The Other Sister
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Synopsis
First there was The Guilty Wife. Now listen to Elle Croft's next twisty psychological suspense novel, The Other Sister.
How far would you go....
Gina Mills is desperate to be a newsreader, but her boss—the director of the struggling Channel Eight, won't help.
Walking home one night, Gina stumbles upon a dead body, and after calling the police, she makes the split-second decision to report the murder live.
When questioned by the police, Gina can't remember specific details about her discovery, but these memory gaps are explained away as shock.
...to uncover your family's deadly secret?
But when Gina finds a second body, it's clear she's being targeted. But why?
And how is this connected to the death of Gina's younger sister so many years ago?
Release date: August 24, 2018
Publisher: Orion Publishing Group
Print pages: 352
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The Other Sister
Elle Croft
2018
GINA
My eyes fly open.
I’ve kept them squeezed shut for what’s felt like minutes – but which must have only been for a couple of seconds – in a futile attempt to clear my head. To calm myself.
There’s a thumping sound, and my head snaps up to face my bedroom door. I hold my breath as I imagine it flying inwards, revealing an intruder.
My eyes flit back and forth blindly in the dark, until I realise.
That relentless beating. It isn’t coming from outside. It’s my own thrumming heart.
Adrenalin seeps from my pores as my temple and my pulse pound aggressively.
I count backwards from ten. I close my eyes again and focus on sounds in a bid to combat the darkness that’s threatening to control my senses. My breath, sharp and shallow; my heart, its beat settling to a low, steady march, like an army advancing into battle. A siren in the distance. A fox wailing, its harrowing cry echoing under my prickling skin.
Taking a deep lungful of air, my breath catches at the taste in my mouth. Metallic. Sharp. I’ve felt this before, this tingling on my tongue.
Carefully, deliberately, as though keeping my movements steady will somehow slow the passing of time, I turn my head to look. To see. My eyes have adjusted now, and I slowly take in the details of the tableau that’s spread out before me.
My gaze drifts from the shoes strewn carelessly in opposite corners of my room, to the trail of clothing that lies in motionless heaps. Clues, all pointing my way.
And me. Hands in my lap, tense, my body barely perched on the edge of my bed. My fingers, dark and glistening.
I am naked. And covered in blood.
I make out thick, dark smears streaked across my walls, my pillow, my stomach. My hands are shaking, dark red droplets dripping from my fingers into a puddle on the carpet by my feet. I try to remove myself from the pool, its surface glistening in the glow of the street lamp beyond my window.
I push myself further onto the bed, and as I scrabble into the corner, clutching the bed covers, my fingers close on something warm and sticky. For a split second, I let my hand linger. But I don’t turn around to look. I already know what I’ll see.
How did things go so wrong?
I try to clear my mind, to follow the thread of events that led to this. But it’s not a linear path. It’s convoluted. A tangled mess that, if it was picked apart and laid out thread by thread, would probably all end up here, anyway.
Somewhere deep in my gut, an instinct nags at me, reminding me of what I’d rather not acknowledge. Reality is slippery, out of reach, an ever-changing shadow. But there are certain facts as solid as the body in my bed. They’re circling me like predators, screaming the truths I can’t ignore, no matter how much I’d like to.
This isn’t over, they snarl.
You started this.
And only you can finish it.
Chapter 1
2017
RYAN
The smell is a physical force, stopping me mid-step.
I’m frozen in the hallway, nostrils flared, breathing deeply to absorb the scent of my childhood. I wonder if she knows just how much like Mum she’s turned out to be, right down to her incredible cooking skills. I won’t tell her, of course. She’d hate that. But some days, walking into this house, inhaling rich aromas wafting from the kitchen, I’m taken back to the years when this hallway was filled with laughter and love. Before it all fell apart, before sadness seeped into the walls and the thick silence of grief muffled any flickering of happiness.
I shake my head. That was then. This is now. I walk towards the clattering of pots and pans, the giggling that’s erupting from my sister every few seconds, and sigh, relieved that joy has returned, swelling and filling each room, breathing life into a dusty skeleton of a home so nearly destroyed all those years ago.
