The Liar's Sister

by Sarah A. Denzil

Genres: Psychological Thrillers

Synopsis

Ten years ago, a family lost their son in the quiet village of Buckthorpe and he was never found.

Rosie Sharpe cried over her missing friend for weeks after.
But her little sister Heather knows that Rosie’s tears hide the truth.
Because the night Samuel was last seen, Heather watched her older sister climbing back through the window of their childhood bedroom. Her jacket torn, her eyes wild and her body trembling with fear.

Heather never told anyone what she saw, but secrets can’t stay buried forever…

A decade later, Rosie and Heather return to the home they grew up in when their mother falls ill. But when their house is ransacked and they receive a threatening note, it becomes clear that someone in the close-knit village doesn’t want them there.

When Heather finally confronts her sister about what really happened on the dark, rainy night Samuel vanished, Rosie’s version of the truth is more shocking than she could ever have imagined. But can she trust her sister? And who broke into their house that night? As the lies of the past begin to unravel, they have the power to put the lives of both women in terrible danger…

This twist-filled, page-turning psychological thriller from the million-copy-bestselling author of Silent Child will keep you hooked until the final, jaw-dropping pages. Perfect for fans of Behind Closed Doors and The Girl on the Train.

Release date: September 25, 2019

Publisher: Bookouture

Print pages: 276

Sample

Dear Rosie,

You’ll never read this. Not while I’m still breathing. I don’t even know why I’m writing it. All I know is that I need to get these words out of my head before they eat away at me. What I am about to say is unthinkable. And yet I have to say it. Just once. I will allow myself that.

I think you killed someone.

There, I said it. I’ve thought it for many years but I’ve never dared to write the words down, or say them out loud.

But I’ll never tell. Remember when we’d spit on the stones near the bluebell field and make promises? I kept them all, didn’t I? I’ll spit on the stones again. I’ll never tell.

Rosie, how can I look at your beautiful face and think this terrible thing? Sometimes, even if I’m with you, the thoughts scream at me, tearing through my mind until I can’t hear anything else. It’s a horrible thing to think about a person, let alone the person you love more than anyone else.

And I don’t think you know what I’m thinking. I don’t think you suspect. Do you wonder why we drifted apart? You think it’s because of your addictions and your volatile behaviour, but it isn’t. I would’ve helped you. I would’ve gone with you to rehab, held your hair back as you vomited, poured your booze down the drain and searched your tiny little flat for pills. But I didn’t. I did the unforgivable. I turned away. For the first time ever.

We grew up inseparable as children, with the run of the land around us. And then the day came when we parted and we never found a way to fuse ourselves back to how we were before. It has always felt wrong, like throwing away the matching salt shaker to the pepper mill. But I can’t blame everything on the night Samuel disappeared. It actually began a long time ago, before that night. Do you remember? When Grandad came to live with us we begged Mum and Dad not to force us to share a room. You even tried to convince Dad to convert the attic into a bedroom for you. Grandad could have the ground floor and I would take the room next to Mum and Dad. I know how much you hated the spiders in the attic. That was how much you didn’t want to share a room with me at night. Now I know why you didn’t want to, because you had places to go when darkness fell.

But Mum and Dad were the law, and two single beds were crammed into the ground-floor bedroom. Luckily for you, I was a deep sleeper. I had my own issues to deal with. You remember the sleepwalking, don’t you? Remember when Grandad found me in the woods before breakfast? Sleeping on a blanket of dark-green mossy undergrowth. Nothing could wake me. I believed then, and still do when I occasionally sleepwalk now, that I could walk for miles in my sleep, possibly even hold a conversation, and never know about it. You hear of people wandering over cliffs or onto the motorway in their sleep. Maybe that could be me.

But this letter isn’t about me, it’s about you, and it’s about that night ten years ago. You were seventeen and I was barely sixteen. No, I didn’t wake up when you snuck out. Another stroke of luck was that Grandad had been too proud to take the ground-floor bedroom as Mum and Dad had planned. Which made it easier for you to climb out of the window at night and creep back in the same way.

