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The Secret Keeper
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The Secret Keeper Paperback - 2013

by Kate Morton


Summary

From the New York Times and #1 internationally bestselling author of The Distant Hours, The Forgotten Garden, and The House at Riverton, a spellbinding novel of family secrets, murder, and enduring love.

During a picnic at her familyâÈçs farm in the English countryside, sixteen-year-old Laurel Nicolson witnesses a shocking crime, a crime that challenges everything she knows about her adored mother, Dorothy. Now, fifty years later, Laurel and her sisters are meeting at the farm to celebrate DorothyâÈçs ninetieth birthday. Realizing that this is her last chance to discover the truth about that long-ago day, Laurel searches for answers that can only be found in DorothyâÈçs past. Clue by clue, she traces a secret history of three strangers from vastly different worlds thrown together in war-torn LondonâÈ'Dorothy, Vivien, and JimmyâÈ'whose lives are forever after entwined. A gripping story of deception and passion, The Secret Keeper will keep you enthralled to the last page.

Details

  • Title The Secret Keeper
  • Author Kate Morton
  • Binding Paperback
  • Edition Reprint
  • Pages 496
  • Volumes 1
  • Language ENG
  • Publisher Washington Square Press, New York
  • Date 2013-07-16
  • Features Bibliography
  • ISBN 9781439152812 / 1439152810
  • Weight 0.9 lbs (0.41 kg)
  • Dimensions 8.22 x 5.4 x 1.34 in (20.88 x 13.72 x 3.40 cm)
  • Themes
    • Chronological Period: 1940's
    • Cultural Region: British
    • Sex & Gender: Feminine
  • Library of Congress subjects Mystery fiction, Life change events
  • Library of Congress Catalog Number 2012026175
  • Dewey Decimal Code FIC

Excerpt


1



RURAL England, a farmhouse in the middle of nowhere, a summerâÈçs day at the start of the 1960s. The house is unassuming: half-timbered, with white paint peeling gently on the western side and clematis scrambling up the plaster. The chimney pots are steaming, and you know, just by looking, that thereâÈçs something tasty simmering on the stove top beneath. ItâÈçs something in the way the vegetable patch has been laid out, just so, at the back of the house, the proud gleam of the leadlight windows, the careful patching of the roofing tiles.

A rustic fence hems the house, and a wooden gate separates the tame garden from the meadows on either side, the copse beyond. Through the knotted trees a stream trickles lightly over stones, flitting between sunlight and shadow as it has done for centuries, but it canâÈçt be heard from here. ItâÈçs too far away. The house is quite alone, sitting at the end of a long, dusty driveway, invisible from the country lane whose name it shares.

Apart from an occasional breeze, all is still, all is quiet. A pair of white hula hoops, last yearâÈçs craze, stand propped against the wisteria arch. A teddy bear with an eye patch and a look of dignified tolerance keeps watch from his vantage point in the peg basket of a green laundry trolley. A wheelbarrow loaded with pots waits patiently by the shed.

Despite its stillness, perhaps because of it, the whole scene has an expectant, charged feeling, like a theater stage in the moments before the actors walk out from the wings. When every possibility stretches ahead and fate has not yet been sealed by circumstance, and thenâÈ'

âÈêLaurel!âÈë A childâÈçs impatient voice, some distance off. âÈêLaurel, where are you?âÈë

And itâÈçs as if a spell has been broken. The house lights dim; the curtain lifts.

A clutch of hens appears from nowhere to peck between the bricks of the garden path, a jay drags his shadow across the garden, a tractor in the nearby meadow putters to life. And high above it all, lying on her back on the floor of a wooden tree house, a girl of sixteen pushes the lemon Spangle sheâÈçs been sucking hard against the roof of her mouth and sighs.



It was cruel, she supposed, just to let them keep hunting for her, but with the heat wave and the secret she was nursing, the effort of gamesâÈ'childish games at thatâÈ'was just too much to muster. Besides, it was all part of the challenge, and as Daddy was always saying, fair was fair and theyâÈçd never learn if they didnâÈçt try. It wasnâÈçt LaurelâÈçs fault she was better at finding hiding places. They were younger than her, it was true, but it wasnâÈçt as if they were babies.

And anyway, she didnâÈçt particularly want to be found. Not today. Not now. All she wanted to do was lie here and let the thin cotton of her dress flutter against her bare legs, while thoughts of him filled her mind.

