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  Praise for Our Little Secret

  “Roz Nay’s addictive debut proves that dark secrets of the past cannot be forgotten.”

  —Us Weekly

  “Nay’s engrossing read is told from multiple perspectives, and from its chillingly mysterious opening to the subtle brilliance with which a revengeful saga unfolds, its steamy love triangle will hook you and never let you go. It’s a debut thriller that’s just delicious.”

  —Entertainment Weekly

  “Remarkable. Our Little Secret superficially resembles Paula Hawkins’ The Girl on a Train and similar psychological thrillers that have stormed the best-seller lists in the last decade. But Nay’s work transcends the subgenre. The plot is more textured and heartbreaking, and her prose contains startling turns of phrase that reveal the soul of a poet.”

  —Associated Press

  “An insidious and disturbing read, Our Little Secret is a stunning thriller about the deadly consequences of a first love.”

  —Buzzfeed

  “A cracking read … Our Little Secret builds to a deliciously dark conclusion.”

  —Ruth Ware, New York Times bestselling author of The Woman in Cabin 10

  “Nay lures readers down a dark and tangled path that explores the aftereffects of lost first loves … A gripping addition to the psych thriller world.”

  —Mary Kubica, New York Times bestselling author of The Good Girl

  “A gripping and disturbing story, which left me guessing until the very end.”

  —B. A. Paris, New York Times bestselling author of Behind Closed Doors and The Breakdown

  “Clever and addictive, Our Little Secret won’t stay a secret for long—it’s that good.”

  —Chevy Stevens, New York Times bestselling author of Still Missing and Never Let You Go

  “A sneaky-smart, charismatic debut that will win fans among those who enjoy the kind of duplicitous and deliciously complex psychological suspense written by Ruth Ware, Sophie Hannah, and Erin Kelly.”

  —Booklist, starred review

  “Fans of Paula Hawkins and Ruth Ware will devour this twisty psychological thriller; Nay has expertly crafted a narrative that has the potential to veer in several directions, keeping the readers enthralled and guessing until the end.”

  —Library Journal, starred review

  “A hugely accomplished first novel—and one which, in the guise of a page turner, poses many questions about intimacy, jealousy and the vertiginous trajectory that is revenge.”

  —Douglas Kennedy, international bestselling author of The Pursuit of Happiness and Leaving the World

  “In Our Little Secret, Roz Nay shows how the past is never truly past, and can be darker than we guess, especially when it comes to first loves. A most promising debut.”

  —Andrew Pyper, bestselling author of The Demonologist and The Only Child

  “In Roz Nay’s tightly woven debut Our Little Secret we meet Angela – a wily woman with a twisted love story, who is in quite a heap of trouble. As the story unfolds and the mystery deepens, the breadcrumbs Nay expertly leaves behind reveal a dark truth you won’t see coming. Ruth Ware fans will love this compulsive, impossible-to-put-down novel!”

  —Karma Brown, bestselling author of Come Away With Me and The Choices We Make

  “A stunning debut … Our Little Secret is a deliciously twisted novel about a love triangle. It’s so suspenseful your heart will be pounding as you hurry to the end. Roz Nay has proven she can write the thriller you haven’t read before.”

  —Liz Fenton and Lisa Steinke, authors of The Good Widow

  “A juicy, darkly comic tour through an unpredictable mind, populated by characters as captivating as they are despicable. If you liked Disclaimer, you’re in for a treat with this one.”

  —Averil Dean, author of Alice Close Your Eyes

  “[A] mesmerizing debut … Nay expertly spins an insidious, clever web, perfectly capturing the soaring heights and crushing lows of first love and how the loss of that love can make even the sanest people a little crazy. Carve out some time for this riveting, one-sitting read.”

  —Kirkus Reviews

  “Captivating … Nay is a writer to watch.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “Heading to a cottage this weekend and need a guaranteed good read? Bring this book. Trust me: you’re likely to read it in one breathless sitting. When you return to reality, it will be well past midnight and everyone else will have gone to bed. [A] winding, deceptive descent towards the truth about what happened. I didn’t see it coming, and neither will you.”

