The Guest Room: An utterly unputdownable psychological thriller (Totally gripping thrillers by Rona Halsall)

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I breathe in her hairdresser smell. She only goes to the salon for the odd trim, yet somehow manages to waft that shampoo scent around. Thank you to Bookouture and NetGalley who provided me with a copy of this book in exchange for an honest review. All the thoughts and opinions are my own. To be fair, the book looks amazing. Celebrating the unique cuisine with all its cultural subtleties. I’m just not much of a cook. Something tells me Luke isn’t, either, despite his mum’s talent. The Guest Room by Rona Halsall is a thriller novel. The story in The Guest Room is one that is told mainly from one point of view but there are a few changes to the point of view along the way. I pause for a moment, spine straight, listening for sounds or movements of Arran. But there are none.

Ever since Steph's husband walked out after a thirty year marriage, home hasn't felt like a safe haven. Her daughter Bea thinks she's imagining things. But Steph knows that the noises in the night, the open window she left closed, the strange smell in the kitchen - none of it feels right. Then her house is broken into, and a young man named Noah helps her fix the front window. He's fallen on hard times and Steph impulsively offers him a place to stay. At least if he's there, she won't be home alone. Specifics are important. That’s what he said to me in the first few weeks, repeating it each time we talked, sinking it into me. She was trying to fish out a bit of sunflower shell that had flown into her glass. Her finger kept pushing it round. “I can’t get it out.” He goes over to the window and feels the curtain. Then he glides it across, as far as the cloth will go. The room dims, losing its amber evening light.

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I stare at her. It’s been Nalika and Chris for five years. I thought they were going to get married. “When?” There aren’t even any digital scraps, because she didn’t have a smartphone—no cloud, no data floating around, no social media. She hated “all that cyberspace crap,” as she put it.

The Guest Room is a carefully constructed and compelling mystery, and a fine study of the way grief and uncertainty can disturb the mind. The final revelation is unexpected, and the ending is realistic and satisfying." Her words were a parrot-echo of mine as I sat with Rosie just a couple of months before, watching her until she’d swallowed something.

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I’m out of breath. Nearly home. The moon is a white shell against the deepening blue of sky. Anticipation is building as I approach my door. Maybe Arran won’t be in. Maybe I can have a snoop in his room. Home should be an anchor, a port in a storm, a refuge, a happy place in which to dwell, a place where we are loved and where we can love.” — Elder Marvin J. Ashton Since then, in cold night-moments, awake in the dark, I’ve questioned whether that’s true. If Rosie would have preferred to be in Spain. If I was as close to my sister as I thought.

The cold white of the gallery makes me blink. The barman, I think. What if it was the barman? He was looking at Rosie a lot; he smiled at her. And—I remember now—his eyes had followed her as she walked past him. She is an outdoorsy person and loves stomping up a mountain, walking the coastal paths and exploring the wonderful glens and beaches on the Island while she's plotting her next book. She has three children and two step-children who are all grown up and leading varied and interesting lives, which provides plenty of material for new stories.A flurry of stale air blows over my face. Hot wind is funneling through the open slits of windows as the train hurtles through the tunnel. That dry fume in my nose: diesel and dirt. I cough into my elbow.

I sit down between two big, curved roots and draw air deep into my nose. I swear I can smell it. Rosie’s perfume. As though it’s lasted all these months. A warm base with a sharper note on top, like lemon sorbet. I want to hear her voice in my ear, chattering at me like she used to. I want to call her. But I can’t even do that. When I try her number, it doesn’t ring. No sound, no voice mail. As if her phone’s dead, too. The book’s real throbbing heart is [Alexandra], an aspiring young dancer from Armenia. . . . A remarkable artistic feat.”— USA Today Sitting on the sofa, I glance around the living area. At the Victorian fireplace, the worn spines of old Spanish books on the bookcase, the Moroccan mosaic lamp. On the coffee table is a congealed disc of wax marking a dead candle. A lump pushes into my throat, hard and acidic. I don’t know. That’s all people ever say, like birds lining up on a wire, squawking down at me. If I could reach, I’d grab them by the wings, press their beaks shut until they can’t make another sound.That’s what she felt like to me: white shadows. As though a palette knife were secretly scraping her out from the inside. Leaving behind these gaps she couldn’t refill. And I texted Oliver again, although his name hasn’t appeared since that message: Please stop texting me. (Yesterday, 16:21) This novel consists of 46 chapters. The chapters are short to medium in length so possible to read 'just one more chapter' before bed...OK, I know yeah right, but still just in case! There’s a feeling in my stomach—a faint froth of fear. I unwind it, pulling the wire taut between my hands. Still unsure what this object is, and why he’d have it with him.