My Sister Read online

  Copyright © 2017 Michelle Adams

  The right of Michelle Adams to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  Apart from any use permitted under UK copyright law, this publication may only be reproduced, stored, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means, with prior permission in writing of the publishers or, in the case of reprographic production, in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency.

  First published as an Ebook in Great Britain

  by Headline Publishing Group in 2017

  All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Cataloguing in Publication Data is available from the British Library

  Cover images © Judy Davidson/Arcangel Images (girls) and Martynas Ambrutis/EyeEm/Getty Images (beach)

  eISBN: 978 1 4722 3656 2

  HEADLINE PUBLISHING GROUP

  An Hachette UK Company

  Carmelite House

  50 Victoria Embankment

  London EC4Y 0DZ

  www.headline.co.uk

  www.hachette.co.uk

  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  About Michelle Adams

  Praise

  About the Book

  Dedication

  Acknowledgements

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-One

  About Michelle Adams

  Michelle Adams grew up in the UK and now lives in Cyprus, where she works as a part-time scientist. She read her first Stephen King novel at the tender age of nine, and has been addicted to suspense fiction ever since. MY SISTER is her first novel.

  Praise for My Sister:

  ‘A fabulously chilling tale of two twisted sisters . . . grabs you by the throat from first page to last’ Camilla Way, author of Watching Edie

  ‘A magnificent exploration of the toxic relationship between two sisters and the hold they exert on each other . . . chilling and tragic in equal measure’ Nuala Ellwood, author of My Sister’s Bones

  ‘I loved this dark and disturbing thriller. Tense and twisted, it glued me to the sofa from the first page to the last’ C. J. Tudor, author of The Chalk Man

  About the Book

  MY SISTER by Michelle Adams is an addictive, twisty, shocking debut thriller – an intimate tale of family secrets that will grip readers who devoured Clare Mackintosh’s I LET YOU GO and S.K. Tremayne’s THE ICE TWINS.

  My name is Irini. I was given away.

  My name is Elle. I was kept.

  All her life Irini thought she was given away because her family didn’t want her. What if the truth is something worse?

  Two sisters. Two separate lives.

  One family bound by a harrowing secret.

  I dedicate the first copy of this novel to you, Stasinos, because without you it would never have come to be.

  Every other copy belongs to those individuals who have at some point felt worthless. I hope by now you know you were wrong.

  Acknowledgements

  Almost one year ago to the day I sent the first three chapters of this book to a London based literary agency, full of hope that somebody might like what they read. The fact that I now find myself writing an acknowledgements page prior to publication is pretty humbling, especially considering that at that time I thought I had finished. How wrong I was.

  So huge thanks go to Madeleine Milburn, who read my submission while she was on holiday in Scotland. None of this would have been possible without her belief, support, and absolute faith in Irini’s story. I am so very grateful to have found an agent who gives such great editorial advice, and who knows how to throw such an awesome Christmas party. Thanks also go to Thérèse Coen for all the foreign rights deals and constant Prosecco top ups (Proost!) and Cara Lee Simpson who dealt with my constant first-time author enquiries. I’ll get better at this, I promise.

  I had no idea how hard-working editors in publishing houses were until I met Emily Griffin at Headline. I thought it was all about doing lunch by the Thames – now I realise that’s only part of it. I will remain forever grateful to her for teaching me what it really means to edit a book. Next time dinner is on me. Also to Sara, Kitty, Jane Selley for her copy editing, and Jo Liddiard who is doing a great job with marketing. There are many other people at Headline who have worked on this book whose names I’ve yet to learn. My sincere thanks go to all of you. More publishing thanks go to the team at St. Martin’s Press in the US, including Jennifer Weis and Sylvan Creekmore, who worked alongside the team at Headline to create the first ARC. Anytime we need a meeting in New York, just let me know.

  I’d like also to say thanks to my UK based family, who will be pleased to know they were no inspiration when it came to creating the characters in this novel. I love and miss you guys very much. To my Cypriot family, I’m blessed to have been made so welcome, and thankful that you remain amused by my inappropriate mistakes in Greek. I know I am very lucky to have found you all. There are many friends who have played a part in my journey as a writer throughout the years, and thanks go to all of you for the ways in which you have helped. Special thanks go to Michelle Abrahall for the vital role she played in helping me get to this point. You were always, and continue to be, way cooler than me. There are many friends who read early manuscripts and offered me cheer and guidance, and for that I will always owe you. I am fortunate to be able to say there are too many to mention by name.

  To Theo and Themis, thank you for offering me your love when you had no reason to. I am grateful for each day that I get to share part of my life with you guys. And to you, Stasinos: none of this would have been possible if it wasn’t for your love, support, salary, and willingness to overlook the multitude of things I forgot to do while I was writing this novel. You are my constant cheerleader, toughest critic, and make me so proud to be your wife. More than yesterday, less than tomorrow.

