The Sister: A psychological thriller with a brilliant twist you won't see coming (28 page)

I
close
my eyes and let my fingers glide over the keys as I practise Beethoven’s ‘Moonlight Sonata’. It was one of Dad’s favourites. The doorbell rings before I’ve quite reached the end and I close the lid of the piano, hauling myself to my feet.

‘Morning. Want this straight in your car?’ Lexie rattles the old crisp box she’s holding.

‘Please. Mine’s already in there.’ I point the remote at my new Honda, listening for the click as the boot opens.

My new neighbours are climbing in their car and I wave: she’s a paramedic and he’s a policeman. I find that reassuring, although I hope to never need them in a professional capacity. Mrs Jones lives with her daughter now, but I visit her often.

My bag’s in the lounge, and as I pick it up, I stroke the black and white kitten curled on my warm piano stool.

‘Bye, Moppet. I’ll be back later. Be good.’

I sling my things on the passenger seat. Turn to face Lexie.

‘You gonna be all right on your own?’ she asks.

‘Yes.’

‘Belle asked after you yesterday.’

‘How was she?’

Lexie visits the unit frequently, but I don’t want to see her. Not yet. Maybe not ever.

I’m trying to forgive Lexie. She’s having counselling, has stopped drinking, is trying to make amends for the past. To be a good mum. I try to push away the part of me that thinks how very differently things might have turned out if she hadn’t sent those notes. If Charlie hadn’t left.
You can’t live in the past
, Grandma says, and I’ve realised that’s where I’ve spent most of my time. Wishing things were different. Blaming myself. Thinking I might die jolted me into the present, and that’s where I’m trying to stay. I have a lot to live for.

‘She’s groggy. She’s on a new medication, but she spoke to the psychologist yesterday instead of ignoring her. It’s a start.’

I want to reassure Lexie. To tell her that Belle will be fine, but the words stick in my throat. I know how grief can twist and change a person, leave invisible rocks of guilt to shoulder. I can’t begin to imagine the horror of losing a child.

I place my hands over my stomach, inhale sharply.

‘You OK?’ Lexie asks.

‘He’s kicking.’

‘He?’

‘Yep. Had another scan yesterday. It’s definitely a boy.’

‘Bet Dan’s pleased.’

I nod. I never thought I’d see Dan again after he came to Esmée’s flat, but when the nausea that flooded my body didn’t ease, the doctor thought it might be more than anxiety, and he was right. I shift my weight as an elbow or foot jabs me again. Dan was thrilled when I told him. He proposed at once, has proposed weekly ever since, but I’m content to be on my own for now. Living alone has bought a freedom, a peace, that I hadn’t envisaged. I’ve shed the all-consuming feeling of loss that’s cloaked me for over half my life and I’m happy. I’m not sure if Dan and I will ever be an ‘us’ again, if too much water has passed under the bridge – but we’re friends, and committed to being the best parents we can be, and that’s a start.

‘We’ve picked a name.’

‘Do tell.’

‘Charlie.’

Lexie nods, blinks back tears. Squeezes my arm. ‘Safe trip.’

I climb into my car. Stretch the seatbelt across my ever-growing bump.

* * *

T
he motorway is
quiet and my satnav tells me I’ll be there in another hour. I click on the radio. ELO’s ‘Mr. Blue Sky’ rumbles out of the speakers and I smile as I think fondly of my dad and crank up the volume. I warble along. ‘It’s a beautiful new day, hey, hey.’

I think I’m here. I turn down a dirt track, bump the car towards a farmhouse, pull up behind a Volvo estate. A black and white dog sniffs my ankles, wags his tail. I pop open the boot.

‘You must be Grace.’ Familiar green eyes lock onto mine.

His hair is grey and he has a beard, but the resemblance to Charlie is startling.

‘Paul Lawson.’ I smile.

I’d kept up with the social media postings and just when I was beginning to give up hope of ever finding him, I had a reply. Lexie was livid at first, but finally conceded he had a right to know about his daughters and spent hours on the phone to him, trying to explain. He was furious, of course; devastated when he learned about Charlie, about Lucas. He’s coming to meet Anna – Belle, I need to get used to calling her that – next week. But today, I’m here for Charlie.