  —The Globe and Mail

  “Seemingly every aspiring author out there is now busy capitalizing on the trend, crafting dark psychological thrillers with unreliable female narrators and wild plot twists. It’s increasingly difficult, then, to stand out in this crowded market… All of this is why first-time author Roz Nay’s debut Our Little Secret is so impressive.”

  —Toronto Star

  “Roz Nay keeps readers enthralled with prose that’s at once lyrical and incisive. The author can make a drug trip seem poetic. Our Little Secret should keep readers tied to its pages.”

  —Shelf Awareness

  ALSO AVAILABLE BY ROZ NAY

  Our Little Secret

  For my sisters, Jo and Sal.

  Watt girls forever.

  The woman holds the baby close and ghost-dances by the window. She can see her reflection in the glass. She doesn’t mind being awake with her little boy at this odd, witchy hour when everyone else is asleep. This moment is a secret that only they share.

  He is olive-skinned, familiar—although a far cry from her own pale coloring. It doesn’t matter, she thinks. He’s mine, and I’m keeping him.

  Outside, the street is quiet. The mountains in the distance watch over the sleeping town. She concentrates on the cowrie-shell curl of his hand. His fingernails are tiny and perfect, little crescent moons in each one. Did she make those? In one of his hands is a worn old clothespin that he’s been gripping for days.

  A dog’s bark pierces the silence, and the baby startles and throws out his arms.

  How powerful babies are, she thinks. How vulnerable. She lifts her shirt and juggles him until he finds her breast. They fit perfectly together; they’re made for each other.

  A few moments later, the baby unlatches, frustrated, and she prods at his lips, her brow darkening. “I’m sorry,” she says to him. “Shhhh.” He doesn’t even try to latch again. Instead, he fusses and turns his head away.

  “Hey,” she says, her voice louder. “It’s just us now. You’ll never see her again.”

  The baby blinks, working up to a cry, and they stare at each other for a second, old souls reconnected, like there was never any loss before and nothing ever went wrong.

  “You’re okay, little one, you’re safe now. There, that’s better.”

  In a minute she’ll fetch him formula from the fridge, warm it up, test the temperature of it against the tender flesh of her inner arm. She knows how to do all of this. She’s a natural. Finally everything is exactly as it should be.

  PART ONE

  THE GUARDER

  ALEXANDRA

  In the dream I am running and my sister is behind me. The ground is brittle, hard against my summer feet, and as with every dream, I think I’m rushing to save something, to stop it, but it’s not that. It’s so much worse. I can hear Ruth gaining on me—she’s bigger than me—and she grazes the back of my shirt with her fingertips as I strain to run faster. When she finally grabs me, as she always does, she pulls me down into the dust and her sharp fingernails dig into the little-girl flesh of my arms. It’s just a game! I scream, We’re only playing!, and I jolt upright in bed, my feet pedaling at the sheets, my tongue pasted against the soil of my m
outh.

  I lie panting for a minute. I thought the dreams would lessen, but they’re getting worse. They’re always of her, or the version of her I last saw all those years ago. It’s crazy to be so afraid of her; I don’t even know where she is.

  I tiptoe out of bed, careful not to wake up Chase, and stumble to the kitchen to get water, to put out this fire in my head. I’m so thirsty all the time. By the sink, I run cold, clear water and drink from the tap, splashing a little to my forehead.

  Chase’s loft is high-ceilinged and open concept, a one-bedroom that’s short on doors and boundaries. Some couples might find that claustrophobic, but I don’t. I find it companionable. I can just see him from where I stand by the sink: He’s a muscular guy, but he breathes so softly, his tanned arm lolling against the crisp, white sheets. I’ve no concept of where he goes when he sleeps, but it’s an opposite dreamscape to mine.

