The Girl I Used to Be Read online

  PRAISE FOR

  GONE WITHOUT A TRACE

  “Mary Torjussen spins a clever, fast-paced tale with a twist so sharp it will give readers whiplash.”

  —#1 New York Times bestselling author Tami Hoag

  “Gone Without a Trace has one of the most interesting narrators I’ve ever come across.”

  —Shari Lapena, New York Times bestselling author of The Couple Next Door

  “Gripping suspense with a chilling twist. Mary Torjussen kept me turning the pages to the very last.”

  —Meg Gardiner, Edgar® Award–winning author of UNSUB

  “Torjussen’s debut novel combines tightly wound suspense with an unfolding surprise ending, making for a gripping page-turner from start to finish. Fans of Gillian Flynn’s Gone Girl and Alafair Burke’s If You Were Here will love this.”

  —Library Journal (starred review)

  “Grabbed me right away with its mind-blowing and heartbreaking premise, and I couldn’t read fast enough as the book revealed a series of twisting and even jaw-dropping surprises . . . An absorbing, shocking thriller!”

  —David Bell, bestselling author of Bring Her Home

  “With characters who feel real to the bone and a voice that chills through and through, Gone Without a Trace had me hooked from the very first line. Torjussen delivers an absolutely thrilling novel with an ending as shocking and satisfying as any I’ve read.”

  —Diane Les Becquets, national bestselling author of Breaking Wild

  “[A] strong debut . . . The deliciously dark conclusion is perfect for this tale of all-consuming obsession, jealousy, and the secrets that lie beneath the most perfect of exteriors.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “Will keep readers on the edges of their seats as they delve into Hannah’s troubled mind . . . Readers will be absorbed in this hard look at human nature and the lengths we will go to protect what we feel is ours.”

  —Booklist

  “Torjussen draws you into Hannah’s plight until you’re wrapped in it like the coils of an anaconda. It’s a maze of madness and obsession that holds you until the final devastating line of the story.”

  —Suspense Magazine

  “[A] creepy, adrenaline-fueled thriller . . . Fans of Clare Mackintosh and J. T. Ellison will find plenty here to love . . . Gone Without a Trace is the rare domestic thriller that simultaneously shocks, challenges convention, and delivers an important social message . . . The book’s final page is guaranteed to chill.”

  —Mystery Scene

  ALSO BY MARY TORJUSSEN

  Gone Without a Trace

  BERKLEY

  An imprint of Penguin Random House LLC

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014

  Copyright © 2018 by Mary Torjussen

  Readers Guide copyright © 2018 by Penguin Random House LLC

  Excerpt from Gone Without a Trace copyright © 2017 by Mary Torjussen

  Penguin Random House supports copyright. Copyright fuels creativity, encourages diverse voices, promotes free speech, and creates a vibrant culture. Thank you for buying an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part of it in any form without permission. You are supporting writers and allowing Penguin Random House to continue to publish books for every reader.

  BERKLEY is a registered trademark and the B colophon is a trademark of Penguin Random House LLC.

  The Edger® name is a registered service mark of the Mystery Writers of America, Inc.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Names: Torjussen, Mary, author.

  Title: The girl I used to be / Mary Torjussen.

  Description: First edition. | New York : Berkley, 2018.

  Identifiers: LCCN 2017044781 | ISBN 9780399585036 (softcover) | ISBN 9780399585043 (ebook)

  Subjects: LCSH: Life change events—Fiction. | Married women—Fiction. | Extortion—Fiction. | Psychological fiction. | BISAC: FICTION / Suspense. | GSAFD: Suspense fiction.

  Classification: LCC PR6120.O75 G57 2018 | DDC 823/.92—dc23

  LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2017044781

  First Edition: April 2018

  Cover art: silhouette of woman by Marie Carr / Arcangel; woman’s profile by Monica Lazar / Arcangel

  Cover design by Colleen Reinhart

  Title page art: torn paper by Voin_Sveta / Shutterstock; grunge background by javarman3 / iStock

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Version_1

  For Rosie and Louis

  And for my mother and my late father

  With love

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Thank you so much to Toby Jones at Headline and to Danielle Perez at Berkley for your invaluable editorial advice and support. It’s been such a pleasure working with you both.

  Thanks to my writer friends, Fiona Collins and Sam Gough, who made the experience of writing this novel such fun. I’m so grateful for your support and your tact when I went off piste!

