My Sister is Missing , livre ebook

RedDoor Publishing - Julia Barrett

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164 pages

English

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Just weeks after giving birth, Stephanie Henderson and her baby disappear. With husband Adam in despair, and the police investigation stalled, it's up to sister Jess to find them. But when Adam starts to behave suspiciously Jess begins to question what really happened...Jess fears the worst when she hears of a tragic accident, but was it Stephanie? In turmoil, Jess goes in search ofanswers, but she isn't prepared for what she uncovers...or for what happens next.This is a twisted psychological thriller that will make you question what is real, and whether you really can trust those you love.

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Thriller

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Publié par	RedDoor Publishing
Date de parution	14 mars 2019
Nombre de lectures	0
EAN13	9781912924752
Langue	English

Informations légales : prix de location à la page 0,0150€. Cette information est donnée uniquement à titre indicatif conformément à la législation en vigueur.

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Early reader reviews
‘This thought-provoking novel is full of unexpected psychological layers and twists and turns’
‘A fantastic read that had me gripped … I read it in one suspenseful sitting’
‘A very well-written book which has you hooked from the start… A great read’
‘This was one of those books where the suspense just kept building’
‘…kept up the tension and suspense throughout’
‘I couldn’t put it down, cannot recommend it highly enough’
MY
SISTER
IS
MISSING
JULIA BARRETT
Published by RedDoor
www.reddoorpublishing.com
© 2019 Julia Barrett
The right of Julia Barrett to be identified as author of this Work has been asserted by her in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, copied in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise transmitted without written permission from the author
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
Cover design: Clare Connie Shepherd
www.clareconnieshepherd.com
Typesetting: Tutis Innovative E-Solutions Pte. Ltd
For Brendan
Part One
10th Jan 2017
Some secrets are easy to keep. Others require more ingenuity to conceal. An affair turns two people into liars bound inextricably in a carefully woven web of deceit. Signs can be hidden, precautions can be taken, but sometimes they fail and result in a body of evidence. Something tangible, something alive.
I gaze at her searching eyes. Their almond shape is unlike mine. Will you notice, husband? Will you manage to convince yourself that you can see your features in hers? A genetic mix of my code and yours? Or will you see what I see? His eyes, his nose, with my mouth and chin.
The women in the beds opposite me feed or cuddle close their new, precious bundles. All look calm and content. A perfect image of a second chance. A new life. A fresh start.
How could I have done this to you? To us? I don’t deserve you. I’m not the wife you think I am.
Missing Day One
Jess
Jess opened one eye. The room tilted. Only slightly, but enough to remind her how much alcohol she’d consumed last night. The stale taste of Prosecco made her reach for the glass of water she’d placed on her bedside chest of drawers. Her hand sent make-up flying and her mobile clattering to the floor.
Head throbbing, she hauled herself upright. The events of last night seeped into her brain. The launch of the new research facility had gone well; lots of press interest and a great piece to camera, but after the business end of the event the press office drifted on to Redemption Bar in Shoreditch. The details of the evening from there on blurred into a haze of laughter with colleagues and a fuzzy image of her staggering out of a cab and home to bed.
Forcing herself out of bed she peeked through a slice of window where the curtains failed in their job. Outside, the drab patch of grass which claimed to be a garden was shrouded in mist and the low winter sunlight confirmed that she was probably going to be late for work.
Her pace quickened as she began her morning routine. Showered, dressed, kettle on, she had just enough time to catch the news while eating breakfast before heading into the office. She turned the TV on and began with Sky.
She always made sure that she got a flavour of the news before arriving at work. It helped her keep on top of her game. A game which she knew she was good at too; the University had received significant media coverage since she’d started running the PR team.
Cranking the volume up, she watched the ticker to see if there was anything she could link to a current research project, or whether the launch event was being featured this morning. Nothing yet. It was a big event, and a slow news day, surely someone would want to run the story?
Switching to BBC Breakfast, she brewed her coffee and chased the low-sugar, low-taste cereal around her bowl. Her head pulsated and her scalp seemed to tighten. The cereal made her feel queasy and she quickly scraped the mushy flakes into the bin. Leaning against the kitchen counter and breathing deeply in order to quell the nausea, she stared out of the small window behind the stainless steel sink.
