Dear Husband: The Richmond Psychotherapist Series, #4

The telephone rings at ten to five in the morning and ex Private Investigator, and Psychotherapist, Chrissy Jo Hart knows before she lifts it. Her oldest friend is dead in a London flat, and there is a note at the scene with her name on it.

She has the sight. She spent her whole first life pretending she didn't, and it has cost her a headache every day since — because you're let up out of your own body to see, and each time it's a little harder to come back down and be only a woman on a bench.

She has not been touched by a man in twenty-two years. Not held. Not kissed. Not once, since she came back from Ireland with a baby under her heart and a door shut in her face.

And in the wood above the village, girls have been going missing for nineteen years — on the same two dates, year after year, while four different men have gone to prison for it.

This isn't a man. This is a rota.

Then the owner of the great house on the hill turns his whole attention on her, in front of everyone, on a sunny green. And the trap closes — not with a grab, but with a greeting.

Because there is nothing on this earth more dangerous than a man who knows the precise size and shape of the hole in you, and arrives, so gently, so generously, with something bright to fill it.