The Second Sister: The exciting new psychological thriller from Sunday Times bestselling author Claire Kendal

I offer a hand and he takes it to pull himself up. ‘Then reward me,’ I say, so quietly that only Ted can hear. ‘Tell me what was on her laptop.’

‘What you need to emulate in Ella,’ he says to the women, ‘is that she never gives up.’

I pick up my towel and thrust it at him to mop up the sweat. ‘Too right.’

That snaps him back. He is beside me again. His mouth is near the side of my face so that his whisper whistles right down my eardrum. ‘If you meet Thorne you’re going to need to practise every move there is. And not just the physical ones. He’s an expert at the mind fuck.’ He turns to the women, restored to his usual relaxed and friendly stance. ‘So. Who wants to beat me up next?’

Friday, 4 November

Small Explosions

I am driving away from Bath, where I now live and you used to live. I am driving away from the city that you and I love, to the house in the countryside that our parents brought both of us home to as babies. They will never leave it. They want you to be able to find them. We all want this.

It is only midday, but the dense branches of the trees on either side of this rural lane meet and tangle overhead, plunging me into near darkness for what seems to be an endless stretch. For many miles, I do not pass another car. There are still no cameras along this winding lane. There are still no mobile phone masts. This is the road you made your last known journey on, and it would be all too easy to intercept somebody along it.

He could have moved you under cover of woods, or over one of the many tracks, or through fields on some sort of farm vehicle. He could have got you into a building and hidden you. He could have wound along this narrow lane, then accessed the large road that circles this land before speeding you into another county.

I am working so hard to imagine the different possibilities I nearly overshoot the turning to our parents’ village. It is a turning you and I have made countless times, and one I normally navigate on autopilot. I force myself to look around me more carefully, though I know this landscape so well it is the place I must always go to in my dreams. The old church and graveyard. The pub. The closed-down schoolhouse Dad converted several decades ago, now occupied by our parents’ closest neighbours.

Five minutes after the nearly missed turn, I am sitting with Dad at the same scrubbed kitchen table you and I used to do our homework on. Your son uses it the same way these days, though not right now, because he is in school eating the sandwiches Mum packed for him. She and Dad and I are about to have some private bonding time over the lunch she has cooked for us, and is currently putting the finishing touches to.

I start with the easier thing. ‘Luke wants me to take the doll’s house,’ I say. ‘He wants to have something Miranda loved when he’s with me.’

‘I’m not sure Miranda loved it as much as you did,’ our father says. ‘Though she knew how much it meant to you.’

‘Really?’ I am seriously surprised.

‘Miranda loves it.’ It is our mother’s usual correction of tense. ‘She knows how much it meant … But your father is right.’ She puts a bowl of broccoli on the table. ‘Cancer cells hate broccoli,’ she says.

‘They do,’ I say. ‘Can I take the doll’s house, then?’ I say. ‘Seeing as you both agree that I love it most.’

‘I suppose so.’ She touches our father’s bristly orange head, flitting away from the subject as she does. ‘Only your father has a full head of hair at his age. And not a speck of grey. Look at him and then at his friends. Your father is still handsome. It’s because I take such good care of him.’

Dad laughs. ‘You certainly take good care of me, Rosamund.’

Our father’s head still looks as if it is topped by a scouring pad that has rusted to dull copper. When Luke was six he drew a picture of Dad as one of the creatures from Where the Wild Things Are, snaggle-toothed and goggle-eyed. He drew another picture around that time, of you and me, in imitation of Outside Over There. How can I have forgotten this? I file the memory away, so I can remind Luke that there is a story of a sister searching for her lost sister. And finding her. He made me read him those exquisite books so many times I still know them both by heart.

‘I’m with Mum,’ I say.

‘It’s your mother who hasn’t changed a bit since the very first time I saw her.’

‘Yeah. Dancing that poor man to death during the Giselle rehearsal. Don’t say you weren’t warned, Dad.’

‘Very funny, Ella.’ But she is smiling. ‘Your sister tells the same joke.’

‘I was supposed to be working,’ Dad says. ‘Building something last-minute for the set. But the only thing I could see was your mother. She stood out from all those other Wilis. I nearly fell off my ladder, twisting around to watch her.’