  Outside, the sky is trying for an early blue. It’s June, but there’s still a 7:00 a.m. gray that leaks slowly into color. In this Colorado town, we’re never too far from the creep of the glacier, a silent advance I can’t help but find sinister. Chase, though, he loves everything about the mountains. On my way to the walk-in closet, I trail a fingertip across the tall canvas print of him by the front door, a professional shot of his body upside down on the mountain, hucking a twenty-foot drop on skis. I could never do that, wouldn’t even know where to begin. But he’s good in environments that I’d find daunting. He rarely ponders such things as his own mortality. Behind him, snow wisps delicately to eclipse the sun. I have to admit it’s a beautiful photo.

  Once I’ve pulled on skinny jeans and a T-shirt that isn’t too crumpled, I grapple my hair into a topknot and grab my khaki jacket and my old leather satchel. I lift the satchel over my head so the strap lies diagonal across the front of me. My Vans are by the front door, and I kick my feet into them, wondering if at twenty-five it might be time to buy shoes that aren’t best suited to the average fourteen-year-old boy. But my job doesn’t require a corporate dress code. As a child-protection social worker, it’s best if I look relatable.

  Tucked away in the Rocky Mountains, Moses River is isolated in the winter months, but now the trees along the sidewalk are in bloom, the buds bulging with optimism. Locals mill about on Main Street, coffee in tall travel cups as they lean against their parked trucks. Wheels of mountain bikes hook over every tailgate—if there’s bustle, it isn’t work-related. Life is beautiful reads more than one bumper sticker. But ask any social worker in this town and they’ll tell you life around here is a lot of things, not all of them beautiful. But we’re trying. We’re trying for the kids who don’t believe the bumper stickers, for the kids who live the truth.

  As I walk up Main, I think about Minerva’s email from last night. It was hassled and hurried as usual, but she told me there was a report of negligence involving a little boy and his parents, a couple called the Floyds. I haven’t heard the name before, but from the tone of the email, it seemed like she was familiar with them. If she wants me on board, the case must be an ugly one. It always is when there’s a baby involved. A little baby boy.

  Minerva Cummins used to work in Mental Health and Addictions before she crossed over to Family Services, and she’s never shaken it off. Every exchange I have with her feels like she’s trying to help me out of some kind of saddening entrenchment. Even as I’m solving problems, she’ll sigh with her eyes closed as if I’m the cause of them. Sometimes I wonder if that’s why her husband divorced her. My boss, Morris, rarely puts me and Minerva together on cases—perhaps because he knows that as one of the older, more experienced social workers on the team, she can be patronizing. She’s a mother, Alex, Morris told me once in his office. But don’t let her mother you.

  An unexpected cold blast of air hits me as I round the corner onto Cedar Street, and I jog the next few steps to the Lovin’ Oven bakery. The bell above the robin’s-egg-blue door jingles as I enter, and I’m greeted by the smell of butter tarts. The bakery is compact, with one long counter, various chalkboards on brick with the handwritten names of soups, rows of golden-fresh bread stacked on shelves behind the till, and three rough wooden tables for eating at, all of them rectangular with benches. I do a quick scan of the room as I enter. Minerva’s not here yet. For all the dedication she claims to have, it’s rare that she arrives on time to anything.

  Once I’ve bought a coffee, I find a seat at the far end of the long table and wait for her. Over in the corner, two old ladies in matching knitted hats share a pot of tea. For a second, I wonder if they’re sisters. The thought stops my breath.

  But then the bell above the door jingles and Minerva strides toward me, corduroy pants chafing noisily as she moves. Her brown bob is still wet from the shower. It looks plastic, like hair you press onto LEGO people.

  She stops in front of me at the opposite bench. “Another day, another dollar.”

  “Morning,” I say. “Are you ready to go?” I half stand.

  “Chill your boots! I need to brief you first, and you know I can’t do anything without a strong coffee.”

  Coffee is why she wanted to meet early? I reluctantly sit back down while Minerva orders her coffee, then settles into a seat as though we have all the time in the world—all the time in the world when a young child’s well-being is at stake.

  “So,” I say, careful to hide my impatience. “Tell me about this baby boy and his parents.”

  “Frank and Evelyn Floyd have a history of drugs and alcohol addiction.” She takes a wary first sip of her drink. “Basically they were druggies, troublemakers before they had a child. But they’ve been better since he was born.”