Billy.

She closed her eyes, and his name sketched itself with cursive flair across the blackened lids. Neon, hot-pink neon. Her skin prickled, and she flipped the Spangle so its hollow center balanced on the tip of her tongue.

Billy Baxter.

The way he stared at her over the top of his black sunglasses, the jagged lopsided smile, his dark teddy-boy hair . . .

It had been instant, just as sheâÈçd known real love would be. She and Shirley had stepped off the bus five Saturdays ago to find Billy and his friends smoking cigarettes on the dance-hall steps. Their eyes had met, and Laurel had thanked God sheâÈçd decided a weekendâÈçs pay was fair exchange for a new pair of nylons.

âÈêCome on, Laurel.âÈë This was Iris, voice sagging with the dayâÈçs heat. âÈêPlay fair, why donâÈçt you?âÈë

Laurel closed her eyes tighter.

TheyâÈçd danced each dance together. The band had skiffled faster, her hair had loosened from the French roll sheâÈçd copied carefully from the cover of Bunty, her feet had ached, but still sheâÈçd kept on dancing. Not until Shirley, miffed at having been ignored, arrived aunt-like by her side and said the last bus home was leaving if Laurel cared to make her curfew (she, Shirley, was sure she didnâÈçt mind either way) had she finally stopped. And then, as Shirley tapped her foot and Laurel said a flushed good-bye, Billy had grabbed her hand and pulled her towards him, and something deep inside of Laurel had known with blinding clarity that this moment, this beautiful, starry moment, had been waiting for her all her lifeâÈ'

âÈêOh, suit yourself.âÈë IrisâÈçs tone was clipped now, cross. âÈêBut donâÈçt blame me when thereâÈçs no birthday cake left.âÈë

The sun had slipped past noon, and a slice of heat fell through the tree-house window, firing LaurelâÈçs inner eyelids cherry cola. She sat up but made no further move to leave her hiding spot. It was a decent threatâÈ'LaurelâÈçs weakness for her motherâÈçs Victoria sponge was legendaryâÈ'but an idle one. Laurel knew very well that the cake knife lay forgotten on the kitchen table, missed amid the earlier chaos as the family gathered picnic baskets, rugs, fizzy lemonade, swimming towels, and the new transistor, and burst, stream-bound, from the house. She knew because when sheâÈçd doubled back under the guise of hide-and-seek and sneaked inside the cool, dim house to fetch the package, sheâÈçd seen the knife sitting by the fruit bowl, red bow tied around its handle.

The knife was a traditionâÈ'it had cut every birthday cake, every Christmas cake, every Somebody-Needs-Cheering-Up cake in the Nicolson familyâÈçs historyâÈ'and their mother was a stickler for tradition. Ergo, until someone was dispatched to retrieve the knife, Laurel knew she was free. And why not? In a household like theirs, where quiet minutes were rarer than henâÈçs teeth, where someone was always coming through one door or slamming another, to squander privacy was akin to sacrilege.

Today, especially, she needed time to herself.

The package had arrived for Laurel with last ThursdayâÈçs post, and in a stroke of good fortune Rose had been the one to meet the postman, not Iris or Daphne orâÈ'God help herâÈ'Ma. Laurel had known immediately who it was from. Her cheeks had burned crimson, but sheâÈçd managed somehow to stutter words about Shirley and a band and an EP she was borrowing. The effort of obfuscation was lost on Rose, whose attention, unreliable at best, had already shifted to a butterfly resting on the fence post.

Later that evening, when they were piled in front of the television watching Juke Box Jury, and Iris and Daphne were debating the comparative merits of Cliff Richard and Adam Faith, and their father was bemoaning the latterâÈçs false American accent and the broader wastage of the entire British Empire, Laurel had slipped away. SheâÈçd fastened the bathroom lock and slid to the floor, back pressed firm against the door.

Fingers trembling, sheâÈçd torn the end of the package.

A small book wrapped in tissue had dropped into her lap. SheâÈçd read its title through the paperâÈ'The Birthday Party by Harold PinterâÈ'and a thrill had shot along her spine. Laurel had been unable to keep from squealing.

SheâÈçd been sleeping with it inside her pillowcase ever since. Not the most comfortable arrangement, but she liked to keep it close. She needed to keep it close. It was important.

