Lyrebird Hill

When Ruby's perfect life shatters, she returns to the one place that holds all her secrets—and all her fears.

Bookshop owner Ruby Cardel thought she'd left her troubled past behind. But when everything falls apart, she has nowhere to go except back to Lyrebird Hill, her childhood home in the Australian bush. The old house should be a refuge—instead, it awakens memories she's spent years suppressing.

Her sister's violent death. The guilt that's haunted her for decades. And the terrifying question: was it really an accident?

When Ruby confides in Pete Milford, her long-lost best friend, their childhood connection ignites into something deeper. Pete survived the foster care system by building walls around his heart, but Ruby has always been his weakness. He knows she'd never hurt anyone—especially not the sister she adored. But Ruby's not so sure.

Then she discovers letters from 1898, written by her great-grandmother who was convicted of murder.

As Ruby uncovers her family's dark legacy, she must confront the truth about that terrible day—and decide if she can trust Pete with her heart when she can't even trust herself. Because some secrets are worth killing for, and at Lyrebird Hill, the past never stays buried.

A dual-timeline romantic suspense about second chances, buried secrets, and the healing power of love.

CHAPTER ONE
RUBY

“Oh ... what’s this?”

I stood in my cluttered bedroom, staring at the scrap of black lace dangling from my fingers. It was a skimpy bra, its spaghetti straps and dainty cups making it more of a novelty than actual support-wear.

Gripped in my other hand was my boyfriend’s suit jacket.

Why was a bra in his pocket?

Had he bought it for me as a gift? But that was crazy. I had curves, and lots of them. In no one’s imagination would I fit into such a doll-sized garment.

Rob’s voice drifted through the ensuite door. He was singing ‘Rhinestone Cowboy,’ which surprised me. I’d known him for nearly three years and had never picked him as a Glen Campbell fan. Rob was a classical enthusiast. Brahms, Mozart, Liszt. If he was feeling in the groove, he might pull out some Shostakovich. I was mad about seventies folk—seventies anything, really—which I knew Rob considered terribly lowbrow. I’d been nagging him to compromise ... but Glen Campbell? Any other time, I’d be impressed.

I ran the spaghetti straps through my fingers.

The smell of cigarette smoke wafted up. And perfume. Poison, by Christian Dior. I knew it well. A large purple bottle sat on my dressing table. Rob gave it to me after we started dating, gift-wrapped with a glittery card. Thanks for the happiest three months of my life.

We were happy. At least, back then.

Before I met Rob, my small bookshop was my life. I’d worked hard to set it up from scratch, scrimping and saving and mapping out my plan. I stocked the latest bestsellers, but mostly the books were second-hand. A lot of my regulars became friends—we started a book club, taking turns to host dinners with rich food and lots of wine as we sat around all night and talked about books. One of those books was a motivational bestseller, Let Go and Live.

I liked Rob’s face the moment I saw it on the flyleaf. His wide, friendly smile and rugged boyishness gave me butterflies. I wanted to meet him, so I orchestrated an author signing at my shop.

To my surprise, he agreed.

The signing was a success, and Rob lingered afterwards. He was even more gorgeous in the flesh: tall and lean, impeccably groomed. Of course, he wasn’t perfect—he had a scar beside his left nostril, and his close-cropped hair was thinning—but he had a way of speaking and a mesmerising attentiveness that disarmed me—

“Ruby?”

I startled from my thoughts. Tucking the bra into my dressing gown pocket, I lunged onto the bed.

Steam billowed as the ensuite door opened. Rob stood in the swirling vapours, his body gleaming and damp, his chest hair glittering with water droplets. He looked every bit the gorgeous buffed underwear model—without the underwear.

“Still not dressed?” His voice was smooth, with a hint of irritation. “We’re leaving at eight.” Reaching back around the door, he took a clean towel and scrubbed it over his head. “I can’t find my aftershave. Did you move it?”

“I was cleaning up. It’s in the—”

I swallowed the lump in my throat, squashing the little bra deeper into my pocket.

Go on, loser. Ask him now. Is he having an affair?

My lips parted, but my tongue refused to form the words.

“Never mind.” Rob sighed wearily, flinging the towel back into the bathroom and reaching for his clothes. “Really, babe. I wish you’d let me hire you a housekeeper. Or at least one of those organising experts. A man could vanish into your clutter and never be heard from again.”

He winked to let me know he was joking.

My fingers fisted around the bra.

“Rob—” The question hovered on my lips. But was now the best time? I was bare of makeup. My hair was unbrushed. Worst of all, my breasts and belly and bottom and thighs were without the advantage of support wear. Shouldn’t I wait to confront him when I was better prepared?

“What’s that, hon?” Rob adjusted his tie in the mirror, intent on his reflection.

“Um … do you think Mum’ll be happy to see me there tonight?”

“She sent you an invitation, didn’t she?”

“I guess.”

I inched deeper into the bed, wanting to vanish. Mum and I had never seen eye to eye, even when my sister Jamie was alive. After Jamie died, we drifted apart. Keeping in touch with random phone calls on birthdays or Christmas, and occasional postcards, but it always felt so forced.

Rob’s brown eyes studied me from the mirror.

“You’re nervous, babe. You haven’t seen her in—what, three years?”

“Four.” I took a deep breath. “What if it’s awful, Rob? What if we argue like last time?”

“It’s normal to be apprehensive, babe. Life throws curveballs and you gotta learn to cope. What do I always say?”

“Stop catastrophising. Embrace the fear. Let it go.”

He went back to his reflection. “Problem solved.”

Muscles rippled beneath his pristine white shirt. His skin gleamed, and droplets of water clung to the stubble on his scalp. He licked his lips and started singing again, but this time I didn’t recognise the song. My chest tightened. Rob was a respected psych therapist and author, a loyal friend. An attentive lover. He’d never cheat or do anything to hurt me.

Of that, I was sure.