  “Okay … So then why are we both going on this visit?” I ask. What I really want to say is Get a move on.

  “The baby’s name is Buster,” she says, dodging my question. She pauses, relishing the Floyd baby’s name, hoping I’ll laugh at it, but I don’t. “Earlier this week, they left him outside in the car while they went into the post office. Some Good Samaritan called it in. We’ll go out to their house, have a quick peekaboo and that’ll be it. We’ll be in and out, brussels sprout.”

  Her phrasing catches me off guard. “In and out so fast when they left a baby abandoned in a car? How long was he alone for?”

  “Come on, Alex, you know the drill,” she says, shaking her head. “You can’t assume the kid is in danger just because some stranger said so. I need you there with me to fairly assess things, and we need proof of abuse or neglect.”

  Abuse or neglect. Suddenly I can’t touch my latte. “How old is Buster?”

  “Oh, a year at the most, I think.” Minerva looks at me quizzically. “Are you okay?”

  No, Minerva, I’m not okay, I want to say. As many cases as we resolve in child protection—kids living in horrible circumstances who we rescue and give a chance at a better life—new cases pop up at double the rate. I feel like Mickey Mouse in that old cartoon, the one we had to watch as kids after school was out. Mickey’s in the sorcerer’s workshop, and it’s flooding, and the mops are out of control, and yet no matter how hard he tries, the water keeps pouring in, backing Mickey up the stairs. I hated that cartoon the first time I saw it, but it was always Ruth’s favorite.

  “Can we get going?” I stand up.

  “Oh, all right then,” she says, exhaling. “Although it wouldn’t hurt to relaxez-vous for a minute. You’ll be on stress leave in no time, just like everyone else, if you keep trying to save the world.”

  I ignore her and head for the door.

  The Floyd property is on dilapidated farmland off Highway 4. Minerva drives too fast out of town in our government vehicle. She has music playing on Sirius like it’s high summer and we’re heading to the beach.

  “Hey,” she says, adjusting the rearview mirror, which has been nowhere near her line of vision the entire journey. “Have you seen Sully recently?”

  “What?” I stare at her. Hooked around the front of me, my satchel feels like a shi
eld.

  “You know, Sully Mills? Handsome cop with the piercing eyes. Aren’t you two buddies?”

  I hate how she says the word buddies, the way she separates the two syllables. Sully and I met a year ago through work. I guess you could say that we connected. I meet him for coffee at the Oven a couple of times a week. We’re friends, not buddies. We’re just friends.

  “I don’t see him that much.” I tug at the seat belt cutting into my neck.

  Minerva’s eyebrows shift up for a second, but she doesn’t say a word. I want to push her face with the full force of my hand.

  A minute or two later, she says, “He’s single, right?”

  What does it matter to her? “Do you want me to get you his number?” I ask in a monotone.

  “Get me his number?” She bats at her bangs, fluffs and repositions them in the rearview mirror. “You mean give me his number. Because you have it already. And you text him all the time.”

  I shift in my seat. “I have a boyfriend, you know. Remember? The guy I live with?”

  “Exactly! So share the wealth, sister.” She smiles at me, then moves her eyes back to the road after swerving a little. The house is up ahead. She slows down, pulls into the driveway, and jams the car into park. When we get out, we have to maneuver our way through clusters of shiny green goose shit that lead up a dirt track to the Floyd place. There’s a fence and gate about three hundred feet from the house.

  “Mr. and Mrs. Floyd were a gong show when I knew them,” she says, turning. “But just so you know, they’re the good gong show, not the bad one. There’s a difference.”

  “Is there?” How the hell can Minerva think drug addicts make good parents? We reach the gate, which has a sign on the front: Big Dog Bites.

  “That sign’s been there since I was in Addictions. There was never a dog.” She pulls at the gate, creating enough of a gap to squeeze through. A long stripe of mildew transfers to the front of her sweater. We walk up the potholed driveway together, past a bucket on its side and a couple of mismatched flip-flops.