There were moments, Laurel solemnly believed, in which a person reached a crossroads, when something happened, out of the blue, to change the course of lifeâÈçs events. The premiere of PinterâÈçs play had been just such a moment. SheâÈçd read about it in the newspaper, and felt an inexplicable urge to attend. SheâÈçd told her parents she was visiting Shirley and sworn Shirley to deepest secrecy, and then caught the bus into Cambridge.

It had been her first trip anywhere alone, and as she sat in the darkened Arts Theatre watching StanleyâÈçs birthday party descend into nightmare, sheâÈçd experienced an elevation of spirits the likes of which sheâÈçd never felt before. It was the sort of revelation the flush-faced Misses Buxton seemed to enjoy at church each Sunday morning, and while Laurel suspected their enthusiasm had more to do with the new young rector than the word of God, sitting on the edge of her cheap seat as the lifeblood of the onstage drama reached inside her chest and plugged into her own, sheâÈçd felt her face heat blissfully, and sheâÈçd known. She wasnâÈçt sure what exactly, but sheâÈçd known it absolutely: there was more to life, and it was waiting for her.

SheâÈçd nursed her secret to herself, not entirely sure what to do with it, not remotely sure how to go about explaining it to someone else, until the other evening, with his arm around her and her cheek pressed firmly against his leather jacket, sheâÈçd confessed it all to Billy . . .

Laurel took his letter from inside the book and read it again. It was brief, saying only that heâÈçd be waiting for her with his motorcycle at the end of the lane on Saturday afternoon at two thirtyâÈ'there was this little place he wanted to show her, his favorite spot along the coast.

Laurel checked her wristwatch. Less than two hours to go.

HeâÈçd nodded when she told him about the performance of The Birthday Party and how it made her feel; heâÈçd spoken about London and theater and the bands heâÈçd seen in nameless nightclubs, and Laurel had glimpsed gleaming possibilities. And then heâÈçd kissed her, her first proper kiss, and the electric bulb inside her head had exploded so that everything burned white.

She shifted to where Daphne had propped the little hand mirror from her vanity set, and stared at herself, comparing the black flicks sheâÈçd drawn with painstaking care at the corner of each eye. Satisfied they were even, she smoothed her fringe and tried to quell the dull, sick-making sense that sheâÈçd forgotten something important. SheâÈçd remembered a beach towel; she wore her swimsuit already beneath her dress; sheâÈçd told her parents that Mrs. Hodgkins needed her for some extra hours in the salon, sweeping and cleaning.

Laurel turned from the mirror and nibbled a snag of fingernail. It wasnâÈçt in her nature to sneak about, not really; she was a good girl, everybody said soâÈ'her teachers, the mothers of friends, Mrs. HodgkinsâÈ'but what choice did she have? How could she ever explain it to her mother and father?

She knew quite certainly that her parents had never felt love, no matter the stories they liked to tell about the way they met. Oh, they loved each other well enough, but it was a safe, old-personâÈçs love, the sort expressed in shoulder rubs and endless cups of tea. NoâÈ'Laurel sighed heatedly. It was safe to say that neither had ever known the other sort of love, the sort with fireworks and racing hearts and physicalâÈ'she blushedâÈ'desires.

A warm gust brought with it the distant sound of her motherâÈçs laughter, and the awareness, however vague, that she stood at a precipice in her life made Laurel fond. Dear Ma. It wasnâÈçt her fault her youth had been wasted on the war. That sheâÈçd been practically twenty-five when she met and married Daddy; that she still trotted out her paper-boat-making skills when any of them needed cheering up; that the highlight of her summer had been winning the village gardening club prize and having her picture in the paper. (Not just the local paper, eitherâÈ'the article had been syndicated in the London press, in a big special about regional happenings. ShirleyâÈçs barrister father had taken great pleasure in trimming it out of his newspaper and bringing it round to show them.) Ma had played at embarrassment and protested when Daddy stuck the clipping on the new refrigerator, but only halfheartedly, and she hadnâÈçt taken it down. No, she was proud of her extra-long runner beans, really proud, and that was just the sort of thing that Laurel meant. She spat out a fine shard of fingernail. In some indescribable way it seemed kinder to deceive a person who took pride in runner beans than it was to force her to accept the fact that the world had changed.

