The New Girl: A gripping psychological thriller with a shocking twist perfect for fans of Friend Request

‘God.’ I wince. Aunty Anne’s not one to mince words. ‘That’s horrible. I’m so …’

‘Don’t be sorry, darling, I just thought you should know.’

‘What else did he say?’

‘He said …’ A meaty cough comes through the phone; she’s been recovering from bronchitis. ‘Well, just what I told you. He called me a few things and …’

I press a finger to my throat, feel my pulse quicken. ‘And … and what else?’

A heavy sigh. ‘I suppose you could say there were threats.’

‘Like what? Against who?’

Pause. ‘Well, me. He was quite worked up. But that’s hardly new! I’m sure he didn’t really mean it.’

My throat tightens. I’m sick of it, this feeling. ‘I’m calling the police,’ I say. ‘Doctor Sarah said if he makes any threats …’

‘Oh, darling, hush. I’m not telling you so you worry about me.’ Aunty Anne’s voice sounds tinny, distant. ‘I’ve got your uncle and you know damn well no one gets past him. Next time, that bastard is going to leave with more than just a warning.’

My shoulders relax. My uncle, Lieutenant General John, is the main reason I felt okay to leave my aunty in Melbourne.

‘I just want to remind you to be careful, Mary.’

‘I am,’ I assure her. ‘He can’t find me here and if he did, he’d never get into the building.’

Aunty Anne is saying something, but the rain is coming down in sheets and a clap of thunder drowns out her voice. I run a hand over my mouth, turn to go inside.

Rachel is standing in the doorway. With a gasp, I drop the phone.

‘Sorry,’ Rachel says, looking sheepish. She bends to pick up my phone and hands it to me. ‘I didn’t mean to scare you. You just looked so upset …’

‘Aunty Anne? I’ll call you back,’ I say into the receiver before ending the call.

‘Are you okay?’ Rachel asks. She has a glob of mascara in the corner of her eye; it’s all I can focus on. ‘You look like you’ve seen a ghost. Maybe you should sit down.’

I don’t want to sit down. I want a glass of wine, and I want to call Cat and tell her what’s happened. I want to smash something, but I do not want to sit down. ‘No, I’m okay, really. Just some … news from back home. Nothing serious.’

‘You’re sure?’ Rachel’s standing close, I can see flecks of gold and brown in her irises.

I take a breath, try to smile. ‘Everything’s fine. I’ve just got something I need to deal with. Sorry to cut this short, but …’

Rachel’s face clouds. ‘Oh. Okay.’

‘I’m definitely interested!’ I blurt. ‘I mean, this isn’t because of you … just bad timing. I’ll give you a call later, once I’ve talked things over with the others.’

Rachel’s face relaxes and she gives a small smile; for the first time, she seems uncertain. She steps inside, collects her handbag on her way to the door. ‘Okay, thanks. That’d be great. I look forward to speaking to you again. I, uh …’ She ducks her head, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. ‘It was really nice meeting you today.’

‘Same here. Thanks, Rachel, I’ll be in touch very soon.’

Rachel kneels to put her trainers back on, opens the door and walks out. I’m about to close the door behind her when she looks over her shoulder.

‘Mary?’

‘Yes?’

A pair of sympathetic hazel eyes stare into mine. ‘I think you should go and have a lie-down or something. You really don’t look too well.’

Chapter Four (#u541200c4-4a31-543b-b24b-027cbe6c17bf)

As I approach the entry doors to the apartment block, a pungent, spicy scent invades my nostrils. It’s probably coming from the sixth-floor apartment with the balcony directly above ours. The couple who live there are always cooking something exotic, in between screaming at each other and having noisy sex. But there’s something not quite right about this smell. It’s as though something has started to rot.

Holding a hand to my nose, I reach for the letter box to find it unlocked, the flap hanging from its hinges. Letters are scattered on the slate tiles below, one with a filmy, brown stain on the corner. Slick-skinned and weary from my walk, I’m thinking only of a cold shower, and it isn’t until I’ve gathered the mail, shut and locked the flap and taken the lift to the fifth floor that I stop to think. Why was the letter box unlocked? Cat and I never unlock it; it seems strange anyone bothered to open it in the first place seeing as the envelopes usually protrude from the slot.

A scruffy beige suitcase with a hole in the seam greets me as I enter the apartment. It sags sadly against the white hallway wall like a stain. Rachel arrived at seven-thirty this morning, deposited her belongings, and immediately rushed off to work. She didn’t bring much, as the room came furnished. So, all day today, the few items comprising Rachel Cummings’ worldly possessions have lain where they fell, awaiting her return.

Flicking on the kettle and glancing at the clock (five-oh-six!), I change my mind. Just a glass or two to end the day, I tell myself as I open the fridge, take out a bottle and slosh the remains of last night’s Pinot Grigio into a wine glass. There’s plenty more in the bar fridge in the laundry room, I’m sure. Leftovers from the party.

The wine is cool and crisp as it passes my lips and, after a couple more sips, the familiar warmth curls in my stomach like a cat settling in for the night. Humming a catchy tune I heard on the radio, I flip through the mail. An estate agent advertisement, the electricity bill and a letter, the one with the brown stain on it, addressed to someone named Sophia Gates. It’s the second time this person’s mail has arrived here; Sophia Gates must have been the previous tenant.

I toss the letter into the recycling, take a long pull of wine and then pause, rubbing a finger along my lips. I knew someone named Sophia once. Or Sophie, maybe. I think for a moment but my mind’s cloudy, and I can’t remember anyone specific. It’s probably no one important, yet I have that feeling I get at times, like I’m supposed to remember something but there’s a brick wall in my mind and my thoughts stop there. A blank space, as I’ve come to call it.

My wine’s nearly gone and no one’s home yet, so I top up my glass with a bottle from the laundry. I go to my room, sit at my desk and flip open my laptop. I check my email, trawl through my newsfeed. Without planning to, I google the name Sophia Gates. Images, Facebook pages and LinkedIn accounts pop up, but I don’t recognise anyone. I’m being stupid, paranoid as usual. It must just be a coincidence.

‘Any mail?’ Cat’s voice calls from the kitchen, startling me. I hadn’t heard the door.

‘On the coffee table!’ I tell her, gulping a mouthful before hiding the glass under the desk.

A moment later, Cat pops her head around the door frame, sleek black ponytail snaking over her shoulder. Her eyes are unusually bright, probably a result of her afternoon Pilates session. ‘Is this all?’ she asks, holding up the electricity bill.

‘Yes. Uh, and there was one for the previous tenant.’

Cat looks at me sharply. ‘Oh, where is it? Do you still have it?’

I shrug. Why is she so worried? ‘I just tossed it.’

Cat’s shoulders relax. ‘Okay. Good. I mean, I just couldn’t be bothered collecting them all and taking them down to the estate agent’s.’

I frown. ‘Cat, did we know anyone called Sophie? At school or something?’

She stares at me for a moment. Then, slowly, she shakes her head. ‘No. Not that I can remember.’

‘Are you sure?’

Cat shrugs. ‘I don’t remember everyone we went to school with, Mary. Look, I’ve been meaning to ask. Have you got around to making that appointment yet?’

‘Appointment?’

Cat gives me a meaningful look. ‘With the psychiatrist. The one Doctor Sarah referred you to. What’s his name … Doctor Chen? Doctor Chang?’