How many times has our father told us this romantic tale? One of his tricks for pleasing Mum, who never tires of it. You used to circle your throat with your thumb and index finger and pretend to mock-choke yourself whenever he did.

‘I love this story,’ I say. ‘And ten months later, Miranda was here.’

‘Yes,’ Mum says. ‘Yes she was.’ She closes her eyes and reaches out a hand. Dad grabs it.

‘Your mother was an enchantress, Ella, from the first time I saw her,’ Dad says.

Mum brushes the compliment away. ‘Your father was the real enchanter,’ she says. ‘The three of us lived among the dust and rubble as he turned a crumbling old wreck of a house into the beautiful thing it is now.’ She gestures her arms slowly out, a ballerina on the stage showing us the world. ‘He made all of this for his family.’

‘You are both magical,’ I say, imagining you closing your eyes, yawning widely, and fainting your head sideways into your cupped hand with a slapping noise.

‘What could the police have been doing with Miranda’s things for the best part of a decade?’ I try to sound casual, despite my abrupt change of subject. I pick up my water glass and lift it towards my lips before realising it is empty.

‘Letting them gather dust in a store cupboard somewhere,’ our mother says. She gives me her sharp look as she sits down. She knows where I am headed. She scoops fish pie from the casserole dish and onto our plates with studied grace and care. ‘Eat your lunch,’ she says.

‘But why finally give them back now?’ I say.

Dad fills my glass from the jug Mum has already put on the table.

‘They probably wanted the space for more recent cases.’ Mum can’t stifle a laugh when Dad signals with a wordless frown that she hasn’t given him enough fish pie, though he has four-times the bird-like quantity she took for herself.

‘They made a big show of victim’s rights when they returned the box, saying it was important that families had their loved ones’ belongings returned as soon as was practicable,’ Dad says.

‘A decade is hardly soon,’ I say. ‘Do you think the timing means anything? So close to the ten-year anniversary, and the new stories about Jason Thorne?’

‘I don’t want you thinking about Thorne, Ella. It simply means that they’d forgotten about Miranda’s things until now.’ Our mother puts more food on Dad’s plate. ‘It’s a mistake to credit them with any plan. It’s all coincidence.’

Dad’s eyes bulge. ‘It’s a confirmation that she no longer matters to them. They put the data into their fancy predictive analytics and the computer tells them where to focus their energy and funds, where the future dangers and risks are. Finding Miranda at this point in time isn’t likely to save someone else. She will be at the bottom of their list.’

‘Where did you get that term, Dad? Predictive analytics?’

‘Ted. He doesn’t like it much either.’

‘It’s just that – I wondered if one of you asked for her things?’ I am searching for any flicker of a reaction from either of them. ‘Maybe if one of you wrote to the police? I can’t make sense of what else would have prompted this.’

‘I certainly didn’t,’ our mother says. She pops out of her chair and turns her back on us to root around in a cupboard.

Dad stares down at the table, moves his glass an inch. His cheeks flush. He looks up and catches my eye before hastily shovelling food into his mouth.

Mum is still facing away, mumbling. ‘Where is it? – Nobody in this family ever puts anything in the right place.’

I mouth the word, ‘Why?’ but Dad shakes his head in warning, a single slow movement to one side and back. When I get him alone I will find out.

Although bonfire night isn’t until tomorrow, somebody in the village is already playing with fireworks. The first burst makes our mother whirl away from the cupboard clutching a grinder filled with black peppercorns. She huffs in irritation as she sits down. ‘Probably some truanting kids.’

‘Yes. Probably.’ Dad watches me lift my glass in the silent toast to absent loved ones that he and I always make. I am looking at your empty chair as I do this. Only Luke ever sits in your chair. Mum and Dad and I always take the places we have occupied for as long as I can remember.

‘You can’t have the box, Ella,’ our mother says. ‘How many times do I need to repeat myself?’

‘Why can’t she have it?’ Our father reaches out a hand but she leans out of reach. ‘Rosamund?’ He stretches farther, until his fingers brush hers.

‘It’s not the box,’ she says. ‘Ella is losing sight of her priorities.’

‘Excuse me, but I am in the room. You don’t need to talk about me in the third person. And I don’t need predictive analytics to see where our priorities lie.’

