All right, I thought. If Billy wants to beat you, he can beat you.
It wasn’t hard to orchestrate. ‘Just let him beat you,’ I told Fern. And Fern did exactly as she was told, as usual. I kept time, making sure he was under there long enough to finish him off. It worked like a charm . . . until Mum showed up.
Fern told her it was all her fault, so of course Mum was quick to concoct a cover-up. But afterward, she wouldn’t let it go. She started saying things to me like ‘What really happened?’ and ‘Fern would never . . .’ and ‘Tell me the truth’. She’d become so despondent she had to go to the doctor for sedatives, which made her even more useless than normal. Sixteen years ago, it was easy for a twelve-year-old like me to google how to administer insulin to the hairline, so once Mum was out for the count on valium, I had no trouble at all. I was hoping she’d die, but a brain injury wasn’t a bad result. I thought that would be the end of it.
But when Mum started talking again, telling Fern not to give me her baby, I realised I’d have to finish the job. I’d kept an eye on her from afar, so I was aware she was making advancements even before Fern told me. Who could blame me for trying to defend myself?
By then I’d already started the journal, ostensibly about my marriage. In truth, that had been a surprise – Owen announcing out of the blue that he was leaving because he felt like he didn’t know who I was. I tried to convince him to stay, but he was adamant, so I wished him good riddance. I didn’t need him anyway. I knew Fern would have a baby for me. Sisters do these kinds of things for each other.
The best thing is . . . I didn’t even have to ask. All I had to do was leave the Elevit lying around and the rest was history. Fern would do it; I had no doubts about that. She always did what I wanted. Of course she did, I’d spent a lifetime making her reliant on me. Planting the idea that she couldn’t be relied on – telling her she forgot to pick up milk or left the oven on. Telling her she was supposed to feed Alfie. That one had really got into her head. The result was that she did everything I asked, single-mindedly and perfectly. It was what made her such a great sister. And she didn’t let me down; it only took a ten-day staycation just outside of Melbourne (a.k.a. London) to get the job done.
Admittedly, I’d panicked when I thought the father of my future child was homeless, but I hadn’t given my sister enough credit. Trust Fern to find the only homeless multimillionaire! The baby would be smart, most likely. And one day, if I allowed her to track down her real dad, he’d owe us child support in the millions! I had it all worked out. It was what made it so painful when Fern decided to turn on me. I don’t know why I was so surprised. One by one, everyone seemed to turn on me. Dad. Mum. Owen. Why not Fern too?
The night before she died, I took my journal to Mum, to show her what would happen if she decided to tell Fern not to give me her baby. It was the first time I’d seen her in ten years. Ten years! It had started out well. Mum had seemed overwhelmed to see me. Her eyes had filled with tears and she’d actually gasped. That had been nice.
This is your chance, I’d thought. Make up for lost time, Mum. Show me that your brain injury knocked some sense into you.
I would have forgiven her. I would have let bygones be bygones.
But you know what she said?
‘Don’t take Fern’s baby.’
Ten years. That’s what she said.
Can anyone blame me for what I did?
She didn’t fight me. Why would she? The last time I’d tried to kill her, she’d only ended up with a brain injury. We both knew I wouldn’t make that mistake again.
I sit back in my chair and read over the journal entry I have just written. This is what they want, obviously. Everyone. The police. Fern and Wally. My prison psychologist. Documented proof that I am to blame for everything. Good luck with that.
I rip out the pages and tear them into confetti. On a whim, I throw the pieces up and let them rain down on me. Poof. I’m not an idiot. I’m not going to provide them with documented proof to collude against me. For what? I did everyone a favour. Billy was a pervert and Mum should have been dead sixteen years ago.
And as for Fern’s baby – I’m the only one who cares enough about her to not want her to be raised by an imbecile. A pair of imbeciles! Time and time again, people have rallied against me. Now I know I have no-one. Not even Fern. Fine by me.
I open my diary on a fresh page and poise my prison-issued suicide-proof pen. I have another entry to make. I’ll start with Fern’s recent interest in my insulin dosage and how I administer it. I’ll say how she and Mum hadn’t been getting along and she’d been resenting having to visit her every week. Then I’ll mention how Fern had always loved my bracelet. And how, finally, a few months ago, I’d agreed to lend it to her. What do you think of that, Fern?