What you don’t know, because I’ve never told you, is that I saw you climbing back in through the window that morning. I caught a glimpse of your muddied clothes before I pulled the cover over my head and watched you through the thin sheets. It was sunrise and the room was bright, letting the light in through the weave of the old, worn cotton. You undressed quickly and shoved everything in a bag, which you hid at the back of the wardrobe. Then you used the tiny sink we had in the room to wash your hands and face. You were shaking. I thought about getting out of bed to comfort you, but I saw the way you kept glancing at my bed to make sure I didn’t stir.

You didn’t want me to see you.

Instead of helping you, I pretended to sleep until it was time for breakfast. Mum knocked on the door to wake us up around eight. I was cautious at first, waiting to see if you’d tell me where you’d been. Did you go to see a boyfriend? Did you sneak out to a party? Where did you go, Rosie?

We walked through to the kitchen in silence, and the whole time I expected you to pull me to the side and whisper your secrets in my ear. But you didn’t. Mum asked if we’d both slept well, and you nodded your head as you picked the crust off your toast. She asked us what we wanted to do with our Saturday, and you just shrugged. Because the silence was making me uncomfortable, I told Mum that I was taking Lady out for a hack in the woods. I asked you if you wanted to come, but then the doorbell rang and you never got a chance to answer.

It was Lynn Murray, Samuel’s mother, at the door. I heard her squeaky little voice as she started talking to Mum, and my body tensed. By this point, I’d come to expect bad news from any of the Murrays. After a moment or two, I knew something was wrong. Lynn’s voice was even squeakier than normal, and I heard Mum gasp. It was weird that she would come to our house anyway, given what had happened a few weeks before. Why was she here? And what did she have to say?

When Mum came back to the kitchen, her face was as white as the milk in my cereal bowl. I’ll never forget that moment. And I’ll never forget the way you stared down at the table as though you knew what was about to happen.

‘Samuel Murray is missing,’ Mum said. Her words came out in a hurried, breathy whisper. She clamped a hand over her mouth. ‘God! What if he’s run away?’

You got up from the table then, and stormed out of the kitchen, back to our room. Mum sighed and leaned against the kitchen counter, shaking her head, with tears in her eyes.

I didn’t know what to do. Part of me wanted to go after you, but I’d seen your reaction. You were not surprised by what Lynn Murray had had to say, and a freezing-cold fear penetrated my body. I stood up to go to Mum, but she was already gathering her things.

‘I’m going over to the Murrays’ farm,’ she said. ‘It’s not my place, given everything that’s happened between our families, but I need to go. Maybe I can help out.’ She was frazzled, searching for her keys under a pile of laundry before finding them on top of the fridge. ‘Your dad’s working today, but you can stay with your sister or …’ she glanced towards the kitchen door, ‘your grandad.’

I remember standing awkwardly by the door as Mum hastily kissed me goodbye. She’d ruffled up my hair in the process and I had to straighten it out. I remember watching her push her feet into boots, yank open the door and disappear into the garden. And I remember thinking how strange it was that Samuel Murray was missing and you, my sister Rosie, had left the house last night. My stomach churned. I emptied out my bowl of cereal. I rinsed my pots and left them on the draining board. Slowly I walked through the hallway towards our bedroom, but I hesitated because my heart was pounding. He would come back, wouldn’t he? Samuel wouldn’t be missing for long. Someone would find him. He had to come back. My heart continued to thrum at an alarming speed. I didn’t want to think about the alternative and what it would mean for me, and for you, Rosie.

Upstairs, I heard Grandad bumping around, swearing as always. I twisted my body around until I could see the stairs, and then back to our bedroom door. You were in there, keeping your secrets to yourself.

But I couldn’t bring myself to ask you what you knew. The thought made me nauseous. If I asked, would I want to hear the answer?