‘Reviving all of this will lead nowhere.’ She gives our father’s hand a brief squeeze before she slowly rises, her lunch barely touched.

‘Can you say what you mean please, for once, Mum, in plain English? It’s obvious that something’s bothering you but it’s not fair if you don’t tell me what it is.’

‘This isn’t good for Luke.’

‘What isn’t?’

‘Talking about his mother stirs up his feelings. Don’t forget that he’s only ten years old. I realise he is mature for his age, but don’t treat him like a grown-up.’

‘Maybe you shouldn’t treat him like a baby.’

‘How dare you speak to me like that, young lady?’

‘I dare because I’m not young and I’m certainly no lady, that’s how.’

There is another explosion. A plate slips from her hand and lands in the dishwasher with a clatter, but doesn’t break. ‘Damn,’ she says. Your mouth would fall open, to hear her swear. If you were here, the two of us would cackle and mockingly scold her and threaten to wash her mouth out with soap as she used to threaten us, though she never actually went through with it.

Dad holds his hands out to both of us. ‘Can we please start the afternoon over? I don’t usually get my two best girls on their own.’

Our mother looks like she is about to slap him. Or cry. ‘Three best girls. You have three.’

‘Of course,’ he says. ‘I’m sorry. That was careless but you know I never forget.’

She wipes her eyes. ‘I do, Jacob. Of course I do.’

‘We’re all on the same side here,’ he says.

I nod in agreement and say, ‘Yes.’ Then I say, ‘I’m very sorry, Mum. I shouldn’t have talked to you like that. I need to be more understanding and careful.’

‘Be careful of yourself and be careful of my grandson.’

‘I’m always careful of your grandson.’ I try to hand her Dad’s empty plate but she snatches it from me. ‘I thought we promised each other to be open. Always. To share worries and information. We agreed that would be safest. We agreed that sticking our heads in the sand was the dangerous thing. That it was emotionally dangerous to do that and very possibly physically dangerous too.’

‘Every new development needs to be evaluated. There is no single rule that can apply to all of it, Ella,’ she says.

‘I thought it was just a box of stuff that the police think is irrelevant.’

There is another explosion outside, which earns the window a death glare. ‘Why can’t they wait until tomorrow night?’ She is still terrified of fireworks. You and I were never allowed near them, and she finds reasons to keep Luke away too. I know this would make you furious. I know I need to change this. Don’t let her coddle him, Melanie. Don’t let her ruin him. That is what you would say.

I catch Dad’s eye. ‘Are you afraid of what I might find in the box, Mum?’

‘No. Because there’s nothing there. What I am afraid of is raising Luke’s expectations. Of churning up his feelings about all of this. Of frightening him.’

‘Your mother makes a good point.’

‘He’s ten now. The impetus is coming from him. We can’t ignore it.’

‘You make a good point, too,’ he says. Our father is still the family peacemaker.

‘Always the diplomat,’ I say.

‘I do my best. You and your mother don’t always make it easy.’ But he is smiling, as if this is how he likes it.

Our mother stands behind her empty chair. ‘It is not good for your soul, Ella. You’re already too churned up. Remember how you were when it first happened. I don’t want you falling apart again.’

‘I’m not going to. I haven’t come close to that for over seven years.’

‘More like six,’ she says.

‘I’m much, much tougher. I am not the person I was then.’

‘I liked that person,’ she says.

‘People need to change.’

‘Not as much as you have,’ she says.

‘I’ll tell you anything I uncover. We promised each other we’d do that and I will. I’ll share anything and everything. Even if it’s dangerous.’

‘Especially if it’s dangerous,’ Dad says.

‘What about Saturday morning?’ She picks up my plate, slots it into the dishwasher. ‘Do you really think someone was watching the two of you?’

‘Possibly. But do you see how I really do tell you everything? Even the stuff I know will come back and bite me? Most likely it was some random walker out early. It’s doubtful they could even see us through the trees.’

‘Whatever you said to Luke that morning obviously disturbed him.’

‘I don’t think that’s true. Or fair. And he was so happy about the doe. He keeps going on about it being magical.’

Dad looks solemn, which is not a look he readily does. ‘Ella checked the footage from the outside cameras before she left for Sadie’s party. There was nothing, Rosamund. But I did report it to the police.’

‘I’m sure that pushed us right to the top of their predictive analytics list,’ she says.

