Synopsis
A plane falls out of the sky.
A woman is murdered.
Four people all have something to hide…
For fans of Tana French and Alice LaPlante comes After We Fall, a debut psychological thriller by former police psychologist Emma Kavanagh that explores four lives shattered in the tense aftermath of a plane crash.
Shortly after takeoff, flight 2940 plummets to the snow-covered ground, breaking into two parts, the only survivors a handful of passengers and a flight attendant.
Cecilia has packed up and left her family. Now she has survived a tragedy and sees no way out.
Tom has woken up to discover that his wife was on the plane and must break the news to their only son.
Jim is a retired police offer and worried father. His beloved daughter has disappeared, and he knows something is wrong.
Freya is struggling to cope with the loss of her father. But as she delves into his past, she may not like what she finds.
Four people, who have never met but are indelibly linked by these disasters, will be forced to reveal the closely guarded secrets that unlock the answers to their questions. But once the truth is exposed, it may cause even more destruction.
Told from various points of view, chapter by chapter, readers follow the investigation into the doomed plane alongside the investigation of a murder. Kavanagh deftly weaves together the stories of those who lost someone or something of themselves in one tragic incident, exploring how swiftly everything we know can come crashing down.
Emma Kavanagh was born and raised in South Wales. After graduating with a PhD in psychology from Cardiff University, she spent many years working as a police and military psychologist, training firearms officers, command staff, and military personnel throughout the UK and Europe. She started her business as a psychology consultant, specializing in human performance in extreme situations. She lives in South Wales with her husband and two young sons.
EXCERPT
Chapter 4
Freya: Thursday, March 15, 6:36 p.m.
Freya moved the paint across the thick paper, quick strokes, flick, flick, before it dried and became unwieldy. Sunflower yellow. She swirled the brush in graying water, a quick shake, then a swipe of ocher. The light in the kitchen was warm, the color of corn. Not ideal for painting, but she didn’t mind. She allowed the brush to trace the curve. She liked it like this, the warmth from the oven, the rippling Beethoven, her mother’s movements unselfconscious, for a little while at least.
“That’s beautiful.”
Freya glanced up, smiled. Her mother was in her off-duty clothes today, loose jeans, a sweater that hung so that it disguised her hips, her narrow frame. Her long, narrow hands—her paws, she called them—naked, her wedding ring sitting waiting in the little cup on the windowsill. The barest touch of makeup. Just enough so I don’t scare the postman. A laugh like dancing raindrops and then a quick turn away from the mirror. She rarely looked at herself for longer than she had to.
“Thank you.” Freya looked back down, scanning the page.
“Although…” A sizzle as ice-white onions hit hot oil. “Surely you must be able to find something more interesting to paint.”
“I like painting you, Mum.” Freya let the brush sit loose in her fingers, the rough grain from years of moments like these scratching against her skin. Her mother was beautiful, so Freya had always thought at least. Slim, and warm as fresh-baked bread.
They had the same nose, her mother and her. The same little upturn at the end. The same eyes, fir-tree green. That was where the resemblance ended, at least as far as Freya was concerned. Where her mother was narrow and delicate, Freya was tall and curved. You get that from your father’s side. She had her father’s cheekbones. And sometimes, just occasionally, her father’s temper.
Her mother tipped ground beef into the pan, little red curls screeching with the heat. Freya loved these rare moments. The house quiet and warm, the snow a silent marching army beyond the windows. Low music and the sweet smell of onions. She surveyed the page. She didn’t paint much, not anymore, time so often gobbled up by research for the psychology PhD that she had nearly finished and by her friends. But they were all locked up tight by the snow. She wondered if for them too it came as a relief, a moment to breathe and stop and just paint.
“I wonder if your father’s taken off yet?” Her mother was leaning, looking out into the snow. “It’s an awful night to fly.”
“I know.” Freya dabbed at the ocher, soft, soft, just feathering the edges.
“He probably hasn’t. I mean, they’ve been grounding flights all week.” Her mother glanced at the clock. “I expect we’ll hear from him soon.”
“What time are Grandma and Grandpa coming?” The trip had been planned for months, a pilgrimage to Cowbridge from St. Ives. Freya’s mother had suggested that they postpone it, just by a week or so, given the weather, the problems that would inevitably follow. But her grandmother had scoffed. They had plans, she had said. They would be coming. Even though the traffic would be bad and Grandpa’s driving awful and her grandmother would complain about every stop from Polperro to Cardiff. Then they would arrive and the house would pulse with an unspecified tension, her father’s teeth gritted, her mother’s voice climbing an octave with each passing day.
