As part of that effort, I took a trip to London with my medical records from Fair Fields to convince DC Forrester of what I believed to be the truth. Once she could smell a loose end she was all over it like a rash, screaming bloody murder at anybody who stood in her way, bothering the Scottish police to push for exhumation. But I needn’t have worried, because it turned out to be hard for anybody to argue with the fact that Fair Fields had been treating somebody who had been registered as having died.
While I was in London, I saw Antonio for the first time since the police let him go. We met at my house when he came to pick up his things. He seemed desperate to make it up to me, to undo what he’d done. He even asked me, What am I supposed to do now? He can’t quite believe how his life has unravelled. He doesn’t realise that none of it really matters any more. Not to me, anyway. I spent three years trying to make him fit, avoiding his pleas to open up. I don’t have to do that any more. When I realised he hadn’t anywhere to stay, I offered him the house. He was only disappointed when he realised I wouldn’t be there.
I stayed in London long enough to pack up most of my things, and to sign the necessary paperwork to get out of my employment contract. Now I am on the road back to Scotland, and the journey is surreal, as if for the first time I am returning to a place where I belong. A place of history.
I arrive in Horton early, three suitcases in the car. I pass the sign for Mam Tor and head up the driveway, the gates already open. It feels right to stay here, for now at least. Matt is waiting for me on the doorstep with takeaway coffees, as if we are somewhere alien and without supplies. But we are not. I am no longer a stranger to this place. Mam Tor might never feel like home, but until Elle comes back, it has to be. I know I am going to wake up here every morning, wondering if this will be the day when she returns. Until then I live in hope that my presence will lure her to me, so that I can begin to undo my part in her crimes.
I unload my clothes from the car, deposit them in one of the other bedrooms, one of the rooms that looks unused. While I have been away, a builder has worked on fixing the corridor so that it is open again, connecting my old room to the rest of the house. I have brought linen with me, starch-crisp, straight from the pack. Matt helps, and we find a degree of comfort in the fact that it feels like we are nesting. Moving forward, starting something new. We have agreed to stay here together for now. Maybe we will leave in the future, return to his nice apartment and a new life. Maybe I will leave on my own and go somewhere else entirely. I’m not sure where I need to be long-term. But for now, being here with Matt is enough. In a few months’ time this house and the whole estate will be mine, and then I suppose I’ll have the freedom to do anything I choose.
The shadow of tomorrow hangs over us, the day of the exhumation, but we spend our time in relative happiness. We get into bed naked and lie there, although neither of us seems interested in making love. It’s like we have covered ten years of a relationship in a few short weeks and are now just happy to be free. He has told me about some of the abuse he suffered in his short time at Fair Fields, and how it makes him want to shut out the world. These are truths I believe I am the first to hear. I get to nurture him, and that seems to undo the past for both of us, one stitch at a time. Our joint story, apportioned into what we once knew as my past and his, tells the tale of Elle, a woman we both need in some way, for she validates the narrative of our lives.
As fate would have it, it is a wet morning, still dark when we leave the house. Accordingly they erect a tent large enough to accommodate both grave and spectators, but the ground was already wet and the cold nips at our toes. A few villagers linger nearby; others hurry past with shivers running up their spines, telling themselves it’s just the chill of the air. I wonder how the diggers feel. Usually they just dig a hole then move on. This time there is purpose, something to discover. A real possibility of striking the jackpot when it comes to the truth.
I wait as they dig, expecting a good few hours of toil on their part. But after little more than an hour they have reached something solid. DC Forrester, who has come up on her day off, clears us out as they uncover what they have found, and we stand in the drizzle listening to rushed instructions and the sound of shifting soil. After another twenty minutes they bring out a small wooden box. It is nothing fancy. Nothing like my mother’s. No golden handles of fancy filigree. They fill in the grave, and within another twenty minutes everybody is clearing out. Forrester assures me they will have the results available within the next few weeks.
‘Just got to sit it out,’ she says, before making her excuses, saying she is on the next flight home. ‘I’ll be in touch.’
Dawn is breaking when we arrive back at the house. My feet are numb, my toes bright pink when I pull off my socks. ‘I’m going to take a shower,’ I call to Matt, who doesn’t suggest he join me.
