Sue Fortin - Sister Sister - A truly gripping psychological thriller

A division of HarperCollins Publishers

www.harpercollins.co.uk

Harper Impulse an imprint of

HarperCollins Publishers Ltd

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

First published in Great Britain by HarperImpulse 2017

Copyright © Sue Fortin 2017

HeikeCover layout design © HarperCollins Publishers 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.

All rights reserved under International

and Pan-American Copyright Conventions.

By payment of the required fees, you have been granted

the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access

and read the text of this e-book on screen.

No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted,

downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or

stored in or introduced into any information storage and

retrieval system, in any form or by any means,

whether electronic or mechanical, now known or

hereinafter invented, without the express

written permission of HarperCollins.

Ebook Edition © January 2017 ISBN: 9780008215644

Version 2018-09-24

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

Title Page A division of HarperCollins Publishers www.harpercollins.co.uk

Copyright Harper Impulse an imprint of HarperCollins Publishers Ltd 1 London Bridge Street London SE1 9GF www.harpercollins.co.uk First published in Great Britain by HarperImpulse 2017 Copyright © Sue Fortin 2017 HeikeCover layout design © HarperCollins Publishers 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. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins. Ebook Edition © January 2017 ISBN: 9780008215644 Version 2018-09-24

Dedication 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!

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Acknowledgements

Coming Soon from Sue Fortin

Also by Sue Fortin

About the Author

About HarperImpulse

About the Publisher

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.’