Freya’s mother looked at the clock again. “They called. About an hour ago. I thought it was your father, actually, you know, saying he was coming home. But it wasn’t. Grandma said they were around about Bristol.” She glanced across her shoulder at Freya, a small smile. “Said the way your grandfather is driving they should be here by Christmas.”
Freya grinned, brushing hair from her face with the back of her hand. Liquid sunshine, her mother called it, when she stroked her daughter’s hair, forgetting for a moment that she wasn’t a child anymore, twenty-three years slipping away in the blink of an eye. Freya had always thought it was more the color of buttered popcorn, a burnished yellow flecked with hints of brown. A color caught her eye, a flash of red paint, and she grimaced. She should have worn an apron. Now her skinny jeans were speckled with measles spots.
“So you never told me…”
“Huh?” Freya wasn’t looking at her mother, scratching at the paint with her nail.
“Last night. How did it go?”
“Oh. You know.”
“You know, good?”
“Well, yeah. I mean, yeah, it was okay. It was just a couple of us. Zoe and Rena and a couple of others. But it was nice. We had a laugh.”
“And Luke?”
Freya looked up from the paint, fixing her mother with a level stare, lips twitching with an almost smile.
“I’m just saying. Was he there?”
“Yes, Mum.”
“He seems like a nice boy.”
Freya laughed, leaning back in the chair. “Mum. He’s thirty-two.”
Her mother smiled, sweeping the meat around the pan. “Love, believe me, when you’re my age, that will make him a boy.”
Freya shook her head. “Because you’re that old?”
Her mother sighed heavily, looking out the window into the snow. “Feels like it some days.” She shook her head, glancing back at Freya. “So are you interested in him?”
Freya dipped the brush back into the jar. The colors were a little too dark, and she sprinkled water across the painting, sunshine through the rain. Could feel her cheeks flushing. “I don’t know. I don’t think so.”
“Well, you’ll meet somebody. Give it time.” Another sigh. “I do hope your father isn’t flying in this.”
Freya looked up. Her mother was staring out the window again, fingering the petals of the tumbledown lilies that Freya’s father bought her every Friday. Flowers for my flower. But they were turning brown, pink petals curling inward, turning sepia at the edges. The sickly sweet smell jarred against the cooking meat.
“You got in late last night,” Freya said.
Her mother didn’t turn, looked down, spoon scraping at the bottom of the pan. “I know. Got caught up. Talking. You know how it is.”
The kitchen door creaked open, grinding against the tiles. Richard’s hair was damp, dark, brushed back from his angled cheekbones. Long enough that it had grown into loose curls. Baby-bird dark eyes, narrow frame hidden in an Abercrombie & Fitch T-shirt, lean muscled arms bare. A man’s body for such a little boy. Her brother was beautiful. Not just a big sister’s love; he was genuinely beautiful, with his chocolate-brown eyes, his long dark lashes, his tall, strong frame, and his wide mouth that looked made for smiling.
“Hey, kiddo.”
He looked tired, drawn. Freya pushed a kitchen chair back, and he slumped into it.
“You okay?” Freya asked.
“Yeah. Didn’t sleep very well last night.”
Freya watched him, resisting the urge to reach out and smooth down the hair that stuck out at odd angles. He’s seventeen now. Can’t keep treating him like a child. Even though he was her baby brother, ever since the day they brought him home from the hospital, buried within white wool, his dark eyes watching her like they knew, even then, that she would always protect him.
“Where’s Dad?” Richard asked.
“He’s working. Glasgow.” Her mother glanced up at the snow again, as if by the force of her gaze she could make it stop. “Unless he’s been canceled. He hasn’t called, though.”
“Is he back tonight?” asked Freya.
“Ah…tomorrow? Evening, I think. But with this weather…we’ll just have to see.” She stirred the pan, metal spoon scratching against the stainless-steel rim. “Maybe he hasn’t taken off. He probably hasn’t. They wouldn’t let him fly in this. He’ll probably call soon.”
Richard nodded, his long, narrow fingers reaching for the television remote. There was a burst of sound, and Freya looked over her shoulder at the television, blinking to remember that there was a world outside.
And there it was. Fire and metal and snow.
And Freya knew.
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