Keep You Safe: A tear-jerking and compelling story that will make you think from the international multi-million bestselling author

Copyright

An imprint of HarperCollins Publishers Ltd

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

First published in Great Britain by HQ in 2017

Copyright © Melissa Hill 2017

Melissa Hill asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

Ebook Edition © September 2017 ISBN: 9780008217150

Version: 2018-01-23

MELISSA HILL lives in Co. Wicklow with her husband and daughter. A USA Today and No. 1 Irish times and Italian best-seller, her books are translated into 25 different languages. One of her titles has been optioned for a movie by a major Hollywood studio, and another is currently in development for TV with a top US production company. Visit her website at www.melissahill.ie or contact her on Twitter @melissahillbks, or melissahillbooks on Facebook and Instagram.

With much love and thanks to Sheila Crowley

– a true force of nature.

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

About the Author

Dedication

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

Chapter 53

Chapter 54

EPILOGUE

Acknowledgements

Chapter 1

The bell rang out and on cue they started to approach all at once, like a stampeding herd.

Standing back to let the first wave pass while shivering in late March wind and cold, I pulled my gloved hands out of my pockets and tugged my woolly hat a bit more firmly down over my ears, tucking my wispy dark hair underneath it. Another blast of wind hit me in the face, turning my cheeks an even brighter shade of pink.

I knew that I could just stay in my car and keep warm while waiting for my five-year-old, Rosie, to emerge from Junior Infants class at Applewood Primary. However, she and I have a ritual of sorts and the typically inclement Irish weather wasn’t going to stand in the way of it.

Each and every day after school, I wait for Rosie just outside the school building, a bit down the front path by the main hall. During the more temperate months we walk the half-mile home together to our two-bed cottage in Knockroe, a small satellite town about forty minutes’ drive from Dublin.

I have never failed to meet Rosie in our chosen spot since she started school seven months ago. I was determined to never let her exit the class and not have me there – at least until my daughter told me that she wanted to walk home by herself or with friends. I wasn’t one of those helicopter parents or anything like that, but, come hell or high water, I would make sure I was there – especially since Rosie was still having nightmares about that one time after preschool.

The day when no one was waiting.

Hard to believe that fateful day was almost two years ago – it still felt like only yesterday. A chill worked its way up my spine – one that this time wasn’t triggered by the cold.

In her preschool days, my husband Greg had been the one responsible for picking up Rosie. Working from home as a freelance software designer, it was he who had more flexibility and usually had the opportunity to step away from the office he kept in the spare bedroom, and head over to the preschool to pick up our daughter. Since I work as a nurse at a clinic in a nearby town, I generally keep more irregular hours.

I had long been thankful that my husband could play such an active role in Rosie’s childhood, especially while my own commitments prevented me from being around as much as I would have liked.

My commitments are different these days.

Because there had been one time when Greg couldn’t make it to the preschool at the allotted time of 12.45 to pick Rosie up. Not because he didn’t want to, had forgotten or neglected to pay attention to the time, but because he had collapsed in our kitchen earlier that morning while making himself a cup of tea.

Sudden Adult Death Syndrome had ended my beloved husband’s life in seconds; he likely didn’t even realise what was happening.

I wasn’t aware that I’d been made a widow when the preschool teacher called me at work that afternoon to say that they couldn’t get in touch with Greg at home. That terrible realisation didn’t come until later.

Calling our home phone as well as Greg’s mobile, trying to figure out what was going on, I remember feeling irritated that Rosie and her teacher had been left waiting. I was annoyed at Greg and wondered where he was, especially since I couldn’t get an answer on any phone. So I told my supervisor at the clinic that I needed to head out; pick up my child in Knockroe, drop her home to her dad and would then come back to finish my shift.

It was only after I had sped the short distance there, apologised to the preschool teacher and hustled my daughter back to the house, that I realised my life was forever changed. If I could go back to that moment so I could enter the kitchen first in order to prevent Rosie from finding her father immobile on the floor, I would.

As it was, there was no changing the past, but I would do my damnedest to make sure that I was always there at the end of the school day so that she didn’t fear the same thing happening to me. She’d already had a tough enough time of it for a five-and-a-half-year-old.

My daughter was everything to me – all that I had these days.