Laurel hadnâÈçt much experience with deceit. They were a close familyâÈ'all of her friends remarked upon it. To her face and, she knew, behind her back. As far as outsiders were concerned, the Nicolsons had committed the deeply suspicious sin of seeming genuinely to like one another. But lately things had been different. Though Laurel went through all the usual motions, sheâÈçd been aware of a strange new distance. She frowned slightly as the summer breeze dragged strands of hair across her cheek. At night, when they sat around the dinner table and her father made his sweet, unfunny jokes and they all laughed anyway, she felt as if she were on the outside looking in, as if the others were on a train carriage, sharing the same old family rhythms, and she alone stood at the station watching as they pulled away.

Except that it was she who would be leaving them, and soon. SheâÈçd done her research: the Central School of Speech and Drama was where she needed to go. What, she wondered, would her parents say when she told them she wanted to leave? Neither of them was particularly worldlyâÈ'her mother hadnâÈçt even been as far as London since Laurel was bornâÈ'and the mere suggestion that their eldest daughter was considering a move there, let alone a shadowy existence in the theater, was likely to send them into a state of apoplexy.

Below her, the washing shrugged wetly on the line. A leg of the denim jeans Grandma Nicolson hated so much (âÈêYou look cheap, LaurelâÈ'thereâÈçs nothing worse than a girl who throws herself aroundâÈë) flapped against the other, frightening the one-winged hen into squawking and turning circles. Laurel slid her white-rimmed sunglasses onto her nose and slumped against the tree-house wall.

The problem was the war. It had been over for sixteen yearsâÈ'all her lifeâÈ'and the world had moved on. Everything was different now; gas masks, uniforms, ration cards, and all the rest of it belonged only in the big old khaki trunk her father kept in the attic. Sadly, though, some people didnâÈçt seem to realize itâÈ'namely, the entire population over the age of twenty-five.

Billy said she wasnâÈçt ever going to find the words to make them understand. He said it was called the âÈêgeneration gapâÈë and that trying to explain herself was pointless, that it was like it said in the Alan Sillitoe book he carried everywhere in his pocket, adults werenâÈçt supposed to understand their children and you were doing something wrong if they did.

A habitual streak in LaurelâÈ'the good girl, loyal to her parentsâÈ'had leaped to disagree with him, but she hadnâÈçt. Her thoughts had fallen instead to the evenings lately when she managed to creep away from her sisters, when she stepped out into the balmy dusk, transistor radio tucked beneath her blouse, and climbed with a racing heart into the tree house. There, alone, sheâÈçd hurry the tuning dial to Radio Luxembourg and lie back in the dark, letting the music surround her. And as it seeped into the still country air, blanketing the ancient landscape with the newest songs, LaurelâÈçs skin would prickle with the sublime intoxication of knowing herself to be part of something bigger: a worldwide conspiracy, a secret group. A new generation of people, all listening at the very same moment, who understood that life, the world, the future, were out there waiting for them . . .

Laurel opened her eyes and the memory fled. Its warmth lingered, though, and with a satisfied stretch she followed the path of a rook casting across a graze of cloud. Fly, little birdie, fly. That would be her, just as soon as she finished school. She continued to watch, allowing herself to blink only when the bird was a pinprick in the far-off blue, telling herself that if she managed this feat her parents would be made to see things her way and the future would unfurl cleanly.

Her eyes watered triumphantly, and she let her gaze drop back towards the house: the window of her bedroom, the Michaelmas daisy she and Ma had planted over the poor, dead body of Constable the cat, the chink in the bricks where, embarrassingly, she used to leave notes for the fairies.

There were faint memories of a time before, of being a very small child, collecting winkles from a pool by the seashore, of dining each night in the front room of her grandmotherâÈçs seaside boardinghouse, but they were like a dream. The farmhouse was the only home sheâÈçd ever known. And although she didnâÈçt want a matching armchair of her own, she liked seeing her parents in theirs each night, knowing as she fell asleep that they were murmuring together on the other side of the thin wall, that she only had to reach out an arm to bother one of her sisters.

She would miss them when she went.

Laurel blinked. She would miss them. The certainty was swift and heavy. It sat in her stomach like a stone. They borrowed her clothes, broke her lipsticks, scratched her records, but she would miss them. The noise and heat of them, the movement and squabbles and crushing joy. They were like a litter of puppies, tumbling together in their shared bedroom. They overwhelmed outsiders and this pleased them. They were the Nicolson girls, Laurel, Rose, Iris, and Daphne; a garden of daughters, as Daddy rhapsodized when heâÈçd had a pint too many. Unholy terrors, as Grandma proclaimed after their holiday visits.