‘I think we’ve talked enough about this,’ Dad says. Mum glowers. It isn’t often he shuts her down. ‘Luke and I will bring the doll’s house and the box tomorrow night,’ he says. ‘His consolation prize for missing another bonfire night.’ I didn’t think anything could make Mum’s glower deepen, but this last comment does.

I am frightened of our father trying to move the doll’s house with only Luke to help. It is far too large and heavy. I think of the tiny satellite of malignancy in his spine, shrunk down and kept dormant by the injections they give him each month to suppress the male hormones that the prostate cancer cells love. Our father’s bones have weak points, but he refuses to act as if this is the case.

‘Leave the doll’s house for now,’ I say. ‘I’ll come for it another time. Just bring Luke and the box.’

‘No need,’ he says. ‘Luke and I can manage a doll’s house.’

Our mother shoots me a sharp shrewd look that our father cannot see.

‘Thanks but no.’ I manage something more concrete. ‘I need to clear some space for it first.’

What our mother says next is at odds with the small thumbs up she gives me behind Dad’s back. ‘I won’t be coming with your father and Luke tomorrow.’

‘I wish you would. We can order in pizza. Luke would like that. It would be fun.’

‘I’ll eat pizza.’ Our father quickly turns to her. ‘If your mother doesn’t mind.’

‘You do what you like, Jacob.’ It is her martyred voice, the one that used to make you scream. She turns to me. ‘You’re not going to sneak Luke off to a fireworks display?’

‘I wouldn’t do something like that behind your back.’

‘I let you take him out for Halloween on Monday even though it was a school night.’ She makes it sound like this was the most extraordinary concession. ‘Luke says you made a wonderful Catwoman. He was proud.’

‘My everyday clothes,’ I say.

‘True.’ She can’t suppress a small smile. Then she gives me The Look. ‘He mentioned that Ted came along. Dressed as the Joker.’

‘He makes a great super-villain,’ I say.

Ted and I were still furious with each other that night. The morning’s self-defence class was still too fresh for both of us. All of our communication was to Luke, who was dressed as a policeman and too happy in his trick-or-treating to notice the stiffness between the two of us as we followed him from house to house.

‘I promised Luke I’d take him to a fireworks display next year.’ I’m shaking my left foot up and down in nervousness. ‘Halloween and bonfire night aren’t the same thing. He wants both.’

‘Absolutely not. I’ve told you before. Bonfire night is dangerous.’

‘He is a boy, Mum. He’s not made of porcelain. He’s going to be angry if you don’t let him try things.’

‘He’s going to get hurt if you let him try too much. Your father and I may need to reconsider how much time he spends with you.’

‘That’s a bit hasty, Rosamund,’ our father says.

Our father is the recipient of yet more glowering. ‘Don’t keep pushing, Ella,’ our mother says. ‘You’re getting the box and the doll’s house.’

My eyes are prickly with tears, but I know myself well enough to realise they are made of anger as much as sadness. ‘Why are you being so mean? You still have me, you know. I’m still here.’

‘And I want to make sure that doesn’t change. Do you think about what it would do to us if we lost you too? Do you consider how terrified I am?’ Her voice cracks. ‘Imagine how you would feel if something happened to Luke.’

I wave for her to stop. I shake my head for her not to say another word. I cover my ears like a small superstitious child. Because to hear these words about Luke is too much for me.

‘Yes. Exactly. And that is the best analogy I can give you.’ She takes the dessert from the oven. ‘I worry about how far you will go to find out. I don’t think you’ll stop at anything.’ She closes the door with a loud bang. ‘You’re like your sister.’

‘I’m not.’ I know you would agree.

She places a bowl in front of me with heightened care and precision, even for her. ‘You have her determination.’

‘She was the beautiful one.’ I want to deflect our mother from a point that is too true and too frightening for me to contemplate.

‘You look like her twin. You are equally beautiful.’ Our father is still caught in his own loop of paternal fairness to daughters.

‘Well I don’t want to be.’

‘That is where the real difference is,’ our father says. ‘Miranda turned the dazzle on. She sparkled because she wanted all eyes on her.’

‘Jacob.’ Our mother’s voice is a warning and a command. It means, Stop and go no farther. It means, Do not ever say anything that is critical of Miranda.

