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Sister Sister: A gripping psychological thriller
Sue Fortin
USA Today bestselling author of The Girl Who Lied‘Gobsmacked…a thrilling finale’ Rachel’s Random ReadsAlice: Beautiful, kind, manipulative, liar.Clare: Intelligent, loyal, paranoid, jealous.Clare thinks Alice is a manipulative liar who is trying to steal her life.Alice thinks Clare is jealous of her long-lost return and place in their family.One of them is telling the truth. The other is a maniac.Two sisters. One truth.What people are saying about SISTER SISTER:‘I would definitely recommend this if you love psychological thrillers’ – Stardust Book Reviews‘Sister Sister has everything – conflict, family secrets and betrayal, all of which go to make it thoroughly deserving of the five stars I’ve given it’ – Brook Cottage Books‘A truly absorbing psychological thriller’ – Joan Hill, Reviewing Recommended Reads
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First published in Great Britain by HarperImpulse 2017
Copyright © Sue Fortin 2017
HeikeCover layout design © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2017
Cover photograph © Wojciech Zwolinski/ Arcangel Images
Sue Fortin asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
A catalogue record for this book is
available from the British Library
This novel is entirely a work of fiction.
The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are
the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to
actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is
entirely coincidental.
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and Pan-American Copyright Conventions.
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Ebook Edition © January 2017 ISBN: 9780008238087
Version 2018-10-26
I couldn’t possibly write a book about sisters without dedicating it to my own sister, Jacqueline.
Although, I feel I must make it clear, this story is nothing like our sisterhood!
Table of Contents
Cover (#u39438a48-5b19-5cdd-b6a6-c267c427b5b4)
Title Page (#uf3560d7e-9373-5a4a-966f-c6b94cec1d4f)
Copyright (#ue182ec76-4189-589f-8b30-fe2bbc706604)
Dedication (#u7ec6e702-671d-5102-8d1c-001b0edd4ab5)
Chapter 1 (#uca26c7a5-f530-5587-b080-7dd5fe1bd1fb)
Chapter 2 (#udfb3768f-12e2-5070-9004-445762f5193f)
Chapter 3 (#ue54b2e08-be03-5154-89ef-862f997bb569)
Chapter 4 (#uae7e8fcf-9b75-57a3-8049-6d015a17ce5d)
Chapter 5 (#ubca4903a-3180-5fc8-bb54-4c745cd544b2)
Chapter 6 (#ue8fd20ca-bd75-51be-ac8a-b02dd752adde)
Chapter 7 (#u1da2338e-c9be-57b2-a7b2-62e160d46240)
Chapter 8 (#ufa416c3e-442b-52fb-b45f-cf58541a7e86)
Chapter 9 (#u5b828da7-e370-5c76-bdfa-54887a177a1b)
Chapter 10 (#u8e4524b8-97d8-59f6-8741-ed80c6c0a85f)
Chapter 11 (#u8dc63551-f8dd-5e37-801b-d17395c96944)
Chapter 12 (#uf3d4da8b-6fd7-5e29-8340-a091d9bc2ea3)
Chapter 13 (#u5da6a583-2d4c-57f4-8943-a9b720258adf)
Chapter 14 (#u3be57448-0a93-5cf2-8ec3-8f82f325beb6)
Chapter 15 (#u6df46283-66d7-5a12-b603-a7a79430b124)
Chapter 16 (#u1a27ccda-cf54-5e51-90e9-9312bfc57979)
Chapter 17 (#u7291bb59-fddf-5c4b-826b-70d148c9f64d)
Chapter 18 (#ube476e55-aba1-5beb-a37a-73ccd24e3dd4)
Chapter 19 (#u784e2b44-b16b-57d2-9ad5-7d40f0a13b7d)
Chapter 20 (#u5aa4bcc6-7c03-5783-a362-816d70cc37a1)
Chapter 21 (#u6d1b5119-549d-5cfe-bdf8-0d47310fab96)
Chapter 22 (#u8ae4bb6d-dfe1-5359-9c6c-867fe8471943)
Chapter 23 (#u11636a0d-5a4d-5de3-bb29-4650d7298f7b)
Chapter 24 (#u66266ad7-70ae-5e26-8762-3d19d33f50a0)
Chapter 25 (#u6404ba7f-e841-5d20-9d2a-02e7e990b921)
Chapter 26 (#u68bcd9d9-01ae-514f-843b-aef9e6803816)
Chapter 27 (#u42cdcd70-31b7-5bb2-909e-18e785c49dae)
Chapter 28 (#u673106c0-9372-563e-87b1-6376f08b096a)
Chapter 29 (#u2d725ecb-04f2-5bf5-abb2-b293343fe54c)
Chapter 30 (#ufb8d5119-edb9-5e41-9b41-7ba1ff85486c)
Chapter 31 (#u12f7fa8f-06e8-5ad4-bb05-9ab45b768d77)
Acknowledgements (#u4b327976-b929-532b-a1c5-cd2570d0bd36)
Also by Sue Fortin (#uf4516c2f-14ba-5221-ab99-e17794e59ae9)
About the Author (#u2b20f6ef-04f4-5c39-a8af-427183079227)
About HarperImpulse (#u94d192e2-6c53-5aa6-b8cf-95de360d21b2)
About the Publisher (#ufe5bd486-81b4-5568-9267-04ffdb07a304)
Chapter 1 (#u9026a6c8-6bf0-571a-8823-501c8f05eb99)
Sometimes the coldest places are not in the midst of winter, when your breath puffs white, your feet are numb from the cold and your fingers stiff and frozen. Sometimes the coldest places are in the warmth of your own home, surrounded by your family.