  Thanks to Anne-Marie Thomson for your advice about what an estate agent does all day. It was so kind of you to answer all my questions.

  Thank you to Graham Bartlett, author and ex–Chief Superintendent of Brighton and Hove, for your advice and for talking me through what would happen to a woman in Gemma’s position.

  Finally, thanks so much to Daisy Ambrose for your social media advice.

  CONTENTS

  Praise for Gone Without a Trace

  Also by Mary Torjussen

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Acknowledgments

  PROLOGUE

  PART 1CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  PART 2CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  CHAPTER FORTY

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

 
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

  CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

  CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

  CHAPTER FIFTY

  CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE

  CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO

  CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE

  CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX

  CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE

  CHAPTER SIXTY

  CHAPTER SIXTY-ONE

  CHAPTER SIXTY-TWO

  CHAPTER SIXTY-THREE

  CHAPTER SIXTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER SIXTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER SIXTY-SIX

  CHAPTER SIXTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER SIXTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER SIXTY-NINE

  CHAPTER SEVENTY

  CHAPTER SEVENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER SEVENTY-TWO

  Readers Guide

  Excerpt from Gone Without a Trace

  About the Author

  PROLOGUE

  Fifteen years ago

  Thursday, August 15

  WHEN I THINK of that night now, I remember the heat, clammy and intense on my skin, and the sense of feverish excitement in the air. I think of the taxi ride to the party with my friend Lauren, her body soft and scented against mine as we sat crushed into the backseat with her boyfriend, Tom. The radio was on, the windows were open, and “London Calling” started to play. I remember the surge of happiness I felt then; I’d just been accepted by London University and would be there within a month. Whenever I hear that song now, it takes me straight back there, to that taxi ride to Alex’s house. It’s as though I am that girl, the girl I used to be.

  But I’m not.

  I can feel the sandals I was wearing as though I’m wearing them now. I could hardly walk in them; I wore them that night for the first time and within an hour I had blisters. I can remember the feel of my dress, its soft cotton brushing my skin. When I close my eyes I can feel the breeze lifting my hair. I can smell the perfume I wore, taste the lip gloss on my mouth.

  But always, always, when I think of that night, I think of Alex.

  * * *

  * * *

  IT WAS MID-AUGUST, the summer we were eighteen, and over three hundred of us from school were going to celebrate our exam results at Alex Clarke’s party. Lauren and I had gotten ready together at her house, and I’d sneaked in the little pink dress that I’d bought with money I was supposed to be saving for university. We were tanned from the summer sun; each day we worked until midafternoon at the café in our local town, and then we’d strip off our sweaty nylon overalls, pull on our shorts, and spend the rest of the day down at the beach. That afternoon we’d spent an hour or so topping up our tans before going back to her house to get ready for the night ahead. This was the start of the rest of our lives, we told each other. We wanted to look different, like we were ready for our new lives away from home.

  We had a few drinks before we went to the party. Lauren’s mum came into her room with a bottle of champagne to celebrate our results, and insisted on refilling our glasses whenever they were empty. We didn’t tell her we’d already had tequila shots. Lauren had more to drink than I did, but she always did back then. As soon as I was seventeen, I passed my driving test and my dad bought me a run-around so that I didn’t have to ask him for lifts. I loved driving and was happy to have soft drinks and ferry everyone around. I suppose that’s why it hit me so hard that night.

  It was a Thursday in the middle of August and we had to go to the school office first thing that morning to get our results. We felt they were life or death; if they were what we needed, doors would be opened to the top universities, the best courses, and a life full of promise. Just a grade down and we’d be screwed. The lives we’d hoped for just wouldn’t happen. Or so we thought. And while we knew—we’d been told often enough—that everything would work out no matter what, that other universities were still good, we were young enough to believe that no, actually, things wouldn’t be okay. We all knew people who’d failed to get into their first-choice university, who’d talked about it for years later.

  But that wasn’t our fate that summer. It was a stellar year. Everyone seemed to get the results they needed, to do what they wanted to do. It was exhilarating, the way we opened our envelopes and screamed, one after the other.

  And I remember Alex and his friends, all of them bound for Oxford and Cambridge, trying to hide their elation behind cool exteriors. They were fooling no one. They’d seen themselves as separate from the rest of us—they knew they were different—and now they were proven to be right. Or that was how I saw it then. I didn’t even know him; I’d only spoken to him once, but that was the impression he and his friends gave.