Instead, I went outside to the shed and pulled down Lady’s saddle and bridle. I went to the stable and stroked her soft muzzle, feeding her the morning mint I always put in my jeans pocket. She breathed hot steam into my ear as I fiddled with the tack until it was in place. We were almost too big for our ponies then, weren’t we? In fact, we stopped riding them the year after. Dad wanted to sell them, but we cried until he agreed to keep them grazing in the paddock until a few years ago, when … Well, you know. You didn’t come, but you know they had to be put down.

Lady swished her tail when I tightened the girth and flattened her ears when I pulled myself up into the saddle. I gave her a little pat on the neck to calm her, like I always did. She trotted politely out of the gate and towards the woods. That morning I wanted to gallop away, out of the village for good. I could feel the weight of this bad thing deep down in my bones. I wanted to get away from you and Mum and Dad and Grandad, but especially you. Even though I didn’t understand the full extent of it, my instincts told me that I had a responsibility to keep your secret, but the burden was already a heavy one.

I didn’t gallop, because I never do. Galloping is what you do, Ro. I’m the cautious one and you’re the wild one. I slowed Lady down to a walk, despite her snorting unhappily at being reined back. We followed the bridle path into Buckbell Woods and I kept hold of her the entire time, keeping her steady for a better view. I was searching for Samuel, hoping he was hiding in the woods. Every part of me longed to see him. I needed to see him.

Lady finally relaxed and I extended the reins, allowing her to stretch out her neck. Beneath me her body moved rhythmically, left shoulder, then right shoulder, dipping and rising. Her ears, pricked forwards, bobbed up and down along with her steps. She pulled on the reins, trying to sneak in a bit of grazing if she couldn’t stretch her legs and canter. It was when I leaned forward to shorten my reins again that I saw it.

So small and inconsequential. Maybe no one else would’ve noticed. But I did.

It was late April, the third Saturday in, and the bluebells had flowered that week. I was right on the edge of the field with Lady, halted on the bridle path, facing the clearing that eventually leads to that creepy little cabin we both hate. There on the ground, a few feet away from Lady’s hooves, was a small object that caught the morning sun peeking through the branches overhead.

I leaned forward, took my feet out of the stirrups and swung my leg over the saddle, landing on damp ground. Carefully, ensuring that Lady did not step on the object, I pulled her forwards and moved towards it. I checked I was alone then. When I was sure there was no one else there, I picked it up and put it in my pocket. Then I climbed back onto Lady and let her gallop all the way home.

Your bracelet weighed heavily in my pocket. The silver charm bracelet that Mum gave you on your eleventh birthday. We have matching ones, don’t we? Almost matching, anyway. Yours has little rose charms all the way around it. Mine has pendant charms with tiny images of heather in enamel. That’s Mum, though, isn’t it? Always so literal.

Lady needed a sponge-down when I got home, but I didn’t do it right away. Instead I strode straight into the house, into our bedroom, where I found you on your bed, headphones on, eyes red. You watched me, face sullen, one knee up, the other leg straight. I went over to your chest of drawers, shoved my hand into my pocket and pulled out your bracelet. When I placed it on top of the cabinet, you never said a word.

You never spoke of it. And I never asked.

Samuel was my friend, my best friend, my only friend, and I never asked because I never wanted to know. For the first few years, I’d imagine another knock on the door, only this time it wouldn’t be Lynn Murray, it would be Samuel. He would be back. But I shouldn’t have been thinking those thoughts, should I? And you know why.

Do you remember the day you blurted out how you wished Samuel was dead? I can’t stop thinking about it. I can’t stop thinking about all the things you did in the weeks before he went missing. He remained missing. No one ever found him. Dead or alive. The police were involved, of course. He remained a missing sixteen-year-old boy, frozen in time. A face on a lamp post.

Deep down, I don’t think I wanted to know the truth because I thought it might kill me. I’ve never been brave, have I, Ro? In the end, I didn’t search for my friend and I didn’t demand the truth from you. I gave up. I tried to move on and I failed, miserably.

