by Vivien Brown
swoop in on another man and take him from me. But of course, I was being ridiculous. Eve has
no interest in Colin, other than as the man she can see is making me happy again. I didn’t tell her, or Janey, that our relationship had begun longer ago than I let them assume. As far as they knew, we had met at the hospital, while I was recovering. A patient, already separated from
her husband, meets a handsome single doctor and six months later starts to date him. It could
have come straight from a Mills & Boon. Even Janey approves.
I still have nightmares though. I don’t particularly like sleeping alone. The dark closes
in, and the flames flare up again, and I feel the heat on my hands, where the scars still map out their story.
Tonight we drank too much Merlot, Eve and me, and she couldn’t risk driving home.
For the first time since we were teenagers, we are sharing a room, lying next to each other in
my double bed with the curtains open, looking out at the inky black sky.
‘Do you remember how we used to make stars?’ I whisper, not sure if she’s still awake.
She stretches out her legs in a V, bumping one into mine, and then does the same with
her arms.
‘Reaching out for our own dreams but always close enough to touch.’ She links her
fingers through mine.
‘We’re okay now, aren’t we?’ I say.
‘Yes, Sprout. I think we are,’ she mumbles as she drifts off to sleep.
There’s no bond like it. Sisters. We had come so close to breaking it forever, but we’re
back. She’s even calling me by my old childhood nickname again. Sprout! I like it. Now all I
have to do is find a way to stop the nightmares, the memories, the horror, that still finds me, even on nights like this when all feels so right with the world. But I can’t stop them. I never can.
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I see it all happening again, as I always do, like a play being acted out on the inside of my eyelids. The lorry hurtling towards us, its horn blaring. The car rolling, out of control,
crashing into the tree. The broken glass, the smell of petrol, the wisps of smoke. I look across at Josh, his head lolling forward, his eyes closed, and I am so scared. I manage to open the
door, crawl out, hobble round to his side of the car. I hurt. There is a stabbing pain in my
stomach, and in my leg. People are coming. Shouting. Telling me to get back, wait for the
ambulance, the fire engines.
It’s hot now. I push the duvet back to try to get some air. There are flames creeping,
licking at the engine and I can see him, inside the car, my car, his eyes flickering open, his hand trying to lift itself, pushing at the steering wheel that’s crushing against his chest. I have seconds, just seconds to open that door and pull him out. Seconds to save my husband. I grab
the door handle. It feels stiff, hard, hot. It burns. He’s looking out at me, frightened, his eyes pleading for help. But I don’t do it. I can’t do it. I can’t help him, can’t forgive him, can’t save him. He has hurt me too badly. The fire is too fierce. If I stay, it’s going to take me too.
I let go of the door as the flames leap higher and engulf the car. Someone grabs me from
behind and pulls me away as everything explodes.
I wake up sweating, shaking, Eve still asleep beside me, blissfully unaware of what’s
happening in my head. Of what I have done. I lie there for a while, waiting for my breathing to slow, looking at the ceiling. My ceiling now. My bedroom. My house. All mine. I have the bank account, the life insurance money, the pension. I have my daughter, sad but whole again, with
her life stretching out ahead of her, full of all the possibilities I so casually threw away. We hadn’t started the divorce, nothing was official, so in the eyes of the law, and of his parents, we were married to the end. Surrounded by his things, I can almost pretend he never left. Those months we lived apart were simply a twist in time, a temporary hiccup, a bump in the road. He
was still my husband. I was still his wife. But not anymore. I am a widow now.
Widow. I hate the word. It smacks of black cloaks and closed blinds and musty flowers
and bereavement cards, but it’s what I am. Not exactly a merry widow, but certainly a
recovering one who has already thrown off the bleak black clothes and is wearing red again.
And, at last, I have my sister back. I close my eyes, pull the duvet up to my chin and try
to sleep, feeling her warm toes lying next to my cold ones, her gentle breathing, tinged with
the stale waft of wine, against my neck, her body still star-shaped beside me. It feels just like old times. Good times.
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They say I’m a heroine, that I risked my own life to try to save Josh’s, but it’s not true.
Maybe I could have – should have – tried harder, tugged harder at that handle, but I didn’t. I
let go. And I let him go too.
Because, sometimes, when everything else seems lost, the only thing you can do is save
yourself.
THE END
If you enjoyed No Sister of Mine, you can find Vivien Brown’s other books right
here!
In the mood for even more heart-pounding thrillers to keep you racing through
the pages?
You wil adore The Murder House by Michael Wood, a gripping crime thriller of dark secrets and darker deeds starring the inimitable DCI Matilda Darke in the streets
of Sheffield.