Rosie’s classmates started to appear, refocusing my thoughts and preventing me from once again going down that dark road of introspection as I examined our lives without Greg. Scanning the crowd of Junior Infants, I immediately picked out Rosie’s bright green winter hat, shaped like the head of a T. Rex. My little girl had never been the princess type. She adored dinosaurs, wolves, dragons – anything fierce and scary – perhaps even more so since her dad died, and I often wonder if in her own little way she finds comfort in their strength.

‘Mum!’ she called, waving a hand, as if I hadn’t spotted her yet, her dark curls bouncing as she moved, green eyes wide with excitement. She dragged her backpack – dino-themed again – slightly on the ground and I walked forward to grab it. I didn’t want to have to shell out for another any time soon. As a single parent, I now did everything I could to avoid unnecessary expenses, especially when we only had my salary to depend on.

Though both in our late-thirties, my late husband and I had been one of the burgeoning number of Irish families who, despite both being gainfully employed, still couldn’t quite afford that first step on the housing ladder, and the money we’d been saving to buy a house (minimal at best, as the rental house in Knockroe wasn’t cheap) now had to go towards day-to-day household expenses, as well as the creation of a small contingency fund – just in case.

These days, I was a big believer in contingencies.

‘Hey, honey,’ I answered, closing the distance between us. ‘Here, give me that, don’t drag it.’ Rambunctious by nature, Rosie was hard on shoes and on school belongings, and was growing out of her clothes at a pace that staggered me. She took my hand without breaking stride, and walked determinedly towards our battered old Astra while I trailed in her wake.

‘Be careful, don’t step in the mud,’ I cautioned automatically. ‘And why don’t you have your boots on? Where are they?’ I looked disbelievingly at the flimsy ballet flats she currently sported.

‘They’re in the bag. I don’t need them; sure we’re only getting in the car.’ She shrugged and not for the first time, I was taken aback by how much like Greg she sounded. Always so easy-going and carefree, while I was the one more inclined to worry.

We reached the car and I opened the door so Rosie could jump in the back seat. ‘Buckle up. Car or not, I’d still prefer you to wear your boots in this weather, hon. We don’t want you coming down with a cold and your boots are warmer.’ I shut the door and headed around to the driver’s side. Climbing in, I fished my iPhone out of my pocket and handed it to her. ‘Here you go, DJ,’ I said pre-emptively, knowing that when Rosie was in the car she liked to take charge of the music, usually opting for the American rock anthems so beloved by her father. ‘So what happened in school today?’

I started the car and pulled out of the parking area as the heat blasted, and Rosie summoned up the Eagles’ ‘Take It Easy’ and began telling me about her day. She outlined all that had occurred, from the new letters they were learning to the Brachiosaurus picture she had drawn in art. I hummed words of encouragement until something she said caused a tinge of panic to flutter through my heart.

‘And they sent Ellie home after lunch because she’s sick.’

‘What’s wrong with her?’ I asked casually. Ellie Madden sat beside Rosie in class. I wasn’t a hypochondriac or anything – as a nurse I couldn’t be, or I’d drive myself crazy – but I was always keenly aware of my daughter’s health, as well as that of her classmates.

I had to be.

‘She has chicken pox,’ said Rosie dramatically, though she kept her attention firmly focused on my iPhone.

Chicken pox. I quickly felt myself relax, though I felt for poor Ellie and her parents.

Such diseases were a normal rite of passage for school-going kids – especially so soon after the Easter holidays when infection tended to be rampant amongst friends and families meeting up during the break. But chicken pox was something I had dealt with firsthand with Rosie a couple of years before, so at least I didn’t have to worry about it. But that didn’t mean I was worry free either.

‘Ah, I see. I wonder are there many in your class who haven’t had it yet.’ I tried to think of what other poor kid – and parents – from the school might soon fall victim.

‘Ms Connelly asked around after they saw the spots on Ellie’s neck. There were only a few: Kevin, Abigail and Clara, I think. I can’t get them again, can I?’ Rosie peered up from the device then, concern in her eyes, as I turned into our driveway and parked outside the small two-storey house we’d moved into as a family two and a half years ago.

As I got out of the car and helped Rosie gather her things, I shook my head.

‘No, you can’t,’ I confirmed. ‘I mean, technically, you can later as an adult but it’s called shingles then.’ Rosie was a naturally curious type and loved soaking up facts and general knowledge. My more traditional West Cork parents found it strange the way Greg and I had always talked so honestly to her from the get-go, instead of dumbing things down for kids like their generation often did.

‘Good,’ said Rosie as she walked into the house. ‘I hated being itchy.’