Her gaze was drawn to the flats that reared up from behind the garden wall by the repetitive movement of an arm slowly raising its hand to a mouth, and now and again flicking ash away from the cigarette’s end.
As always, the woman from the flat opposite was stood at the top of the fire escape having a smoke. Clad in a white dressing gown, tinged grey either by the wintery haze or the mixing of white washing with colours, she blew clouds of smoke up into the dull sky.
Jess inhaled deeply. She longed for a cigarette to take the edge off the anxiety that was exacerbated every time she had a hangover. Her neighbour twisted her foot over the cigarette and retreated inside. Jess shivered at the thought of being outside wearing only pyjamas and a dressing gown. The mist looked cold, the sort of mist in which you feel the different air pockets’ temperature rise and fall as you move through it.
The local newscaster’s upbeat voice drew her attention away from the drab yard. From the kitchen she could see into the lounge, and on screen the stunning glass building of the university came into view. The camera panned across, highlighting its scope and architectural prowess, before coming to rest on the presenter and the familiar face of the vice-principal for health.
She moved closer to the TV and listened as the words she’d been writing, mulling over for months, fell out of the presenter’s mouth, hitting her ears like music: ‘award-winning architecture and centre of leading-edge medical research.’ The vice-principal began to talk about the great potential that these world-class facilities offered the researchers and more importantly, how their research could save lives.
‘Local to national,’ Jess whispered and crossed her fingers.
Scurrying into the bedroom to retrieve her phone, she expected to see the usual excited texts from colleagues filling the screen. She scooped up her phone. Several missed calls were listed. All from Adam. A cold breeze prickled her neck. Before dialling her brother-in-law she double-checked the windows were closed. They were. Locked tight.
Adam never calls. Ever.
She touched his name to call him back. Maybe there’s been an accident? Her mind always leapt to the worst-case scenario. It was a reflex action, ingrained into her psyche, as natural as draining the first coffee of the day.
On the end of the line, a small strained voice explained that Steph didn’t come home last night. She’d left her mobile and taken Natalie god knows where with hardly any clothes, and could Jess come over and help him talk to the police?
His words washed over her. She felt like her ears were detached from her brain and a puzzled scowl gripped her brow.
‘Yes, course I’ll come over, but are you sure the police need to be involved? I mean if she’s not taken her mobile, she can’t call you and… I’m sure she’s probably on her way home now.’
As she spoke she realised that not having her mobile wouldn’t stop her sister from getting in touch. She had a memory for numbers, unlike Jess who never felt it necessary to commit any to memory. Perhaps he was right to call the police. A swirling sensation gripped her guts and made her sink down onto the bed.
‘OK. Sit tight. I’ll see you soon.’
Jess stared at her phone and began to rehearse her reason for not coming into work today. She knew today would be busy, her deputy could handle it, but for her own reputation it wouldn’t be ideal. She’d have to ham up the concern. She touched dial and waited for the nasal Mancunian tones of her boss to hit her ears. Instead it went to voicemail. Shit, I can’t leave him a message. She scrolled back through her contacts and winced as she dialled his personal number. She didn’t like using it; it was kept for emergencies.
His booming voice answered. Instead of hearing the usual irritation lodged in his voice, he reassured her it was OK and the right thing to do, but to be available whenever her deputy needed her.
This was a rare moment of empathy on his part. His normal reaction to anyone having a non-work crisis was to belittle them, or make them feel they were being incredibly disloyal. Coupled with his tendency to shout and then drop his voice to a whisper, his simmering menace reminded Jess of her primary school head teacher who had the same vocal range when delivering a good telling-off. Jess felt relieved she wasn’t on the receiving end of one of his well-publicised rants. Yet.
Dashing to the door and fumbling for her keys in the depths of her handbag, she managed to double-lock it despite the key fighting against the lock. She paused in the doorway. Driving rain and a bitter wind lashed the street. She desperately wanted to return to bed, to nurse her pounding headache, but Adam needed her and more importantly, her sister Steph needed her. She forced herself to meet the rain and dash towards the tube station.
Leytonstone station with its Hitchcock mosaics and smell of stale urine mixed with chips and lager was Jess’s usual point of departure each morning. Today the smell made her heave.
Usually she’d walk at speed, heels clipping the pavement, weaving in and out of commuters in the underpass, determined to get ahead of the crowd, but now she drifted in a daze. Her feet seemed to be fighting against an invisible tide of treacle.
My sister is missing? There’s going to be a perfectly reasonable explanation for why she didn’t come ho