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Author bio

Born in Sweden, Jessica moved to London at the age of 18 to obtain a BSc Hons degree in Publishing and Business. She worked in publishing in the UK for a number of years before heading to Chicago where she edited a magazine for expats. Back in Sweden, she completed a Masters in Creative Writing. Since 2010, Jessica has taught journalism and media at a local university, and has spent the last five years as the marketing and PR manager for a British firm. Last year, she was one of the winners in the Montegrappa Prize for First Fiction at the Emirates Airline Festival of Literature. Jessica is married with three spirited children, and although she’s known for her positivity, her writing tends to be rather dark!

Book description

The new heart-pounding psychological thriller from the bestselling author of 'When I Wake Up'.

“Kristin is on the run. From her life. From herself.”

When two murders happen in Chicago, a witch-hunt ensues, and Kristin quickly finds herself at the centre.

The problem is she isn't sure of what she did or didn't do. Armed with a life insurance payout, she runs away to Sweden to start her life over.

But it's not that easy to escape the past. And whatever she's done, someone is on her tail, wanting her to pay...

The question is: could she be a killer and not even remember?

Links to buy

Amazon: mybook.to/WhatDidIDo  

Kobo: http://bit.ly/2EJuXRk

Google Play: http://bit.ly/2IRxvPO

iBooks: https://apple.co/2Hwy4za

Follow Jessica Jarlvi

Twitter: @JessicaJarlvi

Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/jessica.jarlvi.graham

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Extract

Chapter 2 

Frank 

October 2016 

Frank and Birgitta were on a weekend retreat, their legs wrapped around each other, 

Frank deeply thrusting into his wife, when the phone call arrived. Did they know 

where their son was? They realised that they hadn’t seen him for a few days before 

they left but that wasn’t unusual. He would sometimes go off with friends they’d 

never met and, although they probably should have been more vigilant, he was the 

youngest and the one they had been the least controlling of. 

They threw their clothes and toiletries into the overnight Louis Vuitton bags and 

rushed home in a panic, speeding on the highway and through every tollbooth; the 

details of what was going on not completely clear. All they knew was that a 

neighbour had raised the alarm that something terrible might have happened to their 

son, Anders. 

‘Before we go into further details, we need you to come home,’ they were told. 

‘They must be mistaken,’ Frank kept saying in the car. 

He was racking his brain. Where could Anders have been? Who could he have 

been with? Why would they think he was hurt? 

‘He’s still not answering his phone,’ Birgitta said. She had tried calling him a 

million times. 

‘Is it even ringing?’

‘No.’

Frank slammed the steering wheel, frustrated. His son was fine. Of course, he was. 

‘We should have demanded to meet his friends,’ Birgitta said. ‘Then we would 

know who to call now.’

‘We shouldn’t have let him have all those tattoos and piercings,’ Frank said. ‘That’

s attracted bad company.’ He stopped himself from adding: if only you hadn’t been so 

relaxed about it. There was little point arguing. They needed to stick together now. ‘

He’s okay,’ Frank repeated over and over. ‘He’s okay.’

Anders was the only child they had left. Their older son, who was fiercely 

independent, had already moved out and practically vanished, only making the 

occasional phone call, while their daughter’s psychological issues had kept her away. 

That left Anders. With or without his body art, he was the one who made them feel 

as if they were still a family unit. 

* 

By the time they arrived back at the Winnetka house, ambulance and police cars were 

parked by the entrance, making it impossible for Frank to even access his garage. It 

didn’t matter. The sight of the emergency vehicles was terrifying and Frank simply 

left the car outside the gate as the two of them ran inside, the trail of people leading 

them down to the lakefront. 

They only stopped when they saw the divers pulling a pale body out of the water, 

unable to move any closer for fear of what they might witness. 

‘Oh, dear God,’ Birgitta said, grabbing hold of his arm. 

‘Let’s not jump to any conclusions,’ Frank said, attempting to keep his voice 

steady. 