Though Greg and I had met, worked and lived in Dublin for all of our five-year marriage before Rosie came along, we both hailed from small-town backgrounds, and had hoped that moving to a closer-knit community in a more rural setting would be good for Rosie – particularly when she started school. So when I was offered a nursing position in a recently opened clinic in the larger town of Glencree – five miles away – we decided the quaint little village of Knockroe was the perfect place to put down roots.

While I loved the place, I still felt a bit like an outsider in the community, especially after losing my husband less than a year after moving there. Because I worked in the neighbouring town, I hadn’t got to know many Knockroe locals all that well, save for the other school parents and a few of the neighbours close by. Most of the townspeople, though kind, tended to leave me to my own devices and, shy by nature, this mostly suited me.

Though I’d had no choice but to come out of my shell over the last seven months or so when it came to the school run and other Applewood Primary-related events, like the Christmas pageant, odd fundraiser and occasional birthday party or play date.

After following my daughter inside, I went into the kitchen and deposited her belongings on the counter. I listened to Rosie’s footsteps on the stairs as she headed up to her room. While she never admitted it, she routinely avoided going straight to the kitchen when she first entered the house. I had never asked her about it and guessed it was a coping mechanism she had devised for herself after dealing with what she had seen on That Day.

I opened her backpack and pulled out her books, lunchbox, as well as a couple of school notes directed to parents. Yep, there was indeed one about chicken pox asking parents to be vigilant. Much like the one we’d got for head lice before Easter.

The joys of primary school.

But these school-related bugs brought to the forefront another temporarily dormant fear I didn’t like to revisit. I hated being reminded of the fact, but here’s the truth: Rosie wasn’t vaccinated for any such typical childhood illnesses – mumps, measles or the like.

I had found out very quickly that when you made such an admission to health professionals, school authorities, or, worst of all, other parents, you were immediately judged. Written off as irresponsible, foolish and downright stupid.

But in reality I wasn’t any of those things – rather Rosie was severely allergic to the gelatin component in almost all live vaccines.

Greg and I had only discovered the issue after she had experienced a horrific cardiorespiratory reaction after her first round of immunisations as a baby. Back then, we were faced with a horrible decision and literally caught between a rock and a hard place.

Our daughter could face a potentially life-threatening situation if she wasn’t vaccinated, but was certain to if she was.

Damned if you do, damned if you don’t.

So after countless hours of research, much soul-searching and finally on the advice of our GP, we had no choice but to opt Rosie out of the standard childhood vaccination programme and hope against hope that herd immunity would prevail.

This was why I was acutely aware of infectious disease warnings from school; I couldn’t afford not to be.

It was my job to keep her safe.

Chapter 2

‘Clara Rose and Jake Alan – you’d both better be ready to go!’ called Madeleine Cooper as she stood at the bottom of the stairs that led up to her kids’ bedrooms.

She hoped the use of their middle names would light a fire under their asses and get them moving. She impatiently looked down at the small gold watch that she wore on her wrist and pursed her lips. Nope; they were going to be late.

Looking once more up the stairs, she raised her voice a few more decibels. ‘I’m serious. If the two of you aren’t down here in the next ten seconds, I’m telling your father. Ten – nine – eight…’ Her voice trailed off as five-year-old Clara’s bedroom door was first flung open, followed by eight-year-old Jake’s a beat later.

Two blond heads rushed onto the landing so fast they almost collided, but continued on racing down the stairs. Madeleine cringed as her son ran his hands across the glass-fronted staircase as he made his way down. A day didn’t go by where she didn’t have to clean grubby handprints off everything. As her husband Tom routinely argued, the minimalist decor that looked so cool in the interiors magazines wasn’t the cleverest idea for a house with children. But Madeleine sure as hell wasn’t compromising on comfort over style. Just because you had kids didn’t mean they should rule the roost.

‘Look, it’s not as if this is a new thing,’ she chided. ‘We always go to Granny Cooper’s on Monday nights. And we haven’t seen her since before the holidays.’ The two murmured something apologetic as they rushed through the hallway to fetch their coats and Madeleine turned back towards the kitchen to where Tom sat at the table checking over the kids’ homework. ‘Are you ready, honey?’ she asked. ‘Your mother will be wondering where we are.’

‘Pure nonsense, all this new-fangled phonics stuff,’ he said in a distracted voice, and from that angle Madeleine noticed a couple of new silver streaks in his hair. And the stress lines that had been eased somewhat during their trip to Florida over the Easter break had sadly since returned to her handsome husband’s forehead.