The water feels good, and it doesn’t make me uncomfortable to be naked in this place in the way that it did before. I let the heat soak into my body, wash my hair. After ten minutes, when the water from the old heating system is starting to cool, I reach for a towel. That’s when I see the shadows under the door.
Even though I know Matt is in the house, my first thought is Elle. I open the door, look left and right now that the dresser has been removed and the corridor is open. I cross the hallway, my old bedroom door already ajar. As I push it open, I find her sitting on my childhood bed. She looks smaller than before, her face dirty. I am sure she has been sleeping rough. Perhaps in the grounds, and I find the idea surprisingly comforting. I close the door behind me and speak softly.
‘Elle,’ I say, my breath catching in my throat. ‘Where the hell have you been?’ I sit down next to her. She gets up, moves to the door. She doesn’t want me near. I know she doesn’t intend to stay.
‘You cut my time with Miss Endicott short.’ There is no smile on her face, no glimmer of delight or pride. Just the facts and an accusation.
‘I’m sorry about that,’ I say, without finding the apology ridiculous. ‘I was only ever looking for the truth.’
‘Well now you have it, Casey. You know what they are going to find when they open that box.’ She opens the door a crack, perhaps ready to bolt in case I have the police hidden, waiting to pounce.
‘Irini,’ I say, and I sense the first flicker of a smile creeping across her face. ‘You did it, didn’t you? You killed her. That’s why they sent you to Fair Fields, and why they sent me away when you came home. They passed me off as Irini to hide your crime, kept me hidden until I had grown big enough to convince people.’ I take her silence as proof of what I believe. ‘Why did you do it?’
She shrugs. ‘What do you want me to tell you? The explanation and logic of a six-year-old? I thought you were smarter than that.’ She shakes her head, opens the door, but then closes it again and turns back to look at me, her body still angled ready to leave. How could a six-year-old girl kill a baby? I try to imagine how it could possibly have happened. But I can’t, and I have to accept I will never know. ‘I guess they started calling you Irini to pretend she still existed,’ she says.
‘No. They did it to cover up your crime. The same reason they gave me away. To protect you.’
‘They tried to keep us both, you know. We were together for a while after I came home. Even after they sent you away, they still hoped that one day they might be able to bring you back. But I couldn’t help myself.’ She looks down at my hip, and now I see why my parents had to let me go, and exactly why they had to keep her. When she arrived home from Fair Fields she hadn’t changed at all. ‘I’m sorry about adding to your list of scars. I thought it might end up like a butterfly. But you should be grateful. Unlike Irini, you at least are still alive.’ She looks away sadly, as if she can’t quite believe how it has all turned out.
When she slips through the door, I jump up to follow her. I catch her at the top of the stairs, just two steps down. ‘Why don’t you stay? I will help you,’ I say. Thoughts of trapping her run through
my mind. I should call the police, force her to atone for what she did. For killing my sister, ruining my life. But I can’t give her up now any more than my parents could.
She smiles, and there is that face I recognise, the one I could never let in. The sly grin, the emotionless eyes. I remember now why I have spent my life running, and understand why my parents sent me away to protect me. ‘Would you trust me to stay?’ she says. ‘Hide me? Would you trust me to sleep next to you?’ I know I wouldn’t. When I don’t answer she says, ‘No, neither would I.’ Then she reaches down and lifts my towel.
Her fingertips brush against the raised lumps of tissue that never really healed. Not the long, straight line that runs as vertically as any decent spine. Instead she focuses on the ragged arcs above it. The marks she made. I remain still, goose pimples running across my skin. She traces her finger along the curve of scar. Is she sad, sorry, hurt? Could be any one or none of those things. And I realise that while I’ve spent all my life believing that I have lost everything, it isn’t the truth; I never lost my parents’ love. My father gave everything he had to save me. He told me so. And deep down Elle knows it. That’s why she will never forgive me, and why I could never trust her again. I fear her now the same as I did when she held a knife to my body on the day I ran for my life. With just the touch of her fingers she elicits the same unease.
‘They faded, at least,’ she says as she drops the towel. ‘That’s what our father always hoped for.’ She turns, walks down the stairs.