I announce my entry by clearing my throat loudly, and the couple springs apart, feigning embarrassment.
‘I didn’t hear you coming in,’ says Gina.
‘Probably because you’re making such a racket in here,’ I joke. ‘Smells amazing though, is that mushroom risotto?’
‘Yep,’ Julian says, greeting me with a firm squeeze of my shoulder. ‘You hungry?’
‘Starved. Is there enough there for me?’
‘Of course there is.’
‘Legends. Thank you. Anyone fancy some wine?’
Both Gina and Julian nod heartily, so I retrieve a bottle from the fridge and pour three glasses, watching them move around each other in perfect harmony, like dancers performing a well-rehearsed routine. A familiar pang of envy twists my stomach, followed quickly by guilt. I should be happy for my sister. I am happy for my sister. But watching her and Julian together only highlights what’s missing from my life.
I’ve never had a relationship like the one they’ve got. It’s easy. Effortless. They don’t manipulate each other, and if they disagree about something, they talk about it rationally, listening to each other’s point of view. The few girlfriends I’ve had were all needy and possessive, trying to control who I spent my time with, and allocating a specific number of my evenings to spend with them. With Gina and Julian, it’s different. They never need to insist on spending time together. It’s what they both want to do.
Julian leans across the counter to kiss Gina, quickly, as though it’s an impulse rather than a conscious action, and then continues grating cheese onto the steaming bowls of risotto. Her fingertips gently brush his back as she walks past, taking an empty pan to the sink. I take a sip of the cold wine and imagine what it feels like to be as comfortable with another person as they are together. To not have to hide yourself, or constantly worry that they’ll discover who you really are.
Gina doesn’t know how good she’s got it – no, that’s not true. She knows that what she and Julian have is something special, she’s never denied that. But it’s not enough for her. She wants the career, the house, the respect of her peers.
But they aren’t enough either. I know, because I have those things.
‘OK, dinner’s up,’ she says, handing me a bowl.
‘This looks incredible. Thanks so much.’
‘You’re welcome,’ she smiles. ‘Beats eating your cooking.’
I roll my eyes and follow her into the living room.
‘So,’ I say to Julian as we eat, ‘are you all ready for your shows?’
I still don’t quite understand how he makes a living from illusions and magic tricks, but judging by the planning and stress that’s gone into creating his upcoming two week tour, performances must be a major source of his income.
‘I think so,’ he says, taking Gina’s hand and rubbing his thumb across her knuckles. ‘The set is as ready as it’ll ever be. I’ve sold some tickets, but not enough, which means I’ll need to do most of my promotion on the road. It’ll be hectic once I’m out there.’
‘Still no offers of representation?’
For as long as I’ve known Julian, he’s been trying to find an agency to represent him. All the famous illusionists have managers and promoters and agents – it’s the only way to break into TV shows and book deals and sold-out stadium tours.
He shakes his head.
‘You’ll get there,’ Gina assures him. ‘Soon you’ll be a household name.’
‘Have you got any new tricks?’ I ask, changing the topic. I didn’t mean to bring up a sore point.
‘They’re not “tricks”,’ Gina says defensively, using her fingers to make air quotes.
‘Sorry.’ I hold my hands up. ‘I didn’t mean any offence, I don’t know the correct terms for magic.’
‘It’s not called magic,’ Julian explains patiently. ‘It’s illusion.’
‘OK. So do you have any new illusions?’
Julian pauses and briefly narrows his steely grey eyes at me, then decides to let my sarcasm slide. It wasn’t directed at him, anyway.
‘Actually, I do have a few new elements to my act,’ he says. ‘Do you want to see one?’
‘Sure,’ I say, not wanting to be a spoilsport. I’m not a huge fan of magic – sorry, illusions – but there’s no need for him to know that.
