Before I Go to Sleep: A Novel

Before I Go to Sleep: A Novel

S. J. Watson

Language: English

Pages: 368

ISBN: 0062060562

Format: PDF / Kindle (mobi) / ePub


“Thebest debut novel I’ve ever read.”—Tess Gerritsen,bestselling author of the Rizzoli & Isles series

“Anexceptional thriller. It left my nerves jangling for hours after I finished thelast page.” —Dennis Lehane, New York Times bestselling author of Moonlight Mile

S. J. Watson makes his powerful debutwith this  compelling, fast-paced  psychological thriller,reminiscent of Shutter Island and Memento, in which an amnesiac who,following a mysterious accident, cannot remember her past or form newmemories, desperately tries to uncover the truth about who she is—and whoshe can trust.

Blasphemy (Wyman Ford, Book 2)

Black Horizon (Jack Swyteck, Book 11)

Fail Safe

Junkyard Dogs (Walt Longmire, Book 6)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

said it. “I called him after we met last week,” she said. She was almost laughing, now. “He wasn’t there, but I spoke to Helen. She said she’d ask him to call me back. Adam is alive.” I stop reading. I feel light. Empty. I feel I might fall backward, or else float away. Dare I believe it? Do I want to? I steady myself against the dresser and read on, only dimly aware that no longer do I hear the sound of Ben’s shower. I must have stumbled, grabbed hold of the chair. “He’s alive?” My stomach

used, I suppose, to the softness of youth. “The year after you got your PhD. We’d been dating for a few years, then, but you—we—we both wanted to wait until your studies were out of the way.” That makes sense, I think, though it feels oddly practical of me. I wonder if I had been keen to marry him at all. As if reading my mind, he says, “We were very much in love,” and then adds, “we still are.” I can think of nothing to say. I smile. He takes a swig of his coffee before looking back at the

moan of something that I dimly recognized as pleasure. I felt something between my knees. It was hard. “I love you,” he said again, and I realized it was his knee, that he was forcing my legs apart with one of his own. I did not want to let him, but at the same time knew that somehow I ought to, that I had left it too late, watched my chances to say something, to stop this, disappear one by one. And now I had no choice. I had wanted it then, as he unzipped his trousers and stepped clumsily out

blossom–scented baths and hands around my throat. The feeling that I could not breathe. The man whose face remained a mystery. I began to cry. “Then why did you tell me at all?” I said. He spoke kindly but still did not touch me. “I didn’t,” he said. “I didn’t tell you that you were attacked. That, you remembered yourself.” He was right, of course. I felt angry. “Christine, I—” “I want you to leave,” I said. “Please.” I was crying solidly now, yet felt curiously alive. I did not know what had

calls, the aborted arrangements when something unexpected came up, and, on the days we could get together, the sordid, pathetic afternoons spent in bed with a man who had temporarily seemed better—more exciting? attractive? a better lover? richer?—than my husband. Was this the man I had been waiting for in that hotel room, the man who would eventually attack me, leave me with no past and no future? I closed my eyes. A flash of memory. Hands gripping my hair, around my throat. My head under

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