I’m lying in a bed that isn’t mine; that much I know. The mattress is firmer for a start; there is no familiar softness that I’m used to. I tentatively stretch out my fingers and can hear the faint rustle of cotton against plastic. A waterproof mattress, I decide.
I can feel the weight of the bedding on top of me. Again, the comforting softness of the fibre-filled duvet is absent. A heavier weight, one less supple, rests over me. I raise my finger and move it against the fabric. More starched cotton. The extra weight, I assume, will be a blanket on top of the sheet. I make a little bet with myself that it is blue. Then, on second thoughts, I hedge my bets. It’s blue or green … possibly white. I have been hedging my bets a lot lately. It will definitely be cellular, though. That, I am certain.
So far I have made a conscious effort not to open my eyes.
On the other side of a closed door I can hear indistinguishable voices of people as they walk by, the sounds growing softer and louder like a lapping tide against the shore.
The faint smell of antiseptic loiters in the air, mixed with the odour of a sweet, sterile environment, confirming my thoughts as to where I am – in hospital.
There’s another smell. One I’m very familiar with. It’s the scent of his aftershave, which has a fresh aqua zest to it. I bought it for him for our anniversary last year, eight years married. It’s an expensive designer one but I didn’t mind the cost. I never minded spending money on Luke. It’s called Forever. Turned out it was a rather ironic name. I’m not sure if I’ll be buying him an anniversary present this year. Or any year, now.
‘Clare? Clare, can you hear me?’ It’s Luke’s soft voice, close to my ear. ‘Are you awake, Clare?’
I don’t want to speak to him. I’m not ready. I don’t know why, but some inner sense is telling me not to respond. His fingers curl around mine and I feel the pressure of his squeeze. I have a strange urge to snatch my hand away. But I don’t. Instead, I lie perfectly still.
I hear the swoosh of the door and cork-soled shoes squeak and squelch across the linoleum floor. ‘Mr Tennison?’ a quiet voice asks. ‘There’s a police officer outside. He’d like to speak to you.’
‘What, now?’
‘He wants to speak to Mrs Tennison too, but I’ve told him that’s not possible just yet.’
Luke’s hand slips from mine and I hear the scrape of the chair against the floor. ‘Thank you,’ says Luke.
I listen as he and the nurse leave the room. Luke can’t have closed the door properly as I can hear quite clearly the conversation now taking place.
‘DC Phillips,’ announces the police officer. ‘Sorry to disturb you, Mr Tennison. We were hoping to interview your wife, but the nurse said she’s not regained full consciousness yet.’
‘No, that’s right,’ replies Luke. I can hear the protectiveness in his tone and imagine him standing taller, squaring his shoulders. The way he does when he is asserting his authority. The way he does when we argue.
‘Maybe you could help us.’
‘I’ll try.’ A hint of irritation accompanies his words now. If you didn’t know him, you probably wouldn’t notice it. I’ve heard it a lot recently; more than I care for.
‘How would you describe your wife’s disposition leading up to yesterday’s … er … incident?’ says Phillips.
Incident? What incident? I try to recall what the detective can be talking about, but draw a blank and am distracted as Luke answers.
‘Disposition?’ he says.