Paul carries the boxes from the car, places them on a large farmhouse table. I pull off my jumper – the room is Aga-warm – and unpack piles of photos and videos, produce a Tupperware containing a cake.

‘My grandma made it,’ I explain. ‘As it would be Charlie’s twenty-sixth birthday today.’

I’d brought Grandad’s old video recorder with me just in case Paul didn’t have one, but there’s one in the kitchen, a pile of
Monty Python
videos stacked next to it.

Paul slots in a tape. It whirrs and crackles and the screen goes snowy before an image appears, hazy at first but becoming clearer. It is of the school talent show. Charlie is on stage in a silver sparkly leotard, pink tights and purple leg warmers. She discos her way around the stage, high-kicking and shimmying her flat chest for all she’s worth.

‘She wasn’t shy, then!’

‘Not in the least. It was supposed to be a duo, but I was quaking behind the curtain. She won.’

The screen goes blue for a moment and then cuts to Charlie and me on the beach, building a giant speedboat out of sand.

‘She always came on holiday with us,’ I tell Paul. ‘She was happy.’

We laugh and cry in equal measure through birthdays and Christmases, Easter egg hunts and picnics, and when there is nothing else to watch, I light the candles on the cake and we sing ‘Happy Birthday’ to the girl who wanted nothing more than her father at her side as she blew the candles out. As it is, he blows them out for her, his eyes glistening.

We found him, Charlie. We found him.

H
ello
,

I can’t thank you enough for reading
The Sister
, my debut novel. It’s both exhilarating and terrifying to send my first book out into the world and I’m really grateful you chose to spend precious time with Grace and Charlie.

The Sister
began life as part of a challenge at a writers’ group, where I was given ten minutes and three words and the bare bones of Chapter One was born. Driving home, my mind was full of questions: What was Grace’s secret? How did Charlie die? What was in the pink envelope?

That night, sleep wouldn’t come as Grace stamped her feet and demanded her story be told, and the following day, stifling yawns, I tentatively put pen to paper, exploring the aftermath of Lexie’s lie.

I’d love to hear your thoughts. Did you end up feeling sympathy for Anna? Compassion for Lexie? Should Grace give Dan a second chance?

I’m horribly embarrassed to mention reviews but they’re so important, so if you’ve enjoyed
The Sister
, it really would mean the world to me if you could leave a review.

You can also connect with me via my blog where I regularly post flash fiction and insights into a writer’s life.

Finally, I do so hope you join me for book two. If you’d like to find out more, do join my mailing list:

Love,

Louise xx

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I
’ve so
many people to thank, it’s difficult to know where to start. Firstly a massive, massive shout out to the whole Bookouture team, especially Lydia Vassar-Smith my editor, for believing in me enough to give me this chance, Natasha Hodgson, and the other Bookouture authors who are such a fabulous support network.

Louise Walters, my mentor via the fabulous WoMentoring Project, whose encouragement gave me the confidence to try and write a novel.

The Wordpress blogging community who have critiqued with kindness and allowed me to develop as a writer, in particular Lyn Churchyard (you know why!).

Mick Rodden from the Northants Fire Service for his valuable input into the fire and hospital scenes. Any mistakes are entirely my own.

Andrew Lockhart for his words of wisdom, Gary Tipping for keeping me calm at the last hurdle and Jane Isaac for always being on the end of the phone to answer my frantic questions.

Thanks to my early readers Leah Gee, Ceri Wickens, Michele Harris, and Karen Coles, and to Lee Harris for his proofreading skills. Thanks cuz!

Mick Wynn, with whom I bounced around many an idea. I actually think he ended up reading my manuscript far more times than me.

The beautiful Bekkii Bridges who helped me shape the end.

My lovely friend Natalie Brewin who was happy to read early versions and listened to me whinge like a child on more than one occasion.

My sister Karen Appleby for her (often brutal) opinion and my mum for producing us both!

Tim, possibly the most patient husband in the world who never complained when he had to do the school run or pull together a meal at short notice while I wrote ‘just one more page.’ Thanks for your unwavering belief that I could. I did!

My gorgeous boys Callum, Kai and Finley who are always the driving force behind everything I do. I love you and am so proud of you all.

A
nd Ian Hawley
who always encouraged me in everything I’ve ever wanted to do. You always told me I could write a book. I wish you were still here to read it.