‘Great,’ he says brightly, putting his bowl down and producing a deck of cards from his back pocket with a flourish. Gina sits up straighter, her eyes glued to Julian. I take a sip of my wine, hoping it’ll relax me enough that I’ll enjoy being the subject of his act.
Julian hands me the deck.
‘Take a look through that deck, will you please, Ryan?’ he says, his demeanour completely transforming. Until now he’s been relaxed, slouching, his speech unhurried. Now his shoulders are back and his chin is lifted. His voice has assumed an air of authority, and his eyes are alert. I resist the urge to laugh at the theatrics of it all.
‘It’s just a regular deck, as you can see.’
He watches as I flip through it. He’s right, it’s just a pack of cards, nothing special, no trick cards, no duplicates.
I reach over to hand it back, but he holds a palm up towards me.
‘Not just yet, Ryan. I’d like you to shuffle the cards really thoroughly. Take your time, shuffle them multiple times if you need to. Yes, just like that. Mix them up really well, make sure they’re nothing like the way they were when I gave you that deck.’
I do as I’m told, shuffling clumsily until I’m certain they’re in a totally random order. This time, when I hand them over, he accepts them, immediately spreading the deck across the coffee table in a fluid motion to create a wide, perfectly even arc.
‘Now what I want you to do is select a card, whichever card you like,’ he tells me, his eyes flashing as his voice rises and falls, almost lyrically.
I don’t pretend to deliberate. I just pluck the first card my eyes fall on, and steal a look. It’s the six of hearts.
‘Have you taken a moment to memorise your card?’ he asks. Before I can answer, he goes on. ‘It’s very important that you don’t forget this card; it’s imperative for what’s about to happen next that you keep that card locked in your mind. Do you have it there?’
He taps his forehead and I nod, not trusting myself to speak in case I snort with laughter. I glance at Gina. She catches my eye and a smirk plays at the edges of her lips. She knows how unpleasant I’m finding this, but she also knows I’d never tell Julian how I feel about his profession. I scowl playfully back at her as Julian asks me to replace the card and reshuffle the deck. I do as I’m told.
‘Now what I’m going to do, Ryan, is I’ll select your card from the middle of this deck without any kind of indication from you as to which card that is. Do you think I can do it?’
If this is the best he can do, it’s no wonder he’s not filling the theatres on his upcoming tour. I’ve seen a teenager on a street corner in Covent Garden doing this one for a couple of quid in a hat at his feet. It’s hardly impressive.
‘Sure,’ I say. ‘I believe you can do it.’
‘Well, great,’ Julian says. He waves one hand over the small deck in his hand and then pulls the first card from the top.
‘Now, Ryan, was your card …’
There’s a dramatic pause.
‘… the king of diamonds?’
I’m disappointed, I realise. As much as I hate being duped, this somehow feels worse. I have no idea how to break it to him that he’s wrong, so I just shake my head.
‘No?’ he looks dismayed. ‘Hmmm, OK. Let me just have a think.’
He looks around, at the floor next to him, at the cards in his hand. I shift uncomfortably. There’s something deeply pathetic about a man on the slippery slope towards middle age, who’s failing to be a magician. If he didn’t make my sister so happy, I’d be having serious words with her about her taste in men.
‘Sorry, there seems to have been some kind of mistake. Except … Ryan, sorry, I’ve just noticed that there’s something in your pocket there.’
I follow his gaze to my hip. Poking out the front pocket of my jeans is a card. Smiling out of sheer relief, I pull it out. Sure enough, it’s the six of hearts. I hold it up, impressed.
‘Is that your card?’
I nod. He’s triumphant.
‘What about this one?’
He slides another card from the top of the deck that’s still resting in the palm of his hand. It’s the six of hearts. I look down. The card hasn’t moved from my hand, but now there’s another, exactly the same, in Julian’s. I look from my card to his, trying to process what I’m seeing. He flips another card over. Six of hearts. And then another, and another, and then he throws the whole deck on the table, and every single card is a six of hearts, apart from the single king of diamonds that he fooled me with at first.
