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Amanda Robson

Guilt

The shocking new thriller from the #1 bestseller

‘Thrilling, unputdownable, a fabulous rollercoaster of a read’ B A PARIS, bestselling author of BEHIND CLOSED DOORS

The number 1 bestseller is back!

Your sister. Her secret. The betrayal.

There is no bond greater than blood . . .

When the body of a woman is found stabbed to death, the blame falls to her twin sister. But who killed who? And which one is now the woman behind bars?

Zara and Miranda have always supported each other. But then Zara meets Seb, and everything changes. Handsome, charismatic and dangerous, Seb threatens to tear the sisters’ lives apart – but is he really the one to blame? Or are deeper resentments simmering beneath the surface that the sisters must face up to?

As the sisters’ relationship is stretched to the brink, a traumatic incident in Seb’s past begins to rear its head and soon all three are locked in a psychological battle that will leave someone dead. The question is, who?

Claustrophobic and compelling, Amanda Robson is back in a knock-out thriller perfect for fans of B.A. Paris and Paula Hawkins.

EXTRACT

When the train arrives at Weston-super-Mare no one helps me with my cameras, but I manage. I lump them together over my right shoulder and hobble off the train. As soon as I step off the train I am embraced by the flavour of the sea. The smell. The sweet, sharp, salty tang of the sea. The cry of the gulls. So high-pitched. So haunting.

 The taxi winds through the higgledy-piggledy streets behind the seafront. So far Weston-super-Mare looks to me as if Bath and Bristol have been shaken up together in a jar, and Weston has appeared as a mix-up of them both. I see a curved row of yellow sandstone town houses, very fine and balanced, very Georgian. I see line after line of Edwardian comfort, built in pale stone slabs with creamy sandstone window frames. Substantial and comfortable surrounded by the smell and taste of the sea.

 I arrive at my hotel, dump my bags, grab one small cine camera, and head straight for the seafront. Having allowed myself to fall in love with the architecture of Weston too quickly, the brutal architecture of the seafront disappoints me. It’s too Victorian. Ugly grandeur. Bold and unforgiving. Telling tales of another era, not accepting that life has moved on. Buildings with an artificiality about them. As if they are trying to pretend life was better then, when we now know that for many it was far worse. Fronted by the pier, a spiky contraption that spoils the sweep of the bay. It is so dark that as I walk away I can only see the outline of its monstrous bulk, shining between the street lamps. I step onto the beach, my back to the pier. Unencumbered by the sight of architectural ugliness, I move towards the sea. Black sea churning and heaving in the moonlight.