The Sister: A psychological thriller with a brilliant twist you won't see coming Read Online Free

were anywhere but here.
    The smell of citrus cleaning products was cloying and my stomach lurched as I was overcome with longing for my old school: the smell of plimsolls and poster paint; my old friends; hopscotch and kiss chase. I rested my head back and closed my eyes. It was eerily quiet. We’d been told not to come until after registration so I wouldn’t be quite so overwhelmed, but to me it felt worse. I’d have to join a lesson once it had started. I breathed in deeply, the way Paula had taught me, and tried to transport myself to a happy place. I imagined myself in my bedroom, my real bedroom, the one I’d probably never see again. My fists gradually unclenched and I must have drifted off because the click-clack of high heels roused me. For a second, I had actually believed everything was normal. I was back home and Mum was cooking supper for Dad.
    ‘Here’s Mrs Beeton,’ said Grandad. ‘She’s the one I saw when I registered you.’
    ‘Grace, it’s lovely to meet you.’ The headmistress stood before me, complete with a sympathetic smile. I’d been seeing a lot of those lately.
    I stared silently at her, my lips straight and serious.
    ‘If you’d like to follow me, Mr Roberts? I have some paperwork. Grace, we won’t be long.’
    They hunched over the reception desk, heads close together, and spoke in hushed tones, occasionally throwing worried glances my way.
    ‘I’ll see you later, Pet.’ Grandad’s voice was a little too loud as he waved goodbye a short time later, his smile a little too wide. His footsteps echoed loudly, marching to the drumming of my heart, as I watched him walk out the door.
    I trotted after Mrs Beeton through a warren of identical corridors, slowing each time we passed a window, longing for a glimpse of Grandad, head bowed against the wind, gloveless hands thrust into corduroy pockets. My smart new Clarks shoes squeaked on the linoleum and I could already feel blisters forming on my heels.
    ‘Here we are.’ Mrs Beeton pushed open a classroom door. A sea of faces turned towards us and I’d never felt smaller than I did in that moment.
    ‘Grace, this is Miss Stiles.’
    Miss Stiles pushed her glasses onto the bridge of her nose. She was wearing trousers and was younger than my last teacher, who’d always worn a dress. I prayed she wouldn’t ask me to introduce myself.
    ‘There’s a spare seat at the back, Grace.’
    Heady with relief, I scampered towards the empty chair faster than I should have in my not-yet-broken-in shoes. I splayed my hands to cushion my fall the moment I felt myself slip. My lunch box clattered to the floor and I was sprawled next to it, wishing I could die.
    I didn’t make eye contact with anyone as I tugged down my skirt to preserve what little dignity I had remaining, and scrambled around retrieving my lunch. My yoghurt spoon was missing, but I didn’t care. The lid of my new lunch box hung at an unnatural angle, one of the hinges broken, but I thrust everything back inside and cradled it to my chest. My ankle hurt as I stood and I bit back hot tears.
    ‘I think this is yours?’
    A boy tilted his chair towards me, thrusting out a piece of paper.
    I shook my head. Limped forwards.
    ‘Don’t forget how much we love you, Gracie.’
    I froze, as the words that could only have been lovingly written by Grandad were mockingly read aloud.
    I snatched the paper as the class sniggered.
    The boy jabbed a finger at me. ‘Look, Ginger’s face is as red as her hair!’
    ‘That’s enough, Daniel Gibson.’ Thankful for Miss Stiles’s intervention, I hobbled to my seat, staring at the floor as if it could turn into the Yellow Brick Road, take me to see the Wizard. There’s no place like home.
    It was two to a desk. I didn’t acknowledge my neighbour as she slid her textbook to the centre so I could share it. Hostility I could cope with, kindness would make me cry. I’d done enough of that lately.
    I tried to calm myself by imagining I was on a