I want to be mad. I’ve been played – spectacularly so. But to my own amazement, I kind of enjoyed it. I burst into laughter, and both Gina and Julian join in.
‘OK,’ I concede, breathless. ‘I’ll admit it, just this once. That was brilliant. And you definitely got me. This time, anyway.’
Chapter 2
GINA
‘I’ll take the gnocchi, please.’ I smile at the waiter, snapping the menu closed.
‘Certainly.’ He nods, taking the leather-bound folder from me.
I glance around, taking in the soft jazz music and the occasional clink of a wine glass, the men in suits and the women whose jewels glisten in the glow of the candles flickering at each table.
I’m underdressed. Even in my classiest outfit, the one and only designer dress I own – triumphantly snapped up from a charity shop rack and worn to every upmarket occasion I’ve attended since – I’m decidedly shabby compared to the rest of the diners. I’m glad I thought to accessorise with some sparkly earrings that, to an untrained eye, could just about pass for diamonds.
Smoothing invisible wrinkles in my lap, I look across the table and relax as soon as my eyes catch Julian’s.
‘You’re the most beautiful woman in this restaurant,’ he says.
‘No, I—’
‘Gina,’ he interrupts, taking my hand. ‘That wasn’t a question. It’s a fact. Trust me.’
My cheeks grow warm under the intensity of his gaze.
‘Thank you,’ I manage. ‘You don’t look so bad yourself.’
I cringe internally. Julian always manages to say what he means, sounding genuine and romantic without being cheesy. And in return, I deflect. I make jokes that aren’t funny. I’m like a teenager with a crush, only I’m in my thirties, and in a serious relationship.
He winks. ‘It’s a few days early, I know, but happy anniversary.’
I clink my glass against his.
‘Happy anniversary,’ I echo.
‘Can you believe it’s been two years?’
‘Best two years of my life,’ I say.
And it’s true. Because before I walked into that small, dark theatre, armed with a notepad, pen and cynicism to spare, I’d been wading through life. Getting by. My job was mediocre at best, my flat was little more than a shoebox with a microwave, I’d given up on the notion of romance in my future, and I had just an acquaintance or two at work. I wouldn’t have called them friends.
There was no drastic moment in my adult life that I can blame this complacency on. I’d just slid into hopelessness without realising. For years I’d dreamed of more, I’d longed for a bigger life, a more meaningful existence – a legacy – and then I’d just stopped. Those things weren’t for me, I’d figured. I’d tried, but they hadn’t happened, which meant – in my perpetually sceptical mind – they simply weren’t meant to happen. And so I’d been showing up every day, existing, doing what I needed to, going home to a ready meal and the evening news, followed by hours of mindless Netflix bingeing. It was my daily routine, and I barely gave it a second thought.
And then I sat in the front row of Julian’s show, ready to cover just another local event that would appear on page sixteen of the paper I knew hardly anyone actually read. When he walked onto that stage, the floorboards creaky and sagging, I recognised in him something that I hadn’t seen in myself for years. He was vibrant. Alive. And I was captivated. He was like a gust of wind, blowing open the doors I’d closed so firmly, scattering the debris that littered my life, filling me with hope again.
He insists that it was love at first sight when I approached him after the show for an interview, but I know that I fell first. That day in the theatre, and every day since.
‘I’m sorry I won’t be with you for our real anniversary,’ Julian says, interlocking his fingers with mine in the middle of the table. ‘I’m going to miss you. I hate that I have to be away from you like this.’
‘Me too,’ I admit. ‘But it’s only for a couple of weeks. And it won’t be like this for ever.’
‘I know. But two weeks is still far too long to be apart. Which is why …’
He lets go of my hand and reaches into his jacket pocket, one eyebrow raised theatrically. I laugh, too loudly, only realising how conspicuous I am when heads turn our way. I take an embarrassed sip of my Prosecco, but Julian waves his hand dismissively.
‘Forget about them,’ he says. ‘We’re having a good time.’