You wil also love The Beach by Sarah Linley, an unputdownable thriller following four friends when their backpacking adventure to Thailand goes horribly,
irrevocably wrong.
And why not try the similarly enthralling Flowers for the Dead by C. K.
Williams, an irresistibly tense suspense thriller set amidst the haunted heaths of
Yorkshire.
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Acknowledgments
First of all, I must thank Irving Berlin. Not that we ever met (I have never been to America and he has been dead for more than thirty years), but it was the lyrics of his song ‘Sisters’, written in 1954 for the movie ‘White Christmas’, that sparked the idea for this novel. When two sisters are close, there’s usually only one thing that is likely to come between them – a man they both have their eye on! As the song says, ‘God help the mister who comes between me and my
sister…’ Copyright rules prevent me from quoting much more, but I’m sure you know the rest.
I come from a family of sisters. For the last four generations, my direct family line
has not seen the birth of a single boy. My mum was one of two sisters and so was I. When my
dad embarked on a second marriage late in life, what happened? Yes, another baby girl was
born, adding a half-sister to the mix. Then I had twin girls, and now my younger daughter has
two little girls of her own. So a big shout-out to all of them, and to sisters everywhere. It’s a unique bond, based on the sharing of bedrooms, secrets and hand-me-down clothes, with love,
friendship and usually a fair amount of rivalry thrown in. As sibling relationships go, I know
no other.
As I emerge from my study, after months of scribbling and tapping away at my novel
with just my characters, my goldfish, and a secret stash of chocolate for company, my thanks
must go to my husband, Paul, who doesn’t usually have a clue what it is I am writing about,
rarely reads any of it, and is the first to admit he could never do it himself in a million years.
His idea of a good read tends to be of the action thriller kind, involving air disasters or car chases, so when it comes to fiction we are not really on the same page, but he fully supports
me just the same, I think in the vain hope that the proceeds of a future bestseller might just
<
br /> allow me one day to buy him a Lamborghini!
As always, I owe a huge debt to the various writers’ groups and societies to which I
belong, especially the Society of Women Writers and Journalists (SWWJ) which celebrated its
125th anniversary in 2019 and recently did me the honour of making me a Fellow. And love
and thanks must also go to my many fiction-writing and romantic novelist friends, especially
the ones I meet up with in real life rather than just on Facebook, who continue to encourage
and support each other through the perilous ups and downs on the bumpy but always exciting
journey to publication we all share. You all know who you are.
Thanks also to my editor and friend Kate Bradley – especially as, sadly, this is the
last book we will be working on together – and to publisher Charlotte Ledger, assistant editor
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Bethan Morgan, copy editor Lydia Mason, and the whole team at One More Chapter for continuing to believe in me and to publish and promote my books.
I am eternally grateful too, to all the book bloggers, reviewers, and especially the
readers, who say such lovely things about my novels. I don’t mind whether you read on a
screen, buy the paperback or borrow it from the library, as long as you keep turning the pages
and enjoying the story inside. It’s a scary, nail-biting moment when a new novel gets released
into the world, and I do hope that this one has lived up to expectations. If you liked it, please take a moment to share your thoughts on Amazon or Goodreads. Even a very short review
means so much. Authors and their work, and the sheer joy of reading and talking about books,
could not continue to thrive and grow without you, the readers. Of all the hundreds of thousands of novels published every year, thank you so much for choosing to read mine.
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Document Outline
No Sister of Mine By Vivien Brown
PROLOGUE EVE
SARAH
CHAPTER 1 EVE Twenty years earlier
CHAPTER 2 SARAH
CHAPTER 3 EVE
CHAPTER 4 SARAH
CHAPTER 5 EVE
CHAPTER 6 SARAH
CHAPTER 7 EVE
CHAPTER 8 SARAH
CHAPTER 9 EVE
CHAPTER 10 SARAH
CHAPTER 11 EVE Five years later
CHAPTER 12 SARAH
CHAPTER 13 EVE
CHAPTER 14 SARAH
CHAPTER 15 EVE
CHAPTER 16 SARAH
CHAPTER 17 EVE
CHAPTER 18 SARAH
CHAPTER 19 EVE Four years later
CHAPTER 20 SARAH
CHAPTER 21 EVE
CHAPTER 22 SARAH
CHAPTER 23 EVE
CHAPTER 24 SARAH
CHAPTER 25 EVE
CHAPTER 26 SARAH
CHAPTER 27 EVE
CHAPTER 28 SARAH
CHAPTER 29 EVE
CHAPTER 30 SARAH
CHAPTER 31 EVE
CHAPTER 32 SARAH Six months later
Acknowledgments