She could hear the distant whoops and squeals now, the faraway, watery sounds of summer by the stream. Something inside her tightened as if a rope had been pulled. She could picture them, like a tableau from a long-ago painting. Skirts tucked into the sides of their knickers, chasing one another through the shallows; Rose escaped to safety on the rocks, thin ankles dangling in the water as she sketched with a wet stick; Iris, drenched somehow and furious about it; Daphne, with her corkscrew ringlets, doubled over laughing.

The plaid picnic rug would be laid out flat on the grassy bank, and their mother would be standing nearby, knee-deep in the bend where the water ran fastest, setting her latest boat to sail. Daddy would be watching from the side, trousers rolled up and a cigarette balanced on his lip. On his faceâÈ'Laurel could picture him so clearlyâÈ'heâÈçd be wearing that customary look of mild bemusement, as if he couldnâÈçt quite believe his luck that life had brought him to this very place, this very time.

Splashing at their fatherâÈçs feet, squealing and laughing as his fat little hands reached out for MummyâÈçs boat, would be the baby. Light of all their lives . . .

The baby. He had a name, of course, it was Gerald, but no one ever called him that. It was a grown-up name, and he was just such a baby. Two years old today, but his face was still round and rich with dimples, his eyes shone with mischief, and then there were those deliciously fat white legs. Sometimes it was all Laurel could do not to squeeze them too hard. They all fought to be his favorite, and they all claimed victory, but Laurel knew his face lit up most for her.

Unthinkable, then, that she should miss even a second of his birthday party. What had she been playing at, hiding in the tree house so long, particularly when she planned to sneak away with Billy later?

Laurel frowned and weathered a hot wave of recriminations that cooled quickly to resolution. She would make amends: climb back to the ground, fetch the birthday knife from the kitchen table, and take it straight down to the stream. SheâÈçd be a model daughter, the perfect big sister. If she completed the task before her wristwatch ticked away ten minutes, she would accrue bonus points on the imagined score sheet she carried inside her always. The breeze blew warm against her bare, sun-browned foot as she stepped quickly onto the top rung.



Later Laurel would wonder if it all might have turned out differently had she gone a little more slowly. If, perhaps, the whole terrible thing might even have been averted had she taken greater care. But she didnâÈçt, and it wasnâÈçt. She was rushing, and thus she would always blame herself in some way for what followed. At the time, though, she hadnâÈçt been able to help herself. As intensely as sheâÈçd earlier craved to be alone, the need now to be in the thick of things pressed upon her with an urgency that was breathtaking.

It had been happening this way a lot lately. She was like the weather vane on the peak of the Greenacres roof, her emotions swinging suddenly from one direction to the other at the whim of the wind. It was strange, and frightening at times, but also somehow thrilling. Like being on a lurching ride at the seaside.

In this instance, it was injurious, too. For, in her desperate hurry to join the party by the stream, she caught her knee against the wooden floor of the tree house. The graze stung and she winced, glancing down to see a rise of fresh blood, surprisingly red. Rather than continue to the ground, she climbed back into the tree house to inspect the damage.

She was still sitting there watching her knee weep, cursing her haste, and wondering if Billy would notice the ugly big scab, when she became aware of a noise coming from the direction of the copse. A rustling noise, natural and yet separate enough from the other afternoon sounds to draw her attention. She glanced through the tree-house window and saw Barnaby lolloping over the long grass, silky ears flapping like velvet wings. Her mother wasnâÈçt far behind, striding across the meadow towards the garden in her summery homemade dress. The baby was wedged comfortably on her hip, legs bare beneath his playsuit in deference to the dayâÈçs heat.

Although they were still a way off, through some odd quirk of the wind current Laurel could hear quite clearly the tune her mother was singing. It was a song sheâÈçd sung to each of them in turn, and the baby laughed with pleasure, shouting, âÈêMore! More!âÈë (though it sounded like âÈêMo! Mo!âÈë) as Ma crept her fingers up his tummy to tickle his chin. Their focus on one another was so complete, their appearance together in the sun-drenched meadow so idyllic, that Laurel was torn between joy at having observed the private interaction and envy at being outside it.

As her mother unlatched the gate and started for the house, Laurel realized with sinking spirit that sheâÈçd come for the cake knife herself.

