go into the garden without stop- ping to make a coffee, even though my mouth is so dry it's an effort to swallow. I can't find my shoes, and the frost stings my feet as I make my way across the grass. The garden isn't large, but winter is on its way, and by the time I reach the other side I can't feel my toes.

Excerpted from I Let You Go by Clare Mackintosh. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.