The Unsound Sister
Page 20
The knowledge that she could have been terribly wrong sat heavily on her chest. Filled with this doubt, how could she stand before a judge and argue confidently for a client?
Harriet stood up suddenly, limbs shaking in silent rage. ‘No,’ she shouted to the empty apartment. ‘Stop this self pity. You are better than this!’
Determined, she strode for the bathroom, pulling her clothes from her body as she went. Eloise had rocked her to her core, made her doubt the very essence of herself as a lawyer. But Harriet was not so easily beaten. She might be powerless to act on her doubts over the Huxley murder, that was in the hands of the DPP now. She had to trust the process.
Regardless, she was still a lawyer, and a fine one at that. And she would see justice done.
Turning on the shower she stepped beneath the jets, the shock of the ice cold water clearing away a night spent in the agony of self doubt. Enough wallowing, she told herself firmly. It was time to get back to work. Time to step up.
Towelling herself dry she selected a fresh coal black suit and four inch heels with red soles. Hair neatly pulled back in a bun at her nape, Harriet stood straight and gazed at herself in the mirror. Strong, professional, unwavering. She was ready. There were cases to see too.
Yet just below the surface the doubt still shimmered, and the unanswered question remained: which sister really killed Grant Huxley?
Prologue
The little girls stood on the sandy pebbles of Torcross beach. One tall in the awkward way of bourgeoning adolescence, one plump with childhood. Both blonde and fair.
On the sand at their backs lounged their parents, reclining elegantly beneath a beach umbrella striped green and red, forming a wall of dazzling colour as it blended with the other umbrellas that lined the seaside. Father dozing, mother’s nose in a book. Above them the sun shone strong and hot, warming the holidaymakers, the sand and the sea.
The smaller girl, clad in a pink and frilly swimsuit, clutched a pebble in her short, fat fingers.
‘Now, turn it like this,’ said the tall one, gently taking the small hand and helping the fingers to adjust around the smooth, cream stone. ‘Then throw!’
She demonstrated skilfully, her pebble skimming across the calm waters of the bay and bouncing.
‘1, 2, 3, 4, wahoo! Best one today,’ she exclaimed, clapping.
The pudgy pink girl frowned grumpily.
‘Ok sweetie, your turn.’
The little girl took up her stone and… it plopped into the water, heavy and flat. She stamped a little foot into the sand in anger, arms crossed in the tiny fury of childhood failure, and a good dose of petulance.
‘Hey, don’t be upset, Lou. It takes practice, that’s all. Come on, grumpy, let’s take a break and swim!’
In an unmistakeable display of dominance, the older girl clapped the younger on the back, hard, then streaked into the blue waters, all angles and lines and green bathers. She stroked out a little way then lay back in the water, floating peacefully.
SPLASH!
The girl reared up as the wash of the rock plunging into the sea splattered over her face.
‘Hey, careful!’ she called, ‘Aim out that way.’ She pointed down the beach before returning to her gentle floating
On the sand the little face glowered at her sister. Chubby fingers closed around a new stone. Heavy, dark, round, not flat and smooth. Carefully, she balled her fist about it, just as her father had showed her to grip a cricket ball. Eyes focused forward, she brought up her soft fleshed arm and took aim.
This time she would not miss.