I chase after her and catch her just before she slips outside. As I hold her arm I whisper, ‘Elle, do you think our father forgave you?’ She smiles but cannot make eye contact. She doesn’t answer me, at least not verbally, as she disappears from my life. I’m not sure if it is for good. Her own scars run too deep just to walk away.
But although I know she doubts it, I am sure my father did forgive her. Because she was a part of him just like she is a part of me. I can’t say it doesn’t hurt to know that I was sacrificed for her. For the little girl who cut my leg open and killed our sister. But perhaps our parents did what they had to to save not just me, but both of us. The two children they had left. Whatever their motives, I forgive them. I will let the past go, and Elle’s crimes with it. No matter how terrible or scarring their actions really were. Because we are them, and they are us.
We are family.
Acknowledgements
Almost one year ago to the day I sent the first three chapters of this book to a London based literary agency, full of hope that somebody might like what they read. The fact that I now find myself writing an acknowledgements page prior to publication is pretty humbling, especially considering that at that time I thought I had finished. How wrong I was.
So huge thanks go to Madeleine Milburn, who read my submission while she was on holiday in Scotland. None of this would have been possible without her belief, support, and absolute faith in Irini’s story. I am so very grateful to have found an agent who gives such great editorial advice, and who knows how to throw such an awesome Christmas party. Thanks also go to Thérèse Coen for all the foreign rights deals and constant Prosecco top ups (Proost!) and Cara Lee Simpson who dealt with my constant first-time author enquiries. I’ll get better at this, I promise.
I had no idea how hard-working editors in publishing houses were until I met Emily Griffin at Headline. I thought it was all about doing lunch by the Thames – now I realise that’s only part of it. I will remain forever grateful to her for teaching me what it really means to edit a book. Next time dinner is on me. Also to Sara, Kitty, Jane Selley for her copy editing, and Jo Liddiard who is doing a great job with marketing. There are many other people at Headline who have worked on this book whose names I’ve yet to learn. My sincere thanks go to all of you. More publishing thanks go to the team at St. Martin’s Press in the US, including Jennifer Weis and Sylvan Creekmore, who worked alongside the team at Headline to create the first ARC. Anytime we need a meeting in New York, just let me know.
I’d like also to say thanks to my UK based family, who will be pleased to know they were no inspiration when it came to creating the characters in this novel. I love and miss you guys very much. To my Cypriot family, I’m blessed to have been made so welcome, and thankful that you remain amused by my inappropriate mistakes in Greek. I know I am very lucky to have found you all. There are many friends who have played a part in my journey as a writer throughout the years, and thanks go to all of you for the ways in which you have helped. Special thanks go to Michelle Abrahall for the vital role she played in helping me get to this point. You were always, and continue to be, way cooler than me. There are many friends who read early manuscripts and offered me cheer and guidance, and for that I will always owe you. I am fortunate to be able to say there are too many to mention by name.
To Theo and Themis, thank you for offering me your love when you had no reason to. I am grateful for each day that I get to share part of my life with you guys. And to you, Stasinos: none of this would have been possible if it wasn’t for your love, support, salary, and willingness to overlook the multitude of things I forgot to do while I was writing this novel. You are my constant cheerleader, toughest critic, and make me so proud to be your wife. More than yesterday, less than tomorrow.
Tap tap, agapi mou x
About the Author
MICHELLE ADAMS is a British writer living abroad in Cyprus. She is a part-time scientist and has published several science fiction novels under a pseudonym, including a YA dystopian series. If You Knew My Sister (published as My Sister in the UK) is her first psychological thriller. You can sign up for email updates here.
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Contents
Title Page
Copyright Notice
Dedication
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
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Acknowledgements
About the Author
Copyright
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
IF YOU KNEW MY SISTER. Copyright © 2017 by Michelle Adams. All rights reserved. For information, address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.
www.stmartins.com
Our e-books may be purchased in bulk for promotional, educational, or business use. Please contact the Macmillan Corporate and Premium Sales Department at (800) 221-7945, extension 5442, or by e-mail at [email protected].
First published in Great Britain by Headline Publishing Group, an Hachette UK
company
First U.S. Edition: October 2017
eISBN 9781250109101
First eBook edition: August 2017
If You Knew My Sister Page 31