Not My Daughter
Page 1
Praise for Suzy K Quinn
‘Layers of intrigue and suspense, with a brilliant sting in the tale. Loved it!’
Mel Sherratt, author of Liar Liar
‘Just brilliant! Ridiculously addictive (I DID NOT put it down) and chock full of twists and turns’
Lisa Hall, author of The Perfect Couple
‘Suzy K Quinn is a born storyteller’
Erin Kelly, author of He Said/She Said
‘OMG! What a book! Brilliantly written and utterly chilling! Just wow!’
Darren O’Sullivan, author of Our Little Secret
‘Creepy and addictive with a genuine shocker of a twist!’
Roz Watkins, author of The Devil’s Dice
‘A twist so unexpected I had to turn back to the beginning to see what clues I’d missed! I thought I’d spotted the magician’s sleight of hand, and all the time I was looking in the wrong direction. Bravo, Suzy K!’
Ruth Dugdall, author of My Sister and Other Liars
‘A twisty and menacing look at modern families. Fantastic; I loved it!’
Ali Knight, author of Before I Find You
‘Deliciously dark; had me gripped from the get-go’
Rebecca Tinnelly, author of Never Go There
A note from your author
I still can’t believe so many people read my books.
Each and every day I am grateful for you, dear readers.
Thank you so much.
If you want to ask me any questions about the books,
or chat about anything at all, get in touch:
Email: suzykquinn@devoted-ebooks.com
Facebook.com/suzykquinn (You can
friend request me. I like friends.)
Twitter: @suzykquinn
Website: suzykquinn.com
Happy reading,
Suzy xxx
Also by Suzy K Quinn
Don’t Tell Teacher
Not My Daughter
Suzy K Quinn
ONE PLACE. MANY STORIES
Copyright
An imprint of HarperCollins Publishers Ltd
1 London Bridge Street
London SE1 9GF
First published in Great Britain by HQ in 2020
Copyright © Suzy K Quinn 2020
Suzy K Quinn 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 © May 2020 ISBN: 9780008323196
Version 2020-05-21
Note to Readers
This ebook contains the following accessibility features which, if supported by your device, can be accessed via your ereader/accessibility settings:
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Page numbers taken from the following print edition: ISBN 9780008323189
This book is dedicated to my twin sis, CS Quinn – an
amazing author and fantastic human being.
Contents
Cover
Praise
A note from your author
Booklist
Title Page
Copyright
Note to Readers
Dedication
Lorna – Once upon a time …
Lorna – Sixteen years later
Once upon a time …
Lorna
Once upon a time …
Lorna
Lorna
Lorna
Once upon a time …
Lorna
Once upon a time …
Lorna
Once upon a time …
Lorna
Once upon a time …
Liberty
Once upon a time …
Liberty
Lorna
Once upon a time …
Liberty
Lorna
Once upon a time …
Liberty
Lorna
Liberty
Lorna
Liberty
Lorna
Liberty
Lorna
Liberty
Once upon a time …
Liberty
Lorna
Liberty
Once upon a time …
Lorna
Liberty
Once upon a time …
Liberty
Once upon a time …
Liberty
Once upon a time …
Lorna
Lorna
Once upon a time …
Liberty
Once upon a time …
Lorna
Lorna
Happily ever after …
Acknowledgements
Extract
About the Publisher
Lorna – Once upon a time …
There was once a woman who had long in vain wished for a child.
– RAPUNZEL
‘Lorna Miller?’
I want to stand up, but I can’t move.
My sister Dee gives my shoulder an urgent shake.
‘Come on, Lorna,’ she hisses. ‘You’re here now. Too late to back out.’
‘Ms Miller?’ The registrar calls again, looking over the room of couples and their new-born bundles. It’s very beige in here. I suppose people don’t want too many stimulating colours when they’re registering births. It might wake the babies.
My bony legs, bare in denim cut-offs, stick to the fake leather seating. Like they’re glued.
It’s warm today. Warmer, I’m told, than usual for the UK this time of year. And it’s spring here. A time of new beginnings.
Dee loses her patience. ‘Miller,’ she says, standing. ‘Lorna Miller. That’s us.’
‘You’re Lorna Miller?’ the registrar asks.
‘No,’ says Dee, placing a hand on my shaking shoulder. ‘She is. I’m her sister.’
Everything feels weird and slow. I’m under warm water and all I can feel is baby Reign’s warmth against my chest and the weight of Dee’s chubby hand.
Dee’s voice becomes urgent. ‘Come on, Lorna.’ She reaches to take the baby.
‘NO.’ My arms lock in one tight muscle and the whole room widens its eyes. ‘Just … give me a second.’
In one swift ‘pulling off a Band-Aid’ movement I get to my feet.
The registrar smiles. ‘It’s okay. Registering a birth isn’t an interrogation. Just a bit of form-filling.’
