The Plastic Surgeon: An utterly addictive psychological thriller with a shocking twist by AJ Carter

Author:AJ Carter [Carter, AJ]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Papyrus Publishing LTD
Published: 2024-09-14T00:00:00+00:00

After a few minutes of stunned silence, another thought pollutes my head.

What if Isabella is still alive and needs my help?

There has to be a way out of here, and I don’t care what it will take to explore the house. The logical, rational part of my brain knows there are only two ways to leave this room: the door or the window. The door is not an option, which quickly has me opening the window and leaning out. As luck would have it, the adjacent window is also open. My gaze travels down to the ledge between the two. It’s thin, might hold my weight, but there’s no guarantee.

Nonetheless, I have to try.

Praying Cillian doesn’t return while I cling to the side of the house for dear life, I put one foot out on the ledge to test its strength. Even when I kick it hard with my heel, not so much as a single stone crumbles from the ledge. Breathing heavily, I put both feet out and slowly lower my weight on to it. I expect it to collapse at any moment.

It never does.

The gutter is all I can hold on to, but it doesn’t need much clinging on to. Just a soft touch to maintain my balance while I shimmy along the ledge. It takes all I have not to look down as I go, inching closer and closer to the next window, until…

I make it, practically falling through the window and landing on the floor with a thud. My elbows take the pain as I let out a delighted squeal of surprise. I’m on my feet in an instant, rushing for the door to find it’s not only unlocked but open. Somehow, using nothing but dumb hope and a ton of desperation, I’ve made it safely out of my room.

Just not out of the house.

I try the front door, of course, but to no avail. It’s locked, and the key is gone. Why wouldn’t it be? Cillian is a smart man who would do anything to keep me here, so it doesn’t surprise me that he has every angle covered. What he didn’t account for was the long glass wall in the living room. I rush in there and grab a hideous china replica of the Eiffel Tower, ready to hurl it through the glass and grant myself freedom.

Then I see it.

It’s not the bright pink fabric that grabs my attention. Nor is it the white frills. But the splotches of scarlet on the collar and cuffs scream for my attention. I lower the ornament. It slips from my hand and lands on the rug. My heart in my throat, I approach Isabella’s blouse and sink to my knees. A small, weak, guttural sound escapes my mouth.

I’ve seen enough TV shows to know that I shouldn’t touch it. Prints and fibres – all of that CSI stuff that could easily be used against me. But I’m close enough to know the blouse belongs to Isabella, and that’s definitely blood.

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