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On the Edge

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A FAST-PACED, TWISTY THRILLER WITH ECHOES OF DAPHNE DU MAURIER

Jen Shaw has climbed all her life: daring ascents of sheer rock faces, crumbling buildings, cranes - the riskier the better. Both her work and personal life revolved around climbing, and the adrenaline high it gave her. Until she went too far and hurt the people she cares about. So she's given it all up now. Honestly, she has. And she's checked herself into a rehab centre to prove it.

Yet, when Jen awakens to find herself drugged and dangling off the local lighthouse during a wild storm less than twenty-four hours after a 'family emergency' takes her home to Cornwall, she needs all her skill to battle her way to safety.

Has Jen fallen back into her old risky ways, or is there a more sinister explanation hidden in her hometown? Only when she has navigated her fragmented memories and faced her troubled past will she be able to piece together what happened - and trust herself to fix it.

PRAISE FOR ON THE EDGE

’Gritty, gripping, knotty, intense – this is going to be HUGE' – Fiona Erskine, author of The Chemical Detective and The Chemical Reaction

’Evocative, compelling and pulse-pounding, with cliff-edge suspense, riveting action and a plot as tricksy as a dare-devil free-climb' – Philippa East, author of CWA Dagger-shortlisted Little White Lies

‘Thoroughly original - hooks you in from the start and keeps you guessing’ – Frances Quinn, bestselling author of The Smallest Man

'In Jane Jesmond, the thriller world has gained a compelling and seriously talented voice. On the Edge is a truly surprising, original, and twisted story that will not only take your breath away but which also does exactly what it announces loud and proud: keep you on the edge of your seat. I couldn’t — and didn’t want to — put it down' – Hannah Mary McKinnon, internationally bestselling author of Sister Dear and You Will Remember Me

'It literally had me on the edge from the word go. Tense, taut and thrilling' – Lisa Hall, bestselling author of Between You and Me and The Party

‘A proper nerve-shredder of a tale. Literary Cornwall has rarely been so magnificently menacing. Hold on tight. You won't be able to let go until the very last page!’ – Helen Fields, internationally bestselling author of the DI Callanach series

‘Complex characters and a setting so vivid I could almost smell the sea air – an astonishing debut’ – Marion Todd, author of the DI Clare Mackay series

‘A beautifully atmospheric story that grips you from the start! Jesmond cleverly weaves a tale of intrigue and suspense – a talented new crime fiction writer. One to watch!’ – Louise Mumford, bestselling author of Sleepless

‘On The Edge is an exceptional debut. Skilfully written, tightly plotted and compulsive reading. Highly recommended' – Maddie Please, author of The Summer of Second Chances and The Year of New Adventures

Perfect for fans of Jane Harper and Sharon Bolton

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Prologue
Prologue Along the road from my family home in Cornwall, the lighthouse at St Matthew’s Point dominates the landscape. As a child I used to lie in bed and watch its great beam sweep the night in unending, unhurried circles and feel safe. During the day, it seems asleep. In winter, it is a solitary brooding tower; even in summer, its peace appears untouched by the tourists who cluster round its windswept base or pay a pound to climb the 163 steps to the viewing platform and stare out over the sea. Most of the time, I remember it as the visitors see it, stately and still, gleaming white against blue skies and the grey-green of the wind-whipped grass. Yet sometimes, even now, dreams of the lighthouse as it was on that Friday night, my first night back in Cornwall for months, disturb my sleep. The dream is always the same. A storm of wind and rain batters the coast. The tapering white form of the lighthouse appears in the distance, stark and motionless against the turbulent backdrop of dark clouds and darker seas tearing shreds out of each other. Its shaft of light shoots out into the night and circles, steady and constant, despite the blasts of the gale. In my dream the lighthouse comes closer and closer as though a wave of rushing wind carries me towards it. A blotch appears, dark against the white walls. At first it’s a shadow that dances from side to side as the beam passes overhead; then it becomes a figure. A person, dangling off the viewing platform that encircles the top of the lighthouse beneath the lantern. Clad in dark clothes that gleam with wetness, a thin rope looped in a figure of eight under its arms and over one of the stone blocks that give the lighthouse the look of a medieval castle. The wind dashes the figure against the wall and shakes the stream of water that falls like a cord from its bare feet. Closer still and a face with tight-shut eyes appears. A young woman. The skin of her eyelids and around her mouth twitches and trembles. She is lost in some fantasy sparked to life by the drugs crackling through her veins while all the time the rope thins and frays. And even in my dream, I know I must wake her before it’s too late, before the rope breaks and she falls to the ground. Except I can’t. Because this is a dream and the young woman is Jenifry Shaw. She’s me. The figure hanging from the lighthouse is me.

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