The four of them had had such a ball in Clearwater, swimming and kayaking in the gulf, taking endless walks along the powdery sand, and enjoying sunset barbecues on the patio of the beach house they’d rented for their two-week stay.

The frowning man sitting in front of Madeleine now was a million miles from the one laughing and splashing in the water with the kids by day, and strumming Willie Nelson tunes on his guitar as the sun went down over the Gulf of Mexico.

Back to reality.

‘What ever happened to just learning the letters instead of pronouncing the sounds?’ Tom complained. ‘That teacher of Jake’s has a lot of nerve too. Look at what she wrote on his maths homework from last week; he actually got points off even though he answered the bloody question correctly. All because he didn’t do it with the “new” standards. A load of crap, if you ask me. All these lazy pen-pushers in the Department of Education who know nothing about education making nonsensical new rules that we don’t need.’

Madeleine rolled her eyes good-naturedly at yet another diatribe from her husband on why the ‘new-fangled’ ways of learning were ridiculous – totally different to how they did things back in their day. A contrarian by nature, it wasn’t unusual for Tom to rail against the status quo, but times moved on and she was sure the teachers knew what they were doing. In truth, Clara was a lot further on in reading than Madeleine had been in her very first year at school. However, it was late and she didn’t have time to discuss this just now, especially since she knew what his next point would be.

‘This is why we should be thinking again about homeschooling them. Because of this palaver. I’ve told you, Maddie, it’s seriously worth looking into—’

‘Not now,’ she said, cutting her husband off, irritated that he seemed to have forgotten the fact that, like him, she had a job, so where on earth would she get the time?

But her ‘job’ – a popular blogging channel for mums that was rapidly growing in popularity and reputation – was all too easily overlooked. To Tom, Mad Mum was just a frivolous hobby and a means for Madeleine to entertain herself while the kids were at school. How quickly he’d forgotten that she was once a marketing executive at the top of her game, before giving it all up six years ago and in some fit of madness (the blog wasn’t just a play on her name) taking early redundancy to be a stay-at-home mother. Madeleine grimaced. She adored Jake and Clara but God knew (as did so many of Mad Mum’s fans) that she was never going to be a candidate for Mother of the Year.

Though to be fair, Tom was an amazing dad; brilliant with the kids (way better than she was most of the time) and a wonderful husband. He was senior management in a top Irish bank and related job pressures meant that she’d always borne the majority of the childcare load.

All well and good while the kids were younger, but now that they were both in school, was it really that terrible for Madeleine to want to get some of her own life back?

She supposed she shouldn’t blame him too much though; her husband had just become so used to the current family dynamic that he’d forgotten the fact that she needed something other than parenthood to define her. And Mad Mum filled that role very well.

Madeleine had originally started the blog as a means of blowing off steam while alone in the house with the kids all day, bemoaning the day-to-day trials of motherhood in a good-natured but deliberately non-mumsy way. At work, writing compelling copy for various campaigns had always come naturally to her, so this felt like a natural extension. And by outlining her frustrations and warts ’n’ all experiences with her new-found domestic role, it was, she supposed, an attempt to rail against the po-faced and somewhat smug ‘how-to’ guides for mums already out there, and she sensed an appetite for some down-to-earth straight talking.

Still, she’d been taken aback by the overwhelmingly positive response her witterings had received, and very quickly her visitor numbers and social media following spiked to remarkable heights. Ever the marketeer, she quickly realised that she had, quite by accident, amassed a captive and thus potentially very valuable demographic, one that admired and trusted her.

But it was really only when Clara started play school a couple of years ago, freeing up Madeleine’s mornings, that she’d taken steps to turn Mad Mum into an actual business.

And while Tom had always been supportive of her endeavours, over the last year or so, she got the sense that he was a little taken aback by the business’s increasing drain on her time as she set determinedly about securing advertising and sponsorship. Of course he didn’t yet have a true inkling of exactly what those efforts were achieving.

But her beloved would get one hell of a surprise at the meeting they’d scheduled with their accountant next week when he realised Madeleine’s ‘little’ media business might actually end up pulling in something close to his salary soon. Thanks to the blog’s burgeoning visitor numbers, avid social media followers, as well as recent TV appearances, her profile was on the rise, and the site had already pulled in some heavy-hitter online advertising partners.