At every step LaurelâÈçs opportunity for redemption receded further. She grew sulky, and her sulkiness stopped her from calling out or climbing down, rooting her instead to the tree-house floor. There she sat, stewing darkly in a strangely pleasant manner, as her mother reached and entered the house.

One of the hula hoops fell silently to hit the ground, and Laurel took the action as a show of solidarity. She decided to stay where she was. Let them miss her a while longer; sheâÈçd get to the stream when she was good and ready. In the meantime, she was going to read The Birthday Party again and imagine a future, far away from here, a life where she was beautiful and sophisticated, grown-up and scab free.



The man, when he first appeared, was little more than a hazy smudge on the horizon, right down at the farthest reach of the driveway. Laurel was never sure, later, what it was that made her look up then. For one awful second when she first noticed him walking towards the back of the farmhouse, Laurel thought it was Billy, arrived early and coming to fetch her. Only as his outline clarified and she realized he was dressed all wrongâÈ'dark trousers, shirtsleeves, and a black hat with an old-fashioned brimâÈ'did she let herself exhale.

Curiosity arrived hot on the heels of relief. Visitors were rare at the farmhouse, those on foot rarer still, though there was a vague memory at the back of LaurelâÈçs mind as she watched the man come closer, an odd sense of dÃûjà vu that she couldnâÈçt place no matter how hard she tried. Laurel forgot that she was sulking and, with the luxury of concealment, surrendered herself to staring.

She leaned her elbows on the windowsill, her chin on her hands. He wasnâÈçt bad-looking for an older man, and something in his posture suggested a confidence of purpose. Here was a man who didnâÈçt need to rush. Certainly, he was not someone she recognized, not one of her fatherâÈçs friends from the village or any of the farmhands. There was always the possibility he was a lost traveler seeking directions, but the farmhouse was an unlikely choice, tucked away as it was so far from the road. Perhaps he was a gypsy or a drifter? One of those men who chanced by occasionally, down on their luck and grateful for whatever work Daddy had to give them. OrâÈ'Laurel thrilled at the terrible ideaâÈ'he might be the man sheâÈçd read about in the local newspaper, the one the adults spoke of in nervous strains, whoâÈçd been disturbing picnickers and frightening women who walked alone along the hidden bend downriver.

Laurel shivered, scaring herself briefly, and then she yawned. The man was no fiend; she could see his leather satchel now. He was a salesman come to tell her mother about the newest encyclopedia set they couldnâÈçt live without.

And so she looked away.



Minutes passed, not many, and the next thing she heard was BarnabyâÈçs low growl at the base of the tree. Laurel scrambled to the window, peering over the sill to see the spaniel standing to attention in the middle of the brick path. He was facing the driveway, watching as the manâÈ'much closer nowâÈ'fiddled with the iron gate that led into the garden.

âÈêHush, Barnaby,âÈë her mother called from inside. âÈêWe wonâÈçt be long now.âÈë She emerged from the dark hall, pausing at the open door to whisper something in the babyâÈçs ear, to kiss his plump cheek and make him giggle.

Behind the house, the gate near the hen yard creakedâÈ'the hinge that always needed oilingâÈ'and the dog growled again. His hair ridged along his spine.

âÈêThatâÈçs enough, Barnaby,âÈë Ma said. âÈêWhatâÈçs got into you?âÈë

The man came round the corner and she glanced sideways. The smile slipped from her face.

âÈêHello there,âÈë said the stranger, pausing to press his handkerchief to each temple. âÈêFine weather weâÈçre having.âÈë

The babyâÈçs face broadened in delight at the newcomer, and he reached out his chubby hands, opening and closing them in excited greeting. It was an invitation no one could refuse, and the man tucked the handkerchief back into his pocket and stepped closer, raising his hand slightly, as if to anoint the little fellow.

Her mother moved then with startling haste. She wrested the baby away, depositing him roughly on the ground behind her. There was gravel beneath his bare legs, and for a child who knew only tenderness and love the shock proved too much. Crestfallen, he began to cry.

LaurelâÈçs heart tugged, but she was frozen, unable to move. Hairs prickled on the back of her neck. She was watching her motherâÈçs face, an expression on it that sheâÈçd never seen before. Fear, she realized: Ma was frightened.

The effect on Laurel was instant. Certainties of a lifetime turned to smoke and blew away. Cold alarm moved in to take their place.

âÈêHello, Dorothy,âÈë the man said. âÈêItâÈçs been a long time.âÈë

He knew MaâÈçs name. The man was no stranger.

