Darkest Night by Jenny O’Brien (Detective Gaby Darin Series Book 2)
English | 2020| Mystery/Thriller| ePUB | 3.1 MB
A DEAD WOMAN. AN IMPOSSIBLE CRIME.
Christine De Bertrand wakes up to her worst nightmare: rather than the man she went to bed with, lying beside her is her housemate, Nikki – dead. With no memory of the night before, Christine can’t explain what happened, and the police are baffled.
For DC Gaby Darin, newly arrived from Swansea after her last case ended in tragedy, it’s a mystery she’s determined to solve. When another woman goes missing, Gaby faces a race against time to uncover the link between the two victims and find the man who vanished from Christine’s bedroom. But as Gaby gets close, the killer gets closer – and soon one of Gaby’s own team is in unimaginable danger…
Consciousness came upon her slowly, memories flickering through her mind – memories she was afraid to summon from the shadow of sleep.
Christine had never been any good in the mornings, usually only surfacing when the gnaw of hunger and the thirst for caffeine overrode the comfort and warmth of her bed. But this morning was different, not that she could put a finger on exactly how or why.
Reaching out, she picked up her gold-plated watch and squinted at the dial, just about managing to make out the little hand pointing at the six. She decided to ignore the box beside her bed. Without her contacts she was as blind as a bat but, with her head thumping, the thought of even lifting the lid had her resting back against the pillow. She’d need a gallon of coffee with a paracetamol chaser before she could even think about starting her day.
Friday nights usually followed a defined pattern. She finished work around five, which allowed her plenty of time to dash to Asda before returning to her top-floor flat along the West Shore to get ready for the evening ahead, not that it was usually that exciting. Since her divorce, her nightlife had contracted to meeting up with a girlfriend for a few drinks, before returning home to an oven-ready pizza, a bottle of prosecco and whichever boxset she was currently watching on Netflix. Life was predictable and, in truth, a little boring. But boring was as good as it was safe. She rarely deviated from this pattern and any time she did it was usually something she regretted in the morning. It had been a hard lesson to learn when at university that what looked hot and handsome through a cocktail-infused haze invariably turned into the proverbial frog when daylight hit. But last night had been different. There’d been more laughter and more fun than she’d had in a very long time.
Her eyes snagged on the wall of birthday cards, carefully placed on top of her tallboy. She’d been dreading turning thirty. Now the only thing she regretted was the headache from hell trying to dig its way out of her skull with the blunt end of a pickaxe. Turning her head slightly, she stared at one card in particular while she tried to piece last night together. It felt as if there was a cloud between what had happened and what she remembered. No. She frowned, her brain addled with the complexity of thinking. It was almost as if someone had sucked the centre out of her memory only to leave a pale outline. She remembered leaving work just as she remembered the pile of goodies she’d popped in the fridge for later. She even remembered the black silky top and trousers she’d flung on before rushing to leave the flat, the sound of her heels echoing on the stairs. She remembered the man.