Dee puts an iron-bar arm around my shoulder. I feel like I’m on a rollercoaster – the part where the ride starts and you can’t get off.
The registrar leads us into his office. There is a UNISON mug on his desk and a half-eaten Trio bar beside it. Two segments left. Trio bars are a peculiarly British sort of candy; too teeny-tiny to ever be popular in the States. I feel homesick, suddenly, for giant Charleston Chew bars.
‘The father couldn’t
be here today?’ the registrar asks. ‘Or …’
‘There’s no father,’ says Dee.
My hands make fists around the baby.
There are chairs either side of the desk – sort of like a police interview room. The window overlooks a half-empty parking lot and a green fir tree.
I drop into the chair, feeling baby Reign against my chest, our heartbeats finding each other – hers like a fluttering leaf, mine like a tribal drum.
‘So you have your forms with you?’ the registrar asks.
‘Here.’ Dee shoves our envelope to the registrar like it’s a biting animal. Her hand drops on my shoulder and I feel she’s shaking too.
The registrar opens the folder and flicks through. He makes a clucking sound. ‘You’ve cut this very fine. If you’d left it any later …’
I nod, but my throat is too tight to reply.
Then the corners of the registrar’s mouth drop down. ‘You’re only seventeen. You have some support here, do you? Your mother?’
‘She’s in the States,’ I say. ‘And she’s not much of a support wherever she is.’
Dee manages something like a laugh, but her hand is still tight on my shoulder.
There is a pause, then the registrar says, ‘You had a home birth?’
I nod, my voice leaving me again.
He squints at the form. ‘And your sister …’
‘She … uh … witnessed the birth.’
‘Yes,’ says Dee.
‘It was just the two of you at the birth? The father—’
‘He’s not in the picture,’ says Dee.
The registrar hesitates for a moment, and I can tell he wants to ask something else.
This is it. The part where I break down and lose this baby …
I risk a glance at Dee. She won’t meet my eye.
And then it happens.
The registrar writes my name in neat black ink.
Mother: Lorna Miller.
I feel Reign’s warm body in my arms and dampness from Dee’s palm.
The registrar’s pen moves to the next box.
Father: unknown.
It was that easy. Who’d have guessed it would be so easy?
‘You’re entitled to benefits,’ says the registrar. ‘Worth looking into. There’s no shame in getting benefits. Especially at your age.’
‘It wouldn’t feel right,’ I say. ‘I’m not from here originally. I grew up in the States.’
‘What about healthcare?’ Dee asks. ‘My sister … she had cancer, sir.’
I make urgent eyes – what are you doing? Dee makes apologetic I had to ask eyes back.
‘You’ll be entitled to free healthcare,’ says the registrar. ‘What kind of cancer did you have?’
‘Bowel,’ I say, just as Dee says, ‘Breast.’
We look at each other.
Dee clears her throat. ‘Um … she had both.’
‘I’m fine now,’ I insist. ‘Really. Not worth talking about.’
The registrar glances at me for a moment, then moves to the next box.
‘What’s the baby’s name?’ he asks.
There’s a long silence. Too long. My mind is wrestling with itself. Trying to pin down thoughts.
I can’t call her Reign. It’s too distinctive. Why didn’t I think of this before?
‘Liberty,’ I decide. ‘Like the Statue of Liberty. Freedom.’ And then more words tumble out. ‘She’ll have a middle name too. Liberty Annalise.’
Dee’s hand clenches my shoulder, her nails digging in. ‘Are you sure you want that name? Annalise? I mean, really?’
I nod.
The registrar looks between us. Then he hands me a pen to write the names. Next comes the hard thunk of an official stamp.
As we walk out of the registrar’s office, I kiss the baby’s soft head over and over again.
Liberty Annalise Miller.
It’s official.
Dee won’t look at me.
That afternoon, I buy a heavy-duty safe with one-inch-thick steel sides. It costs £150 and takes twenty minutes to carry upstairs.
I put Liberty’s birth certificate inside the safe, along with all my medical records and lock it up tight.
The documents are still in there now.
Lorna – Sixteen years later
‘Well, well,’ said the old woman, peering out with a crafty look. ‘Haven’t you got a sweet tooth?’
– HANSEL AND GRETEL
Why isn’t Liberty home?
I’m in my workshop, legs crossed in paint-stained yoga pants, gluing tiny hairs into a foam-filled werewolf head.
Yoga pants? Leggings, Lorna. Leggings. You’ve been in this country seventeen years now. Butt is bum. A knob isn’t always a door handle. And never say ‘move your fanny’ unless you want to cause offence.
The workshop door is open and I can see our front gate, thick as a fist, the wood warm in the sun.
Warm.
Not hot. It’s never hot hot in this country.
I grew up under scorching California sun, but I’ve learned to love these softer British summers. Diet summer. Summer lite.
You know Liberty will be late today. All the students will be talking about their mock-exam results.
