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

‘Want one?’
    My mouth felt too dry to eat, but I took a cheese and onion crisp and placed it on my tongue.
    ‘So why did you move here, Grace?’
    And the crisp felt heavy and solid in my mouth. I tried to swallow, but my throat had closed.

4
    Now
    I t took ages to get to sleep last night. Looking through the photo album stirred up so many memories that my stomach churned with regret and my mind refused to still. The sleeping tablets aren’t as effective as they used to be. I resolve to go to the doctor on Monday, pretend I’ve lost my latest prescription. That way I can get some more and double my dose.
    When I last checked the time – frantic with worry that Dan still wasn’t home – it was two in the morning, and I thought I’d never drift off, but now, looking at my clock, it’s past six so I suppose I must have. I jump out of bed so fast my head spins, thrust my feet into slippers and yank my dressing gown off its hook on the back of the door. There’s a chance, I tell myself, that Dan has crept in and crashed on the sofa, so as not to wake me, but as I run into the lounge and turn on the light, only Mittens is there, blinking at the sudden brightness.
    I pull open the curtains. My temples throb as I try Dan’s phone for the umpteenth time, a slideshow of despair flickering across my mind: Dan in a ditch, car upturned, wheels still spinning; Dan mugged and left for dead in an alleyway; Dan bleeding and broken at the side of the road.
    There isn’t much to see past the front garden. It’s still wintery dark and the fog hangs heavily in the air, snaking fingers swirling towards me, rendering the lane invisible. It wasn’t until we moved here that I appreciated how powerful the weather is: now you see it, now you don’t. I shiver, although I’m not cold, and wrap my dressing gown a little tighter. There’s a packet of Polos in the pocket and I slip one onto my tongue. The medication I’m on leaves a foul taste in my mouth that seems to linger all day, no matter how many times I brush my teeth or how many mints I eat.
    I check my watch again, as if I can somehow make time go faster. It isn’t yet seven, too early to really panic, but still, it doesn’t stop me thinking the worst – I always do. Paula used to say it stems from a fear of loss, Dan says it stems from being uptight. I pace in front of the lounge window, carpet pile flattening under slippered feet, a tiger in a cage, backwards and forwards, coiled with tension.
    When did Dan and I begin to unravel? My life seems split into two: before Charlie’s death and after. I think we were happy before, but it’s hard to properly remember. Sometimes it feels like I’ve pushed him so far away it will be impossible to pull him back, but although I’m terrified I’ll lose him, I can’t stem the almost constant irritation I feel. I tell myself it doesn’t matter if he makes a mess, if he doesn’t do the things he’s promised, but I nag him all the same – almost goading, wanting him to bite back sometimes.
    I shiver as the wind howls and rattles the gate. The latch doesn’t hold and it swings wide open before crashing shut again. I’ve asked Dan to fix the catch so many times. I hear a car and strain my eyes to see. Headlights poke through the fog at the end of the lane, like cat’s eyes, and I wait for the car to properly appear. It must be Dan. Our lane only leads to fields. When we bought the cottage I had visions of sheep grazing, or horses hanging their heads over the five-bar gate, but the land is arable. Wheat is farmed here, and every time I eat Weetabix I feel strangely proud, as though I’ve grown it myself.
    The car emerges from the fog. It’s too small to be Dan’s and is barely moving. I wonder whether the driver is lost. There are only two cottages along here. Ours and Mrs Jones’s. She doesn’t have a car and only has visitors at Christmas and on her birthday; besides, who would visit at this time in the morning? It’s