Eventually the unanswered questions built up between us and pushed us apart. There was no more spitting on the stones. We grew up. We were practically grown then anyway.

You left to go to university just over a year later, and soon enough you weren’t even coming home for summer. Then one year you skipped Christmas. You were drunk at Grandad’s funeral. You arrived late with some guy, a fresh tattoo on your wrist, unwashed hair, and scarpered before the wake. It was even worse at Dad’s funeral five years ago.

What have you been doing, Rosie? You went from a solid student to intern at an advertising agency, to working in a restaurant, to working in a bar, to borrowing money from Mum, to … I don’t even know what. Who are you? What kind of person passes out behind the sofa at their dad’s funeral?

Now Mum is dying, Rosie. And she wants to see you.

But the problem is, I don’t want to.

Because I think you’re a murderer.

Your little sister,

Heather

Now

Sometimes I feel as though my childhood happened to someone else. Buckthorpe could be an imaginary place that comes to me in my dreams, or a fantasy world in a book. The idyll of my rural upbringing is hazy, leaving me with little more than déjà vu when I stare at Ivy Cottage. I spent eighteen years growing up in this place. I opened and closed the red wooden door thousands of times. I cleaned out the stables at the back of the house. I helped Mum weed the garden until I had blisters on my hands. I waved Dad goodbye from the kitchen table every morning. But it’s all a blur.

Perhaps that’s a good way of viewing childhood, as though it’s nothing more than a dream. Maybe none of it is real until we reach adulthood, and everything that happened before is just the breeze drifting through the curtains at night.

Unless I’m wishing that it wasn’t real. Idle wishful thinking for the woman always stuck in the past, because there is one part of my childhood that isn’t a blur, as much as I wish it was. My mind can’t stop travelling back to ten years ago, almost to the day. To the disappearance of Samuel Murray. And to what my sister Rosie may or may not have done that night.

Ivy Cottage is a probably on the small side for a three-bedroom house. The kitchen and dining room are combined, the living room is snug and always resulted in many crossed-legged positions on the carpet for the family to watch TV together. A few years before Samuel went missing, Grandad moved into the bedroom next to my parents’, and our house was about ready to burst. And yet it feels inexplicably enormous now that I’m the only one living in it.

On my way out of the familiar door, I grab my waterproof coat and my car keys and walk along the road towards the woods. Our nearest neighbours, Joan and Bob Campbell, are a couple of minutes’ walk away from Ivy Cottage. They are quiet retirees who keep to themselves. He used to teach at the local primary school. I remember how we made fun of his expanding waistline, in the way only young children can get away with.

Past their cottage, I enter Buckbell Woods and follow the bridle path; the same path where I rode Lady ten years ago and where I found Rosie’s bracelet. It hasn’t changed a bit – the bluebells are in bloom as they always are in April and May. I wish seeing them brought me comfort, but it doesn’t. At one time, this was my favourite place in the world, but now I find it hard to be here, and yet I’m forever drawn back to this spot. I stop for a moment and stare out into the darkness beyond. But I don’t want to linger. Not in this place. Not when I know who is out there.

I am less than an hour’s walk from the cottage; this is a good spot to turn around and head back. I glance out past the bluebell field once more before turning away.

My phone rings and a bird leaps into the air from a nearby tree. A robin. My heart flutters. I lean forward and catch my breath before answering.

‘Hello? Heather?’ I recognise the voice right away, and it does nothing to calm my startled heart. The woman on the line is one of the nurses taking care of Mum in hospital, and she could be calling me with bad news. Every minute of the day I find myself steeled for the possibility that Mum has slipped away in her sleep overnight, or that this is the moment I drop everything to go to her and keep her company through her last moments.

‘Yes. Is everything okay?’ I ask.

‘Your mum’s fine,’ Susie says, understanding why I’m anxious. ‘It’s just that she was asking about you this morning. I told her you’d be coming in, but I just wanted to check.’