  Lauren and I were standing behind their group that morning in the queue for the exam results and overheard his friend Theo ask, “The party’s on, then?”

  Alex nodded. “Spread the word around. People from here only. No one else.”

  I’d nudged Lauren and she’d giggled; we’d been looking forward to it for months and had everything planned, right down to the nail varnish we’d wear on our toes.

  The local press was there in full force that morning, prearranged by the school, and there were photos taken of us all, grouped into sets, our expressions happy and free. Our teachers stood with us, their faces so tanned and relaxed I could hardly recognize them. The relief among all of us was palpable.

  Alex’s house was in the middle of the countryside, ten miles out of town. We’d guessed it would be bigger, more expensive, but the scale of it surprised us. It was a detached house set in pristine landscaped gardens on the edge of a village. There were no near neighbors; their garden was surrounded by fields, beyond which we caught glimpses of the river.

  He and Theo were standing at the front door when we arrived, making sure that they knew us all. There’d been stories in the news that summer about parties where crowds had gate-crashed and the police had had to be called; it was obvious from the way he checked everyone as they walked up the driveway that he was on guard for that.

  “Hi,” he said. “Come on in!”

  Behind Alex was Jack Howard, one of his friends, who was taking photos of everyone as they went into the house. We’d known for a long time that he’d had a crush on Lauren and, when he saw us, he blushed and busied himself with his camera. She slung her arms around Tom and me and we posed there on the doorstep, giddy and excited at the thought of the night ahead. After Tom went through the front door she turned and blew a kiss at Jack and turned to wink at me.

  Whenever I think of Lauren, I think of us giggling. Just about anything could make us laugh. When Alex greeted us we giggled and nudged each other and went through the large hallway into the kitchen at the back of the house. It was full of food and alcohol. People had gone overboard and brought spirits and crates of beer and armfuls of wine bottles. I heard Jack say that Alex’s parents were away on holiday; they’d agreed that if he got top grades—which meant he’d be accepted by Oxford—and if he paid for a deep clean afterward, he could have a party there to celebrate. They would be back a few days later and didn’t want to see a sign there’d even been a party. That was a bit optimistic, I thought.

  Everyone in our year was invited to that party and most were there. There were so many I only knew by sight, but we were all on such a high that pretty soon we were kissing everyone and anyone, congratulating people we barely knew, just grateful that we’d done well and were going to have our
chance to get away. You’d think we were living in some sort of hellhole, the way we carried on, as though our only chance of a good life was to leave behind the one we had.

  Lauren and I had done well; Tom, too. We were all off in a month’s time to different universities. She and I had been friends since nursery school, and it would be almost the first time Lauren and Tom would spend more than twenty-four hours apart in the two years she’d known him. I thought our friendship would last the separation, and guessed she’d stay with Tom, too; there was an ease about them that I envied. That night their arms were entwined and I noticed when she kissed a friend, she’d align herself with Tom, as though they were one person, so they embraced the friend together.

  I drank so much that night. All of us did. It was the first time we’d all been together like that and we knew it would be the last time, too. Despite that, people didn’t seem drunk. Not really. Nobody was staggering or falling, and apart from my friend Lizzie, who was sick into an ornamental bay tree on the patio before it was even dark, nobody was ill. We were all outside and then the music was turned up and everyone was dancing. I lost Lauren and Tom somewhere along the way. When I saw her later, her dress was buttoned up wrongly and she had a fresh love bite on her neck. She was telling someone she hadn’t ever spoken to before that she would always miss them.

  Then all of a sudden, past midnight, it hit me. I realized I was more drunk than I’d ever been. I’d been drinking more and more as the night went on, and most of it was punch from a huge bowl that one of Alex’s friends had been in charge of. God knew what had been in it—there were bottles of every spirit and liqueur you could think of lying around, and I was sure that most had ended up in that bowl. Lauren and Tom were lying in a hammock nearby by then, and when I turned to them, clinging on to the back of a garden chair for support, she smiled lazily and closed her eyes. I knew she wouldn’t want to go home yet. I was staying at her house that night and we were sharing a taxi home. Her mum had promised to leave the money next to the front door and the key under the doormat, so that we didn’t have to take our handbags with us.