  Tap tap, agapi mou x

  1

  The buzzing of my telephone is like the scuttling of a cockroach underneath the bed. No real danger, yet still I am terrified. The same fear that a knock on the door just before bedtime brings, always bad news, or a murderer there to live out a fantasy. I look back and see Antonio sleeping by my side, naked save for a white sheet draped over his hip like an unfastened toga. His breath glides in and out, comfortable, at peace. I know the dreams that come to him are good, because he
smacks his lips and his muscles twitch like a contented baby. I glance at the red numbers glowing on the alarm clock: 2.02 a.m., a warning sign.

  I reach for the phone, my movements slow, and glance at the screen. Unknown number. I press the green button to answer the call and hear the bright, cheerful voice. But it’s a lie, designed to fool or blind. ‘Hi, it’s me. Hello?’ It waits for an answer. ‘Can you hear me?’

  I pull the sheet higher, protecting myself as a chill spreads across my skin. I cover my breasts, the left of which hangs just a bit lower than the right. The beauty of fifteen degrees of scoliosis. It is Elle’s voice I hear, the one I knew it would be. The last remaining connection to a past I have tried to forget. Yet still, even after six years of absence she has managed to scramble up the walls of the chasm I have gouged between us, wriggle her way back in like a worm through mud and find me.

  I reach up, turn on the lamp, illuminating the darkest monster-filled corners of the room. When I raise the phone to my ear I can still hear her breathing, creeping out of the shadows, waiting for me to speak.

  I roll away from Antonio, wince as my hip throbs with the movement. ‘What do you want?’ I ask, trying to sound confident. I have learnt not to be polite, not to engage. It helps not to encourage her.

  ‘To talk to you, so don’t you dare hang up. Why are you whispering?’ I hear her giggle, like we are friends, like this is just a normal conversation between silly teenage girls. But it isn’t. We both know it. I should hang up despite her threat, but I can’t. It’s already too late for that.

  ‘It’s the middle of the night.’ I can hear the quiver in my voice. I’m shivering. I swallow hard.

  There’s a rustle as she checks the clock. Where is she now? What does she want this time? ‘Actually, it’s the early hours of the morning, but whatever.’

  ‘What do you want?’ I ask again, aware that she is picking at my skin, creeping under the layers.

  Elle is my sister. My only sister from a previous life from which I have kept few memories. The memories I do have are blurry, as if I am looking back through a window drenched in heavy rain. I’m not even sure if they represent reality any more. Twenty-nine years is a long time for them to morph, transform into something else.

  My second life, the one I am stuck in now, began when I was three years old. It was a bright spring day; the frosts of winter had melted and the animals in the nearby woods were venturing from their dens for the first time. I was wrapped in a thick woollen coat, so many layers of clothes that my joints were immobile. The woman who had given birth to me pulled red woollen mittens on to my hands without saying a word. What a three-year-old remembers.

  She carried me along a dry, muddy path intersected by grass until we arrived at a waiting car up ahead. I was a late developer, and parts of me, like my hip (a poorly formed socket held together by loose, stringy tendons), hadn’t really developed at all. I hadn’t managed the whole walking thing. I didn’t put up a fight when she pushed me into the back seat and strapped me in. At least I don’t think I did. Maybe I don’t really remember anything, and this is all just a trick of the mind, to make me feel that I have a past. A life where I had parents. A past with somebody other than Elle.

  Sometimes I think I can remember my mother’s face: like mine, only older, redder, wrinkles like a spider’s web weaving around her lips. Other times I’m not so sure. But I’m sure that she didn’t offer any last-minute advice to be a good girl, no quick kiss on the cheek to tide me over. I would have remembered that, wouldn’t I? She slammed the car door, stepped back, and my aunt and uncle drove me away from her like it was the most normal thing in the world. And even then I knew something was over. I had been given away, cast out, dumped.

  ‘Are you listening to me, Irini? I told you I want to talk to you.’ Her sharp voice comes through quick as a blade, wrenching me back to the present.

  ‘What about?’ I whisper, knowing that it has already begun again. I can feel her on me, slithering back into place.

  I listen as she draws in a breath, trying to calm herself. ‘How long is it since we spoke?’

  I edge further away from Antonio. I don’t want to wake him up. ‘Elle, it’s two in the morning. I have work tomorrow. I don’t have time for this now.’ It’s a pathetic attempt, but I have to try. One last effort to keep her away.

  ‘Liar,’ she spits. And I know that’s it, I’ve done it. I have made her angry. I throw the covers off, swing my feet out of the bed and brush my fringe from my eyes. My pulse is racing as I grip the phone to my ear. ‘It’s Sunday tomorrow. You don’t have work.’

  ‘Please, just tell me what you want.’

  ‘It’s Mum.’ The word jars me when she uses it so casually. Drops it like a friend might use a nickname. It feels alien, makes me feel exposed. Mum, she says. As if I know her. As if somehow she belongs to me.

