When Earth is conquered by the sinister Greys and the alien who killed Evie's husband returns seeking her help, she must find a way to enact her revenge and fight the growing feelings for the creature who is an exact replica of the man she loved.
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I hadn't thought about Tania in a long time.
At one point, after Tom died, she dominated my thoughts almost as much as Tom did, although, to be fair, she made sure of that. If she wasn't banging on my door demanding answers or confronting me in the street when I dared to leave the house, she was calling me at all hours. It was relentless. This never-ending campaign to force the truth out of me.
Of course, once the truth was out there, or at least the news of what I had drunkenly confessed to Monica, the campaign stepped up a gear into something truly frightening. First, it started with a social media frenzy, constant accusatory posts on Facebook telling all of her three hundred so-called friends what a crazy, fucked-up bitch I was. How I was clearly insane. How I'd made up some ridiculous story about little grey men and how I should be institutionalised, if it wasn't for the fact a hospital would be too good for me and I deserved to suffer in a real prison.
Then there were the flyers. Hundreds and hundreds of them with my face, name and KILLER in large red font, plastered to every lamppost and street sign in a three-mile radius of my home. They were even left under the wipers of all the cars in the supermarket car park. I found some scattered by the wind, gathered along the kerbside down my street, rain-beaten and saturated until my face looked distorted and greyed-out.
I'd already been getting shit from Tom's friends – our friends – and anyone Tania was close to, but once the news went public, everything escalated. It was like my whole world – or whatever was left of it – blew up. Local kids left alien masks all over the front garden. A random stranger, someone I'd never met before, but who clearly knew me, spat in my face when I ventured out one day to get some milk, because I no longer had Monica to do those things for me. Despite walking by a packed-out bus stop at the time, no one offered to help. It was like I was suddenly this sub-human thing, not even worthy of a kind word or gesture. Look, then look away. That's just how it was then.
When I came home one day to find the house trashed inside and most of Tom's things gone, I knew I wasn't even safe in the home we'd adored. The home where I'd spent so long wrapped up in his arms, enjoying cosy Sunday morning lie-ins. The home where I'd watched him move around the kitchen like a tornado, wearing a British Bake-Off apron and creating some weird concoction that always tasted pretty good considering he'd never followed a recipe in his life. The home where we'd made love, laughed until we had tears running down our faces, watched movies together snuggled on the sofa, ate, slept and lived together.
Seven months after his death, a quick sale and much of the furniture sold because it wouldn't fit into the tiny one-bedroom flat I was renting, and that was it. Everything gone. Everything lost.
I was alone.
Sometimes, I think that's why I'd survived so long in the New World. I already knew how to live alone. To survive.
