Excerpt from I See You by Clare Mackintosh, plus links to reviews, author biography & more

"You'd better sort it out, then, Zoe," Graham said. So instead of booking viewings I stood in the drafty corridor outside Graham's office, wishing I hadn't opened my mouth. Hallow & Reed isn't a bad place to work. I used to do one day a week doing the books, then the office manager went on maternity leave and Graham asked me to fill in. I was a bookkeeper, not a PA, but the money was decent and I'd lost a couple of clients, so I jumped at the chance. Three years later, I'm still there.

By the time we reach Canada Water the carriage has thinned out and the only people standing are there by choice. The man sitting next to me has his legs so wide apart I have to angle mine away, and when I look at the row of passengers opposite I see two other men doing the same. Is it a conscious thing? Or some innate need to make themselves bigger than everyone else? The woman immediately in front of me moves her shopping bag and I hear the unmistakable clink of a wine bottle. I hope Simon has thought to put one in the fridge; it's been a long week and right now all I want to do is curl up on the sofa and watch telly.

A few pages into the London Gazette some former X Factor finalist is complaining about the "pressures of fame," and there's a debate on privacy laws that covers the best part of a page. I'm reading without taking in the words: looking at the pictures and scanning the headlines so I don't feel completely out of the loop. I can't remember the last time I actually read a whole newspaper, or sat down to watch the news from start to finish.

It's always snatches of Sky News while I'm eating breakfast, or the headlines read over someone's shoulder on the way in to work.

The train stops between Sydenham and Crystal Palace. I hear a frustrated sigh from farther up the carriage but don't bother looking to see who it's from. It's already dark and when I glance at the windows all I see is my own face looking back at me; even paler than it is in real life, and distorted by rain. I take off my glasses and rub at the dents they leave on either side of my nose. We hear the crackle of an announcement but it's so muffled and heavily accented there's no telling what it was about. It could have been anything from signal failure to a body on the line.

I hope it's not a body. I think of my glass of wine, and Simon rubbing my feet on the sofa, then feel guilty that my first thought is about my own comfort, not the desperation of some poor suicidal soul. I'm sure it's not a body. Bodies are for Monday mornings, not Friday evenings, when work is a blissful three days away.

There's a creaking noise and then silence. Whatever the delay is, it's going to be a while.

"That's not a good sign," the man next to me says.

"Hmm," I say noncommittally. I carry on turning the pages of my newspaper, but I'm not interested in sport and now it's mostly adverts and theater reviews. I won't be home till after seven at this rate; we'll have to have something easy for tea, rather than the baked chicken I'd planned. Simon cooks during the week, and I do Friday evening and the weekend. He'd do that too, if I asked him, but I couldn't have that. I couldn't have him cooking for us—for my children—every night. Maybe I'll pick up a takeaway.

I skip over the business section and look at the crossword, but I don't have a pen with me. So I read the adverts, thinking I might see a job for Katie—or me, come to that, although I know I'll never leave Hallow & Reed. It pays well and I know what I'm doing now, and if it weren't for my boss it would be perfect. The customers are nice, for the most part. They're generally start-ups looking for office space, or businesses that have done well, ready for a bigger place. We don't do much residential, but the flats above the shops work for the first-time buyers and the downsizers. I meet a fair number of recently separateds. Sometimes, if I feel like it, I tell them I know what they're going through.

Excerpted from I See You by Clare Mackintosh. Copyright © 2017 by Clare Mackintosh. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.