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Sometimes it’s the secrets we keep that could destroy us all in the end…
Chloe was a normal girl. That is until the one night that took everything away from her. Suddenly, life has become everything but normal. And Chloe isn’t quite sure who, or even what, she is now…
A story of family and love. Of right and wrong. And discovering who you really are.
Under My Skin
Zoë Markham HQ An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd. 1 London Bridge Street London SE1 9GF First published in Great Britain by HQ in 2015 Copyright © Zoë Markham 2015 Zoë Markham 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, downloaded, 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. E-book Edition © March 2015 ISBN: 9781474031974 Version date: 2018-10-30
ZOË MARKHAM
Having recently pulled off a dramatic escape from the rat race, Zoë now spends her days endlessly monkeying about with words. In a tiny, tumbledown bungalow in the wilds of West Oxfordshire she creates, destroys, giggles maniacally and cries dramatically whilst consuming epic amounts of builder’s tea and trying to keep the cats off the keyboard. Her husband has learned to ignore her fictional delusions, but her five-year-old son still thinks they’re pretty cool, and often offers helpful advice – usually involving dragons. Find out more about Zoë at her website: http://www.zoemarkhamwrites.com/ I’d like to thank my editor, Victoria Oundjian, for her infinite patience in helping me find my voice. I’m also hugely grateful to everyone at HQ Digital for taking a chance on a newbie, and wouldn’t have made it anywhere near this far without the kind support of my fellow HQ Digital authors who never let me panic, or run away. For Ollie, who reminded me how powerful stories can be.
Contents
Chapter One Chapter Two Chapter Three Chapter Four Chapter Five Chapter Six Chapter Seven Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
About the Publisher
You know that split second when you wake up and the line between your nightmares and reality is blurred? The darkness and the icy burst of fear in my stomach tell me it’s a dream; but the damp, decaying smell and the unfamiliar sound that I can’t quite put my finger on feel horribly real. I don’t move, and I try not to make a sound. I even hold my breath, and just listen. There’s a faint beeping noise close by, only it’s distorted somehow and I can’t focus on it. As I’m trying, I notice something else behind it, a harsh sort of rasping, rising and falling in the background. The more I try to isolate the sounds, the harder they get to hold on to. Maybe if I just lie still, and try not to panic, I’ll slip into a different part of my dream; a nicer part, one involving Tom Hiddleston reading to me in bed or… only I don’t know because I can’t lie still, I’m starting to shiver with the cold. The beeping sound is changing – it’s getting louder and faster now; uneven, frantic almost. I shiver harder, and then the rasping stops and the beeping switches down to just one, low, continuous tone and it’s panic one, Chloe nil. I shoot bolt upright in what doesn’t feel anything like my bed, and force my eyes open, except… I don’t. They don’t. I don’t move. My brain’s screaming: Up, UP! Get up! But nothing happens. I can’t move. It’s the worst kind of nightmare, the kind where you’re trapped inside your own head, only I don’t think any nightmare could feel this real, for this long. I should’ve woken up screaming by now. And someone should be here: Mum, turning the light on, telling me it’s all right; or Dad, shouting What’s all the noise about. Only there’s no one. And then the beeping stops, and I think maybe it’s over. In the sudden, brief silence that follows I hear Dad’s voice after all, and he is shouting, and the relief is almost as intense as the