He spoke again, too low for Laurel to hear, and her mother nodded slightly. She continued to listen, tilting her head to the side. Her face lifted to the sun, and her eyes closed just for one second.

The next thing happened quickly.

It was the liquid silver flash Laurel would always remember. The way sunlight caught the metal blade, and the moment was very briefly beautiful.

Then the knife came down, the special knife, plunging deep into the manâÈçs chest. Time slowed; it raced. The man cried out, and his face twisted with surprise and pain and horror, and Laurel stared as his hands went to the knifeâÈçs bone handle, to where the blood was staining his shirt, as he fell to the ground, as the warm breeze dragged his hat over and over through the dust.

The dog was barking hard, the baby wailing in the gravel, his face red and glistening, his little heart breaking, but for Laurel these sounds were fading. She heard them through the watery gallop of her own blood pumping, the rasping of her own ragged breath.

The knifeâÈçs bow had come undone, the ribbonâÈçs end trailed onto the rocks that bordered the garden bed. It was the last thing Laurel saw before her vision filled with tiny flickering stars and then everything went black.

About the author

Kate Morton is the award-winning, New York Times bestselling author of The House at Riverton, The Forgotten Garden, The Distant Hours, The Secret Keeper, The Lake House, and The Clockmaker's Daughter. Her books are published in thirty-eight languages and have been #1 bestsellers worldwide. Born and raised in Australia, she holds degrees in dramatic art and English literature, and now lives with her family in London and Australia. Visit her online at KateMorton.com or on Facebook and Instagram at @KateMortonAuthor.
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THE SECRET KEEPER: A NOVEL
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THE SECRET KEEPER: A NOVEL

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The Secret Keeper: A Novel
Stock Photo: Cover May Be Different

The Secret Keeper: A Novel

by Kate Morton

  • Used
  • good
  • Paperback
Condition
Used - GOOD
Binding
Paperback
ISBN 13
9781439152812
ISBN 10
1439152810
Quantity Available
29
Seller
Toledo, Ohio, United States
Seller rating:
This seller has earned a 4 of 5 Stars rating from Biblio customers.
Item Price
NZ$3.38
NZ$5.07 shipping to USA

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Description:
Atria Books. Paperback. GOOD. Spine creases, wear to binding and pages from reading. May contain limited notes, underlining or highlighting that does affect the text. Possible ex library copy, will have the markings and stickers associated from the library. Accessories such as CD, codes, toys, may not be included.
Item Price
NZ$3.38
NZ$5.07 shipping to USA
The Secret Keeper: A Novel
Stock Photo: Cover May Be Different

The Secret Keeper: A Novel

by Kate Morton

  • Used
  • poor
  • Paperback
Condition
Used - POOR
Binding
Paperback
ISBN 13
9781439152812
ISBN 10
1439152810
Quantity Available
11
Seller
Toledo, Ohio, United States
Seller rating:
This seller has earned a 4 of 5 Stars rating from Biblio customers.
Item Price
NZ$3.38
NZ$5.07 shipping to USA

Show Details

Description:
Atria Books. Paperback. POOR. Noticeably used book. Heavy wear to cover. Pages contain marginal notes, underlining, and or highlighting. Possible ex library copy, with all the markings/stickers of that library. Accessories such as CD, codes, toys, and dust jackets may not be included.
Item Price
NZ$3.38
NZ$5.07 shipping to USA
The Secret Keeper: A Novel
Stock Photo: Cover May Be Different

The Secret Keeper: A Novel

by Morton, Kate

  • Used
Condition
UsedGood
ISBN 13
9781439152812
ISBN 10
1439152810
Quantity Available
1
Seller
Imperial, Missouri, United States
Seller rating:
This seller has earned a 5 of 5 Stars rating from Biblio customers.
Item Price
NZ$8.01
FREE shipping to USA

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Description:
UsedGood. The item shows wear from consistent use, but it remains in good condition and works perfectly. All pages and cover are intact (including the dust cover, if applicable). Spine may show signs of wear. Pages may include limited notes and highlighting. May NOT include discs, access code or other supplemental materials.
Item Price
NZ$8.01
FREE shipping to USA
The Secret Keeper: A Novel
Stock Photo: Cover May Be Different