‘I’ll be there,’ I say. ‘I’ve popped out for some fresh air, but I’ll be coming to the hospital this afternoon.’

‘Oh good. I thought so, but … Well, she’s a little agitated today.’

‘Are you sure she’s okay?’ My fingers grip the phone harder. Mum’s cancer has reached the incurable stage, and she will never be okay again. And yet I continuously find myself asking that question.

‘She’s no worse,’ Susie says in a gentle voice, answering as diplomatically as she can. ‘But she has been asking after someone else too. Rosie? Does that name mean anything to you?’

‘Yes,’ I say, the air leaving my lungs. Rosie. ‘She’s my older sister.’

‘Oh, wow, I didn’t know you had a sister.’

‘We haven’t seen each other for a long time. Rosie has … issues.’

‘Ah,’ she replies. ‘That could be why your mum’s thinking of her.’

I find myself nodding my head. ‘You’re probably right.’

‘Anyway, I’ll be working later, so I’ll see you then.’

We say goodbye, I hang up and I then begin my walk back to the cottage.

When I arrive home, I have an hour to kill before visiting hours begin at the hospital. I think back to the call with Susie, to Mum asking for Rosie. When Mum’s cancer worsened, I knew she’d want Rosie to come. Of course she would. Which means I have to do this for her. I suppose you could say I’ve been waiting for this moment. Sitting down at the kitchen table, I retrieve my mobile from my jeans pocket, scroll through my contacts until I find Rosie. Then I call.

A dialling tone. Then nothing. This number has been disconnected. Well, it was a long shot. I haven’t seen Rosie since Dad’s funeral. Five years is a long time in Rosie years. Some people rarely move anywhere in five years. They don’t change their number; they stay in the same house, the same country at least. But not Rosie. She could be anywhere. The last place I remember her living was a bedsit in Brighton.

But Brighton is a long way away and Mum doesn’t have a lot of time left. Even though I’ve tried this before, when Mum first became ill, I fire off a message to Rosie’s last-known email address. After that I try Facebook, the ideal place for people to connect to each other but rarely used for that purpose. Instead we use it for our own vanity, while occasionally spying on our exes. I type Rosie’s name into the search bar, and her profile is the first result. We’re still friends on Facebook, which is a good thing, but I rarely log on, so I don’t know what she’s been up to. In fact this is the first time I’ve logged on since Simon broke up with me a few months ago. I daren’t check to find out if he is still my friend, or worse, whether he’s moved on to another woman. No, I concentrate on Rosie, resisting the toxic urge to know about Simon.

And then I hear Rosie’s voice in my mind, crystal clear: You always were good at delayed gratification. The tips of my fingers tingle at the sound of her words in my head. She teased me a lot about my prim personality. We were opposites. She was the wild, daring one. I was the mouse. The obedient one. I should be the rose, correct and proper. Rosie should be heather, growing wild on the moors. Mum got us the wrong way round.

Rosie’s profile contains a tagged photograph from a month ago, but aside from that she hasn’t updated Facebook for a long time. I click on the photo. It’s nondescript. Two young women drinking coffee in a café. Rosie smiles at the camera, her dark hair spilling over the table. The sight of her takes my breath away, because in this picture she’s Mum’s double. Her eyes that same shade of blue, her hair dark as the unending night sky above Buckthorpe village, her skin neither pale nor tanned, more of a creamy colour. The last time I saw her, she was at least two stone lighter than in this photo, her skin was a waxy yellow and her eyes were red-rimmed and bruised. In short, she was a mess.

But this Rosie glows with health. There is a genuine smile on her face, and that intelligence I always missed when she was deep into her addictions is there in her eyes.

I scroll through older photographs in reverse chronological order, tracking the journey from sobriety to addiction. But I soon stop myself, no longer able to cope with the pain emanating from the computer screen.

Will she come to visi. . .