Home > Lying Beside You (Cyrus Haven #3)

Lying Beside You (Cyrus Haven #3)
Author: Michael Robotham

Michael Robotham is a former feature writer and investigative reporter, who has worked in Britain, Australia and America.

His debut thriller, The Suspect, introduced clinical psychologist Joe O’Loughlin and sold more than a million copies around the world. The nine-book series is being adapted for the screen by World Productions (makers of Line of Duty and Bodyguard), starring Aidan Turner. Michael’s standalone thriller The Secrets She Keeps has also been the basis of two BBC TV series.

He has twice won the prestigious UK Crime Writers’ Association Gold Dagger Award for best crime novel, as well as the Ian Fleming Steel Dagger for When She Was Good, a Richard & Judy Book Club pick.

Michael lives in Sydney.



Also by Michael Robotham

Joe O’Loughlin series

The Suspect

The Drowning Man (aka Lost)


Bleed for Me

The Wreckage

Say You’re Sorry

Watching You

Close Your Eyes

The Other Wife

Cyrus Haven series

Good Girl, Bad Girl

When She Was Good

Other fiction

The Night Ferry


Life or Death

The Secrets She Keeps

When You Are Mine




Published by Sphere

ISBN: 978-0-7515-8159-1

All characters and events in this publication, other than those clearly in the public domain, are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

Copyright © Bookwrite Pty 2022

The moral right of the author has been asserted.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of the publisher.

The publisher is not responsible for websites (or their content) that are not owned by the publisher.


Little, Brown Book Group

Carmelite House

50 Victoria Embankment

London EC4Y 0DZ






About the Author

Also by Michael Robotham


Chapter 1: Cyrus

Chapter 2: Evie

Chapter 3: Cyrus

Chapter 4: Evie

Chapter 5: Cyrus

Chapter 6: Evie

Chapter 7: Cyrus

Chapter 8: Cyrus

Chapter 9: Evie

Chapter 10: Cyrus

Chapter 11: Evie

Chapter 12: Cyrus

Chapter 13: Cyrus

Chapter 14: Evie

Chapter 15: Cyrus

Chapter 16: Evie

Chapter 17: Cyrus

Chapter 18: Cyrus

Chapter 19: Cyrus

Chapter 20: Evie

Chapter 21: Cyrus

Chapter 22: Evie

Chapter 23: Cyrus

Chapter 24: Evie

Chapter 25: Cyrus

Chapter 26: Evie

Chapter 27: Cyrus

Chapter 28: Evie

Chapter 29: Cyrus

Chapter 30: Evie

Chapter 31: Cyrus

Chapter 32: Evie

Chapter 33: Cyrus

Chapter 34: Evie

Chapter 35: Cyrus

Chapter 36: Evie

Chapter 37: Cyrus

Chapter 38: Evie

Chapter 39: Cyrus

Chapter 40: Evie

Chapter 41: Cyrus

Chapter 42: Evie

Chapter 43: Cyrus

Chapter 44: Evie

Chapter 45: Cyrus

Chapter 46: Cyrus

Chapter 47: Evie

Chapter 48: Cyrus

Chapter 49: Evie

Chapter 50: Cyrus

Chapter 51: Cyrus

Chapter 52: Cyrus

Chapter 53: Cyrus

Chapter 54: Evie

Chapter 55: Cyrus

Chapter 56: Evie

Chapter 57: Cyrus

Chapter 58: Evie

Chapter 59: Cyrus

Chapter 60: Cyrus

Chapter 61: Evie

Chapter 62: Cyrus

Chapter 63: Evie

Chapter 64: Cyrus

Chapter 65: Cyrus

Chapter 66: Evie

Chapter 67: Cyrus

Chapter 68: Evie

Chapter 69: Cyrus

Chapter 70: Evie

Chapter 71: Cyrus

Chapter 72: Evie

Chapter 73: Cyrus

Chapter 74: Evie

Chapter 75: Cyrus

Chapter 76: Evie

Chapter 77: Cyrus



‘Tell me what you can’t forget, and I’ll tell you who you are.’

— Julie Buntin, Marlena





If I could tell you one thing about my brother it would be this: two days after his nineteenth birthday, he killed our parents and our twin sisters because he heard voices in his head. As defining events go, nothing else comes close for Elias, or for me.

I have often tried to imagine what went through his mind on that cool autumn evening, when our neighbours began closing their curtains to the coming night and the streetlights shone with misty yellow halos. What did the voices say? What possible words could have made him do the things he did?

I have tortured myself with what-ifs and maybes. What if I hadn’t stopped to buy hot chips on my way home from football practice? What if I hadn’t propped my bike outside Ailsa Piper’s house, hoping to glimpse her in her garden, or coming home from her netball practice? What if I had pedalled faster and arrived home sooner? Could I have stopped him, or would I be dead too?

I am the boy who survived, the one who hid in the garden shed, crouching among the tools, smelling the kerosene and paint fumes and grass clippings, while sirens echoed through the streets of Nottingham.

In my nightmares, I always wake as I step into the kitchen, wearing muddy football socks. My mother is lying on the floor amid the frozen peas, which had spilled across the white tiles. Chicken stock is bubbling on the stove and her famous paella had begun to stick in the heavy-based pan.

I miss my mum the most. I feel guilty about playing favourites, but nobody is around to criticise my choices, except for Elias, and he doesn’t get to choose. Ever.

Dad died in the sitting room, crouching in front of the DVD player because one of the twins had managed to get a disc stuck in the machine. He raised one hand to protect himself and lost two fingers and a thumb, before the knife severed his spine.

Upstairs, in the bedroom, Esme and April were doing their homework or playing games. April, older by twenty minutes, and therefore bossier, was usually the first to do everything, but it was April, dressed in a unicorn onesie, who ran towards the knife, trying to protect her sister. Esme had to be dragged from under her bed and died with a rug bunched beneath her body and a ukulele in her hand.

Many of these details have the power to close my throat or wake me screaming, but as snapshots they are fading. My memories aren’t as vivid as they once were. The colours. The smells. The sounds. The fear.

For example, I can no longer remember what colour dress my mother was wearing, or which of the twins had her hair in braids that week. (Esme and April took it in turns to help their teachers differentiate between them, or maybe to confuse them further.)

And I can’t remember if Dad had opened a bottle of home brew – a six o’clock ritual in our household – when he uncapped his latest batch with a brass Winston Churchill bottle opener. With great ceremony, he would pour the ‘amber nectar’ into a pint glass, holding it up to the light to study the colour and opacity. And when he drank, he would swish that first sip around in his mouth, sucking in air like a wine connoisseur, saying things like, ‘Bit malty … a little cloudy … a tad early … half decent … buttery … quenching … perfect in another week.’

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