The Secret Keeper: A Novel

by Morton, Kate

  • Used
  • Acceptable
  • Paperback
Condition
Used - Acceptable
Binding
Paperback
ISBN 13
9781439152812
ISBN 10
1439152810
Quantity Available
1
Seller
Houston, Texas, United States
Seller rating:
This seller has earned a 4 of 5 Stars rating from Biblio customers.
Item Price
NZ$8.70
FREE shipping to USA

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Description:
Washington Square Press, 2013-07-16. Paperback. Acceptable. 85x19x132.
Item Price
NZ$8.70
FREE shipping to USA
The Secret Keeper: A Novel
Stock Photo: Cover May Be Different

The Secret Keeper: A Novel

by Morton, Kate

  • Used
  • Acceptable
  • Paperback
Condition
Used - Acceptable
Binding
Paperback
ISBN 13
9781439152812
ISBN 10
1439152810
Quantity Available
2
Seller
Kingwood, Texas, United States
Seller rating:
This seller has earned a 5 of 5 Stars rating from Biblio customers.
Item Price
NZ$8.70
FREE shipping to USA

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Description:
Washington Square Press, 2013-07-16. Paperback. Acceptable. 5x1x8.
Item Price
NZ$8.70
FREE shipping to USA
The Secret Keeper : A Novel

The Secret Keeper : A Novel

by Kate Morton

  • Used
  • good
  • Paperback
Condition
Used - Good
Binding
Paperback
ISBN 13
9781439152812
ISBN 10
1439152810
Quantity Available
44
Seller
Seattle, Washington, United States
Seller rating:
This seller has earned a 4 of 5 Stars rating from Biblio customers.
Item Price
NZ$10.12
FREE shipping to USA

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Description:
Simon & Schuster, Incorporated, 2013. Paperback. Good. Pages can have notes/highlighting. Spine may show signs of wear. ~ ThriftBooks: Read More, Spend Less.Dust jacket quality is not guaranteed.
Item Price
NZ$10.12
FREE shipping to USA
The Secret Keeper : A Novel

The Secret Keeper : A Novel

by Kate Morton

  • Used
  • good
  • Paperback
Condition
Used - Good
Binding
Paperback
ISBN 13
9781439152812
ISBN 10
1439152810
Quantity Available
2
Seller
Seattle, Washington, United States
Seller rating:
This seller has earned a 4 of 5 Stars rating from Biblio customers.
Item Price
NZ$10.12
FREE shipping to USA

Show Details

Description:
Simon & Schuster, Incorporated, 2013. Paperback. Good. Former library book; Pages can have notes/highlighting. Spine may show signs of wear. ~ ThriftBooks: Read More, Spend Less.Dust jacket quality is not guaranteed.
Item Price
NZ$10.12
FREE shipping to USA
The Secret Keeper: A Novel
Stock Photo: Cover May Be Different

The Secret Keeper: A Novel

by Morton, Kate

  • Used
Condition
UsedGood
ISBN 13
9781439152812
ISBN 10
1439152810
Quantity Available
1
Seller
Interlochen, Michigan, United States
Seller rating:
This seller has earned a 5 of 5 Stars rating from Biblio customers.
Item Price
NZ$10.39
FREE shipping to USA

Show Details

Description:
UsedGood. The item shows wear from consistent use, but it remains in good condition and works perfectly. All pages and cover are intact (including the dust cover, if applicable). Spine may show signs of wear. Pages may include limited notes and highlighting. May NOT include discs, access code or other supplemental materials.
Item Price
NZ$10.39
FREE shipping to USA
The Secret Keeper: A Novel
Stock Photo: Cover May Be Different

The Secret Keeper: A Novel

by Morton, Kate

  • Used
Condition
UsedAcceptable
ISBN 13
9781439152812
ISBN 10
1439152810
Quantity Available
1
Seller
Interlochen, Michigan, United States
Seller rating:
This seller has earned a 5 of 5 Stars rating from Biblio customers.
Item Price
NZ$10.39
FREE shipping to USA

Show Details

Description:
UsedAcceptable. The item is very worn but continues to work perfectly. Signs of wear can include aesthetic issues such as scratches, dents, worn and creased covers, folded page corners and minor liquid stains. All pages and the cover are intact, but the dust cover may be missing. Pages may include moderate to heavy amount of notes and highlighting, but the text is not obscured or unreadable. Page edges may have foxing (age related spots and browning). May NOT include discs, access code or other supplemental materials.
Item Price
NZ$10.39
FREE shipping to USA