I smile. I hope she’s enjoying her time with my baby. Because once this journal is in circulation, she won’t have her long. I’m telling you, Fern might be the librarian . . . but I’m the one who can spin a tale.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
I was watching my little girls play together when the seed was planted for this book. The two of them were rolling around on the grass hugging and giggling with delight, so I took the opportunity to dash back into the house for a moment. But I’d barely crossed the threshold before the moment of harmony turned to bloodcurdling screams.
‘She bit me,’ my older daughter exclaimed, when I charged back outside. Upon inspection I did find a perfect semi-circle of teeth marks.
‘Why did you bite her?’ I asked my younger daughter who was worryingly indifferent to her sister’s pain.
‘Because she annoys me sometimes.’
Sometimes. Not that particular moment. Just sometimes.
The obvious thing to do was to reprimand the younger daughter for biting. But when I tried, my older daughter was indignant.
‘Leave her alone,’ she cried. ‘She’s my baby sister and I love her! Anyway, I’ll bite her back later when she’s not expecting it.’
The next minute they were hugging again.
And if there isn’t a book in that, my name isn’t Sally Hepworth.
But I didn’t do it alone. As always I owe everything to my favourite literary agent, Rob Weisbach, who always answers my questions in record speed (even on weekends) and then insists it wasn’t a stupid or annoying question. We both know the truth. Thank you for lying.
I am indebted to everyone at St. Martin’s, particularly Jen Enderlin who gave me my confidence back when I lost it; Katie Bassel who manages to get me publicity in spite of my terrible penchant for blurting out inappropriate things at inopportune times; Olga Grlic for creating the best covers in the world; and Lisa Senz and Brant Janeway for somehow getting people to know who I am and to buy my books – no mean feat. Also to the rest of the gang at St. Martin’s, who are just so awesome.
To the team at Pan Macmillan, especially publisher Cate Paterson for her patient calming of my neuroses; my sensei-editor Alex Lloyd for his karate wisdom and editorial guidance; and my copy editor Emma Rafferty for making me seem like a much better writer than I am.
To my other publishers around the world, thank you for everything you do.
To my police detectives (who allow me to call them that) – Kerryn Merrett, Andria Richardson and Meghan McInness, for checking my police details and making sure I get them right.
To my writer-gang – Lisa Ireland, Jane Cockram, Kirsty Manning, Rachael Johns, Kelly Rimmer – drinking wine with you all instead of writing is my favourite thing about writing.
On the home front, thank you to my family for putting up with me staring into space a lot, and only half-listening to most of what they say. They know I’m listening to the voices in my head and they have learned to be okay with it. I’ve learned to be okay with the fact that they all leave their shoes all over the house. I think we’re even.
Finally, to the readers who read my books, spread the word and keep me in a job. This book, and every book, is for you.
Sally Hepworth has lived around the world, spending extended periods in Singapore, the United Kingdom and Canada, where she worked in event management and human resources. She is the author of The Secrets of Midwives, The Things We Keep, The Mother’s Promise, The Family Next Door and The Mother-in-Law.
Sally now lives in Melbourne, with her husband, three children and one adorable dog.
Also by Sally Hepworth
The Secrets of Midwives
The Things We Keep
The Mother’s Promise
The Family Next Door
The Mother-in-Law
This is a work of fiction. Characters, institutions and organisations mentioned in this novel are either the product of the author’s imagination or, if real, used fictitiously without any intent to describe actual conduct.
First published 2020 in Macmillan by Pan Macmillan Australia Pty Ltd
1 Market Street, Sydney, New South Wales, Australia, 2000
Copyright © Sally Hepworth 2020
The moral right of the author to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted.
All rights reserved. This publication (or any part of it) may not be reproduced or transmitted, copied, stored, distributed or otherwise made available by any person or entity (including Google, Amazon or similar organisations), in any form (electronic, digital, optical, mechanical) or by any means (photocopying, recording, scanning or otherwise) without prior written permission from the publisher.
This ebook may not include illustrations and/or photographs that may have been in the print edition.
Cataloguing-in-Publication entry is available from the National Library of Australia
http://catalogue.nla.gov.au
EPUB format: 9781760982904
Typeset by Midland Typesetters, Australia
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