These werewolf hairs are a bad job to do while I’m waiting for Liberty. Way too fiddly. But filming starts next week and this guy needs to be ready. It’s ironic that I make monsters for movies, given my past. As ironic as my occasional bacon sandwich with Liberty’s vegan spread. But life never goes like a fairy tale, right? Maybe these teeth could do with more saliva.
I tap my laptop. The screen shows me the photoshop version of Michael, my nickname for this flesh-ripping, vicious beast. A moment later, the screen turns sleeping black and shows me something even tougher than the werewolf.
Me.
Once upon a time, I was skinny, sickly and quiet.
Not anymore.
My eyes, which my sister used to call cornflower blue, are now steel grey, like the weights I lift. Long hair – once short and naive sandy brown – dyed jet black. Arms no longer bony rods but toned and strong and covered in sleeve tattoos. I’m gym-fit and sturdy. Not the frail cancer survivor I was once upon a time.
Of course, I’m like every other tough-looking woman – soft as a marshmallow in the middle. Someone hurt me once. So I got strong. No choice really. It was either that or fade away.
As I reach for silicon glue, I hear footsteps outside the gate.
Please let this be Liberty …
But it’s not my daughter. I know this because Skywalker, our German Shepherd, watches the gate like a mafia boss, body stiff, ears pricked. Skywalker doesn’t do the guard-dog stuff when Liberty comes home; he gets excited, leaping up and down, pawing at wood.
So this must be Nick.
The lock buzzes and my eight-foot wooden gate swings open, making a big, light hole in the safe little world of our house and grounds.
I call out from my workshop, ‘Hey, future husband.’
Nick sidesteps through the gate in his gym gear, biceps bulging with hessian bags of shopping.
‘Hello, future wife.’ Nick bounds into the workshop and kisses my hair. ‘I found everything. Everything on the list. Even cashew nut cheese. I have a good feeling, Lorn. A really good feeling.’ Nick has a Yorkshire accent, which makes his boyish optimism sound even more naive.
Should I tell Nick that my teenage daughter might hate him less if he didn’t try so hard?
No. Nick is who he is. The man I love. Not with obsessive, fake teenage love. Real, sincere, honest love. It happened slowly, like real feelings should. Not overnight, like …
Michael.
Don’t think of him today.
I look around the workshop, mentally naming objects to switch my mind off bad thoughts.
Silicone glue. Silicone paint. Mould. Plaster of Paris. Movie script.
Skywalker trots into the workshop, sniffing the shopping bags.
‘Hey, pup.’ Ni
ck reaches to pet him, but Skywalker barks and runs off.
I give Nick a sympathetic smile. ‘Baby steps, right? Listen, let’s start dinner. I need a distraction.’
‘She’ll be home any minute,’ says Nick. ‘When I was sixteen—’
‘I know. You were hiking alone in the Peak District.’ I lift the shopping bags of sourdough bread, tofu and asparagus. ‘How did that girl of mine get to like all this fancy food? When I was a teenager, all I ate was hot dogs and noodles.’
‘It’s great Libs eats mindfully,’ says Nick. ‘I’m proud of her.’
I bristle at the word ‘proud’ because I know Liberty would. It’s hard, this stepfamily stuff, and somehow Nick always manages to say the wrong thing.
I kiss his cheek. ‘Thanks for getting the groceries, honey.’
‘Anything to get into Liberty’s good books. Do you think she’ll get the results she wants today?’
‘Oh, sure. I never worry about Liberty in the smarts department. She’s so clever.’
Like her father.
I shake the thought away.
‘Anyway, they’re only mock exams,’ I continue. ‘No big deal.’
‘Well, she’s had plenty of time to study,’ says Nick.
‘Oh, yeah,’ I laugh. ‘I never let her out.’
I mean this as a joke, but it comes out sort of sinister.
‘Don’t you think it’s time to let Liberty out in the evenings?’ Nick asks. ‘She’s old enough. I was working at her age.’
‘We have different parenting styles, Nick. I parent Liberty my way, you parent Darcy yours.’
‘We’re supposed to be a team. Teams work together. We have two kids between us. We should parent them both together. Like a family. And we do parent Darcy together. It’s just Liberty—’
‘Look, I know the principle is a good one. But the kids are different ages.’
‘Why can’t I be a dad to Liberty? You’re amazing with Darcy. Better than her own mother sometimes …’
‘God, don’t say that, Nick. Darcy’s mom is doing her best. It’s a tough job raising a little girl with special needs.’
‘Yeah, okay. But you have to admit, Michelle doesn’t get Darcy like you do. The special needs thing doesn’t fit with her image.’ He makes a face. ‘You’re different. You don’t care if Darcy screams her head off in public. And Darcy loves you for that, Lorna. She feels safer here than she does at Michelle’s house. If you can parent her, why can’t I try with Libs?’