Praise for Diane Chamberlain

      ‘Emotional, complex and laced with suspense, this fascinating story is a brilliant read.’

      —Closer

      ‘An excellent read’

      —The Sun

      ‘This complex tale will stick with you forever.’

      —Now

      ‘A hugely addictive twist in the tale makes this a sizzling sofa read … a deeply compelling and moving new novel.’

      —Heat

      ‘This exquisite novel about love and friendship is written like a thriller … you won’t want to put it down.’

      —Bella

      ‘A bittersweet story about regret and hope’

      —Publishers Weekly

      ‘A brilliantly told thriller’

      —Woman

      ‘An engaging and absorbing story that’ll have you racing through pages to finish’

      —People’s Friend

      ‘This compelling mystery will have you on the edge of your seat.’

      —Inside Soap

      ‘A fabulous thriller with plenty of surprises’

      —Star

      ‘Essential reading for Jodi Picoult fans’

      —Daily Mail ‘Chamberlain skilfully … plumbs the nature of crimes of the heart.’ —Publishers Weekly

      ‘So full of unexpected twists you’ll find yourself wanting to finish it in one sitting. Fans of Jodi Picoult’s style will love how Diane Chamberlain writes.’

      —Candis

      ‘The plot is intriguing and haunting revelations will have you glued to the very end.’

      —Peterborough Evening Telegraph

      ‘I was drawn in from the first page and simply could not put it down until the last. I think I have found a new favourite author.’

      —Daily Echo

      ‘[A] gripping summer read that’s full of twists and turns—5 stars’

      —Woman’s Own

      ‘The compelling story of three friends who are forced to question what it is to be a friend, mother and a sister.’

      —Sunday World

      ‘A gripping novel’

      —The Lady (online)

      ‘Diane Chamberlain is a marvellously gifted author. Every book she writes is a gem.’

      —Literary Times

      ‘A strong tale that deserves a comparison with Jodi Picoult for, as this builds, one does indeed wonder if all will come right in the end.’

      —lovereading.co.uk

      ‘I couldn’t put it down.’

      —Bookseller

      Kiss River

       Diane Chamberlain

      GETS TO THE HEART OF THE STORY

       www.mirabooks.co.uk

       Also by Diane Chamberlain

      Keeper of the Light

      The Lost Daughter

      The Bay at Midnight

      Before the Storm

      Secrets She Left Behind

      The Lies We Told

      Breaking the Silence

      The Midwife’s Confession

      Brass Ring

      The Shadow Wife

      The Good Father

      For Haseena and all the other waiting children

      The bond that links your true family is not one of blood, but of respect and joy in each other’s life. Rarely do members of one family grow up under the same roof.

      —Richard Bach

      Chapter One

      THE AIR CONDITIONER IN HER AGING CAR WAS giving out, blowing warm, breath-stealing air into Gina’s face. If she could have torn her concentration away from her mission for even a moment, she would have felt a pang of fear over what the repair of the air conditioner would cost her. Instead, she merely opened the car windows and let the hot, thick, salt breeze fill the interior. She took deep breaths, smelling the unfamiliar brininess in the air, so different from the scent of the Pacific. The humidity worked its way into her long hair, lifting it, tangling it, forming fine dark tendrils on her forehead. Another woman might have run her hands over her hair to smooth the flyaway strands. Gina did not care. After six days of driving, six nights of sleeping in the cramped quarters of the car, several quick showers stolen from fitness clubs to which she did not belong and eighteen cheap, fast-food meals, she was almost there. She was close enough to Kiss River to taste it in the air.

      The bridge she was crossing was very long and straight and clogged with traffic. She should have expected that. After all, it was a Friday evening in late June and she was headed toward the Outer Banks of North Carolina, an area she supposed was now quite a tourist attraction. She might have trouble finding a room for the night. She hadn’t thought of that. She was used to the Pacific Northwest, where the coastline was craggy and the water too cold for swimming, and where finding a room for the night was not ordinarily an impossible chore.

      The cars were moving slowly enough to allow her to study the map she held flat against the steering wheel. Once she left the bridge, the traffic crawled for a mile or so past a school and a couple of strip malls, and then perhaps two-thirds of the cars turned right onto Highway 12. She turned left and entered an area the map identified as Southern Shores.

      Through the open car windows, she could hear, but not see, the ocean on her right. The waves pounded the beach behind the eclectic mix of flat-topped houses, larger, newer homes and old beach cottages. In spite of the slow-moving stream of cars, the Outer Banks seemed open and wide and empty here. Not what she had expected from reading the diary. But the diary had not been about Southern Shores, and as she continued driving, live oaks and wild vegetation she did not recognize began to cradle the curving road. She was approaching the village of Duck, which sounded quaint and was probably expensive, and interested her not in the least. After Duck, she would pass through a place called Sanderling, and then through a wildlife sanctuary, and soon after that, she should see a sign marking the road to the Kiss River lighthouse. Although she knew she was miles from the lighthouse, she couldn’t help but glance to the sky again and again, hoping to see the tower in the distance through the trees. Even though it was the tallest lighthouse in the country, she knew she could not possibly see it from where she was. That didn’t stop her from looking, though.

      She had more time to study the little shopping areas of Duck than she wanted, since the cars and SUVs crept along the road at a near standstill. If the traffic didn’t clear soon, it would be dark by the time she reached Kiss River. She’d hoped to get there no later than five. It was now nearly seven, and the sun was already sinking toward the horizon. Would the lighthouse be closed for the evening? For that matter, would it be open to the public at all? What time did they turn on the light? Maybe they no longer did. That would disappoint her. She wanted to see how