He makes an attempt at appeasement. ‘You both take after your mother. You have her beauty. But you keep the dimmer switch on, Ella. If you flicked it, those eyes would stick to you too.’

‘I am more comfortable in poor lighting.’

‘I know you are,’ he says. ‘But still you shine. The two of you were so alike, but so different.’

‘Not were.’ Our mother sits down and begins to scoop out apple-and-blackberry crumble. ‘Are.’ She manages a weak smile and leans closer to kiss my cheek, a serving spoon full of crumble still in her hand, dripping purple syrup. Our mother never drips anything, normally. She is not a woman who spills. The kiss makes me blink away tears. I kiss her back.

‘Right,’ my father says. ‘The two of you are.’

‘It’s sweetened with apple juice concentrate,’ our mother says. ‘You know your father can’t have sugar. Cancer cells love sugar.’

‘You mentioned it once or twice before, Mum.’

‘I am keeping your father alive, Ella.’

‘I know you are.’

‘You can’t tell the difference,’ she says.

Our father sneaks a tremor of disagreement and winks at me.

‘I saw that, Jacob,’ our mother says. She wanders to the side of the room, and turns her back on us to stare at a photograph hanging on the wall. It is the last one of you and Mum and me together. Dad snapped it. Mum and I are sitting side by side at a wedding. You are standing behind us, upright and elegant, the front section of your hair pulled back in a jewelled clasp.

The photograph is washed out despite Mum’s care to hang it where the sunlight doesn’t reach. Your dress is a perfect-fitting organza bleached into cream, its sprinkling of bright blue painted flowers drained into pale grey. Your made-up face is faded, the deep maroon lipstick now the lightest pink. Is all of this blanching a trick of the light? I do not want to see it as a sign.

Mum puts my thoughts into words. ‘I look at that, and she is somehow already ghostly.’ She cups the side of her face in her hand, her head tilted to the side. ‘I think she is standing behind us, watching over us.’ She clamps that hand to her mouth and straightens her head, realising that even though she is using the present tense, she has broken her own rule and spoken as if you are dead.

The Photograph

The email is anonymous and already I am betting it won’t be easy to trace. It landed in the charity’s inbox five minutes ago. The sender’s name is ‘An Interested Party’. The subject heading says, ‘Lovers at a Café’. Attached is a single photograph, probably taken with a smartphone and certainly with the location services and time stamp turned on because it was snapped six minutes ago and the name of the café appears on it too.

I do not want our mother to see this, so I sit in my car in front of our parents’ house and forward the email to my personal account. Then I wipe all traces of it from the charity’s. As I am about to drop the phone into my bag, it rings, making me jump a little. It is a blocked number. Normally I don’t answer blocked numbers, but this time I do.

‘Hello?’ My voice is weak. ‘Hello,’ I say again, forcing a strength I do not feel into the word. But there is only silence at the other end of the line, and it is a silence that is so perfect they must have muted the call. ‘Sadie?’ Still there is nothing. I cannot shake the idea that it is her, but I will not give her the satisfaction of hearing a single syllable more of my uncertainty. I tap the red circle to make her go away. Immediately it rings again – once more from a blocked number – and I hit ignore before turning the phone to silent.

I force myself to study the photograph. I need to see in person. I need to know that this is no trick. I throw the phone into my bag with a kind of violence and reverse quickly out of our parents’ driveway. I speed along the winding lane faster than I ever have before, dangerously fast, my wipers on full power but still not quick enough to clear the windscreen in the heavy rain.

Half an hour later, I run my nearside tyres over double yellow lines and stop the car on the corner, not caring if I get a ticket, indifferent even to the possibility of being towed through this Georgian Square that Jane Austen’s characters sniffed at but I have always thought beautiful.

I am not sneaking. If he is still here, I don’t care if he sees me seeing him. Seeing them. This is the only thought I am aware of as I push through the glass door of a café that he knows I have always hated. Is this why he chose it? Because he knows there is little risk of my running into him here?

This place gets rapturous praise for its artisan coffee. My taste buds seem to be the only ones on the planet to find it bitter. It is even more crowded than usual, because so many have rushed in to escape the rain. Despite my initial bravado about whether he catches me here, I am glad to hide in the thick queue.