He’s right. I need to calm down. I’m wound so tightly with anticipation that I haven’t let myself relax into our last evening together. Even after being with Julian for two years, even when he tells me every single day that he adores me, I still struggle to believe that it’s really happening, that he’s really chosen to be with me.
I place my glass back on the table, and notice a small velvet box sitting in the middle of my plate.
‘What?’ I gasp.
‘Just a little something to remind you that I’m always thinking of you,’ Julian says.
‘Good sleight of hand,’ I say, impressed, as I pick up the green cube. I open the lid quickly, and draw in a quick, delighted breath. Hanging off a delicate chain is a gold pendant, about the size and shape of a bullet, engraved with an intricate pattern of tessellated triangles and small, perfectly parallel lines.
‘What is it?’ I breathe.
‘It’s a capsule necklace,’ Julian says, holding his hand out. I place it in the centre of his palm and he unscrews the top section to reveal a small chamber inside.
‘Back in Victorian times it was fashionable to wear a piece of a loved one’s hair in a locket. I wanted to get something we could both wear, but a locket didn’t seem quite right. This is used for keepsakes. Sometimes a scroll with a note written on it … but I put a lock of my hair in yours. That’s not creepy, is it? I thought it sounded romantic, but now that I’m saying it out loud …’
I hesitate. Julian will have spent weeks researching this gift, making sure it’s laden with meaning, and utterly unique. I love that about him – his insistence on not just buying a present, but an item that’s been carefully considered and that will still be relevant in years to come. This, coupled with his natural flair for theatrics, makes for some unusual gifts. Our first Christmas together, he presented me with a framed print showing how the stars looked at the exact date and time, and from the precise location, where we met. It was the most romantic thing anyone had ever done for me. This necklace is just as thoughtful, and I know he will have put far more effort into choosing it than any gift I’ve ever bought for him.
‘I mean,’ I say slowly, ‘it is a little bit creepy.’
Then I see his expression falling and I add quickly, ‘but I absolutely love it.’
His shoulders drop in relief. I stand up, no longer caring what any other diners think of us, and move around the table to kiss him. Then I crouch down and lift my hair up, indicating for him to secure the chain around my neck. It’s cold against my skin, and heavy. I like the weight of it, the gentle press on my sternum. It’s comforting.
‘Thank you,’ I say as I move back to my seat. ‘I’m never taking this off.’
And I mean it. I do love his gift. I love the meaning behind it. I love the way the pendant looks. I don’t ever have to open it, don’t have to acknowledge what’s inside.
‘You’re welcome,’ Julian says. ‘It’s so we can be close to one another. Even when we’re far apart.’
He looks into my eyes again, his gaze sending fire through my veins. I want to spend for ever in this moment. I want to capture it; find a way to hold onto how happy I am, the way I’m bursting with hope for our future. I try to push down the terror that’s always lurking, not too far behind my joy, telling me that this won’t work out the way I imagine.
‘When we get back to yours,’ he says with a smile, ‘you owe me a piece of your hair.’
He reaches into his shirt and pulls out a matching capsule, his silver rather than gold, but identical in every other way. I can’t keep the smile off my face.
A waiter arrives with our meals, the smell of pumpkin and sage greeting me from my plate. I inhale deeply, closing my eyes to savour it.
‘So,’ Julian says as we both tuck into our food, ‘what are you going to do without me?’
‘I’ll have you know I have a full schedule of social activities planned,’ I say, mock insulted.
‘Really?’
‘No, not really,’ I admit. ‘But I am going to speak to Jacqueline later this week, about my social media idea.’
‘You’ve worked really hard on that,’ Julian says, attacking his steak as though it’s his last meal on earth. ‘She’ll have to say yes.’
I sigh. Julian and I have differing opinions when it comes to my boss at Channel Eight, the successful and celebrated Jacqueline Davies. To me, she’s a tyrant. She frequently makes staff members cry, has absolutely no tolerance for mistakes of any kind, and in the decade she’s been there, she’s never given out opportunities that she feels are un-deserved.