  ‘What about her?’ I whisper.

  ‘She died.’

  Moments pass before I breathe. She’s gone, I think. I’ve lost her again. I cover my mouth with a sweaty palm. Elle waits for a response, but when I offer nothing she eventually asks, ‘Well, are you going to come to the funeral?’

  It’s a reasonable question, but one for which I have no answer. Because to me, mother is nothing more than an idea, a childish hope. A dream. But my nagging curiosity spurs me on. There are things I need to know.

  ‘I guess,’ I stutter.

  ‘Don’t force yourself. It’s not like they’d miss you if you didn’t.’

  I wish that didn’t hurt, but the knowledge that my presence would not be missed is a painful reminder of reality even after all these years. ‘So why ask me to come?’ I say, aware that my mask of confidence is slipping.

  ‘Because I need you there.’ She speaks as if she is surprised I don’t already understand, as if she doesn’t know that I dodge her phone calls, or that I’ve changed my number twenty-three times, and moved house, just to stop her from finding me. Six years I have kept the distance, my best run yet. But she weakens me, and to be needed by her makes me limp. Pliable. ‘And you still owe me, Irini. Or have you forgotten the things I’ve done for you?’

  She’s right. I do owe her. How could I have forgotten? Our parents might have given me away, but Elle never accepted it. She has spent her life clawing her way back to me, her presence littering my past like debris after a storm. ‘No, I haven’t forgotten,’ I admit, as I turn and take a look at Antonio still fast asleep. I squeeze my eyes shut, as if I can make it all go away. I’m not here. You can’t see me. Childish. A tear sneaks out as I clench the sheet tight in my fist. I want to ask her how she got my number this time. Somebody must have it. Maybe Aunt Jemima, the only mother figure I have ever known. If she was still taking my calls I could contact her to ask. Let her know what I think of this latest familial betrayal.

  ‘Call me tomorrow if you are coming,’ Elle says. ‘I hope you can. Don’t make me come to London to find you myself.’ She hangs up the phone before I have a chance to answer.

  2

  I sit stunned on the edge of the bed, watching as the clock changes from 2.06 a.m. to 2.07 a.m. Just five minutes was all it took to undo six years of effort, and now Elle is back in my life as if she’s never been gone. I get up, unsteady on my feet, as if even gravity has shifted. I wrap my dressing gown around me and knot it tightly, dodging the packed overnight bag sitting by the end of the bed. Antonio must be planning to go somewhere, most likely without me.

  I nudge his bag aside and slip my feet into grey cashmere slippers. They were a gift, one of many that Antonio has given me during the three years we have been together. At first it all seemed so easy. But then reality started to creep in, and the idea that Elle could turn up at any moment to ruin things started to take its toll. Of course he didn’t know anything about her at the time, so when things started to go wrong, he thought gifts might help. Now, as I look at him sleeping in the umbra of our old life, his overnight bag packed like so many times before, I realise that no
amount of gifts could ever have prevented this distance between us. Elle is my destiny. Utterly inescapable. She is back, here to ruin things, just like I always knew she would be.

  I glide silently over the laminate floorboards of my depressing end-terrace house in a dark corner of Brixton, and step from the bedroom. I look along the street from the landing window, find it shrouded in shadow with not a soul about. Identikit houses merge into the distance, the warm glow of the city just visible as a marker to remind me where I am. A city so large you can disappear in plain sight. Almost.

  If Antonio was awake he would hold me, listen as I spoke, and then tell me that I should feel better now that I had got it off my chest. It’s an expression he picked up, like people do when they learn a new language, dropping phrases at inappropriate moments. Phrases that are too generic for the situation. Like the time I told him that Elle once killed a dog. Her dog. He said it was all right because I had got it off my chest. As if talking about it made it all go away, and the dead dog with its caved-in head would come sprinting back, tongue hanging out, excited as Toto. There’s no place like home. What a crock of shit that is.

  I pace down the wooden stairs, taking cautious steps as I move about in the dark, one hand on the wall to steady me as I find my way to the kitchen.

  So, I think. My mother is dead.

  I stand at the worktop and fiddle with a stained wine glass, swirling around the last dribbles of Chianti at the bottom. I set it aside and take two mugs from the cupboard, taking care to make some noise. Maybe Antonio will wake up if he hears me. Perhaps he will come and sit with me, tell me everything is going to be all right, like he always used to. I could do with that. It might help settle the panic that Elle’s return has brought with it. I even take a step towards the bedroom, certain that his presence would soften the loneliness. But then I remember the bag on the floor waiting for his exit, so instead I reopen the cupboard quietly and put the second cup away. Is he going to leave me? Maybe. Destiny, I suppose. I’ll have to get used to being alone once he’s gone. I slide a pod into the coffee maker, and when the light on the machine turns red I pick up my cup. The steam hits my face as I take a lip-burning sip.