It’s someone else. 

Many people died in Lake Michigan every year. Frank knew the statistics. Twenty-

five people had tragically ended their lives in the lake the year before, and it was 

likely to be even higher this year. His son would not be one of them. 

From where they stood, the body was barely recognisable, the waxy skin making 

the person resemble a doll, or a ghost, or, at the very least, someone else. Not their 

child.

The sun was glittering on the lake, appearing as if this were any other autumn 

Sunday. Yet here they stood, watching a lifeless person be carried across their 

property. 

At that moment, an arm pulled away from the body, detaching with ease like clay, 

and Birgitta screamed. 

‘The body is fragile after spending time in the water,’ someone said, or whispered or shouted. 

Stop talking! Frank couldn’t focus on anything but the figure on the stretcher 

drawing closer. His son’s face was thin. As Frank leaned forward, he could tell that 

this one was swollen. Yet somewhere, below the wet streaky hair, he couldn’t deny 

the resemblance to Anders. 

‘No,’ he said, shaking his head. No.

His son was about to turn nineteen. This couldn’t possibly be happening. Birgitta 

clutched his arm. He had almost forgotten her presence but now he pulled her closer, 

her almost silent tears soaking through his shirt. 

‘Is it really him?’ Birgitta sobbed. 

‘Yes,’ he whispered. As much as he wanted to, he couldn’t deny it. 

Frank felt Birgitta’s body weaken in his arms and he held on harder, afraid that he 

would disintegrate if she let go. This wasn’t fair. Life wasn’t fair. As Frank stood 

there holding onto his wife, his brain was shutting down; he was frozen in disbelief, 

his emotions getting the better of him. Everything seemed pointless. The large 

mansion-like house behind them, their perfect home, was insignificant. The money he 

had worked hard to earn for his family no longer mattered. It was all trivial compared 

to this. What was happening to their lives? They had harboured such hope for the 

future. Once upon a time, they had left Sweden for the US because this was where 

dreams came true. ‘Anders was a miracle,’ he said, his mouth pressed against 

Birgitta’s hair. 

He had been the unexpected addition to their family that had made Frank feel 

complete: a colicky baby they’d hired a nurse to assist with. 

‘He was a quiet and gentle boy,’ Birgitta said. 

That had been true once. He hadn’t been boisterous like his older brother, but 

fragile and always crying, Anders had only become stronger and more opinionated 

with age, making him increasingly hard to control. 

‘I don’t think I can let go,’ Frank said. ‘I can’t.’

Just the thought of it brought on a new wave of sorrow. His children had all grown 

up too fast. Why couldn’t they stay little forever? He had probably worked too much 

during their formative years… it made him feel guilty. 

They struggled to keep up behind the stretcher. As their feet stumbled around the 

corner of the house to the driveway, Anders was carefully moved into one of the 

many vehicles. 

‘Where are they taking him?’ Birgitta asked, her voice faltering. 

She burrowed her head deeper into his chest, and Frank thought: Should I want to 

touch him, to make sure he really isn’t breathing?

‘They’re not going to revive him,’ he said, the realisation only just dawning on 

him. 

Anders’s body was headed for a morgue, not a resuscitation scenario at a hospital. 

Nothing could save him. His son really was gone. The tightness across Frank’s 

ribcage made it hard to breathe. He couldn’t bear it. Now it would only be the two of 

them, him and Birgitta, in this big empty house. He collapsed onto the tiles, the ones 

he had carefully chosen together with his son, a few months previously. 

‘Frank,’ Birgitta cried. ‘Please don’t. Get up! Please.’

But he couldn’t. His family was in pieces. Someone tried to pull him up, voices 

tried to speak to him, but he was incapable of being coherent. Everything was a blur. 

Birgitta crouched down to hold him, and there, in the driveway, they numbly 

hung onto each other; two lost souls, watching their son be driven away, never to 

return.