But to Julian, she’s a friend. No. Perhaps friend is overstating things a bit, but an acquaintance at the very least. Close enough that he could ask her for a favour: hiring his girlfriend as her personal assistant. But he’s never seen her at work, doesn’t know what she’s like to deal with day-to-day. She’s the older sister of his closest university friend – a friend whose family he spent every Christmas with until he was well into his twenties – so he’s only seen her when she’s relaxed, not when she’s on the warpath, as she seems to be most days of the week.
I’m not at all confident that she’s going to say yes, no matter how much effort I’ve put into creating a pitch that I think could actually help the channel. But I have to ask.
Jacqueline might not give me the chance I’ve been craving. But what’s that saying that Tash once spouted at me during a particularly infuriating day at work?
Oh, yes. If opportunity doesn’t knock, build a door.
It’s about time I built myself a damn door.
Chapter 3
1996
SHARON
‘Gina! Cassie! Come and get your lunch!’
I throw the tea towel down onto the kitchen counter and roll my neck around to relieve the tension that’s been building since the start of the school holidays. I know I’m an awful parent for even thinking it, but I can’t wait for them to go back to school.
‘Ryan,’ I say, trying to stop the patience from escaping my tone. ‘Please could you go fetch your sisters and tell them that lunch is ready?’
He barely looks up at me from the Game Boy I now thoroughly regret buying him for Christmas.
‘I dunno where they are,’ he mumbles.
‘I can hear them from here. They shouldn’t be hard to find,’ I explain. ‘Besides, I didn’t ask where they are, I asked you to please go and fetch them. And I don’t mean in ten minutes when you’ve reached the next level of Donkey King.’
‘It’s Donkey Kong, Mum.’
There’s no disguising his disdain for me and my complete lack of cool, but I don’t care. As he slouches off to find the girls, I start folding the washing that’s been waiting for me in the hamper on the floor since this morning.
Once that’s done, I get a head start on washing the dishes. I’m on autopilot, thinking about my to-do list as I mechanically dip bowls and wooden spoons in the soapy water. I need to buy cat food, and prepare a menu for Saturday’s dinner party, and get invitations out for Cassie’s eighth birthday. It’s only once I’ve dried everything that it dawns on me how long it’s been since Ryan walked off.
Wiping my hands on a towel, I listen as hard as I can. There’s no sound of feet running down the hallway, none of the girlish giggles that have driven me crazy for the past week. I groan. All they want is food until I’ve actually made some for them, and then they’re nowhere to be found.
‘RYAN!’ I scream at the top of my lungs. ‘GINA! CASSIE! LUNCH!’
The neighbours will be judging me. But I can’t muster the strength it’ll take to walk up the stairs and search for them. I hold my breath, counting for ten seconds, mentally bargaining with them to just come downstairs without making a scene. If they do, I promise myself, I’ll give them ice cream as an afternoon treat.
But they don’t appear and I’m forced to go looking for them, feeling about as enthusiastic as my son was when he left the kitchen table.
I trudge up the stairs, still calling their names as I go, hoping they’ll realise that I’m at the end of my tether. I get to Gina’s room first. Empty. Ryan’s is the same, and so is Cassie’s. I frown, checking my bedroom in case they’ve decided to get up to mischief somewhere they know they shouldn’t be. That would explain the eerie quiet. But that’s empty, too. Cursing under my breath, I make my way back down the stairs, expecting my offspring to jump out at me in a fit of high-pitched squeals. Gotcha, Mum. Fooled you. I half-smile, just thinking about the descent into proud giggles that will no doubt follow, and I brace myself for the attack.
But there’s no incursion, and they’re still nowhere to be found. Not in the kitchen, not in the bathroom, not in the living room. I’m starting to feel uneasy now, that sense of discomfort that comes from not knowing where my children are for every second of the day. Like the first morning I dropped Ryan off at nursery all those years ago. I’d spent the next four hours convinced that he was hurt, or neglected, or crying because he missed me so much. Of course he was fine, and so were the other two when they started. But that fear, I can’t ev. . .
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