My Sister's Secret , livre ebook

Boldwood Books - Diane Saxon

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188 pages

English

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Description

A chilling psychological thriller from the bestselling author of My Little Brother.

Four sisters, four secrets. Who has the deadliest of them all?

Something happened to me when I was nine.
My childhood memories before that fateful day are gone. Extinguished.
The aftermath has become a living nightmare with a guilt that runs so deep that I’m not sure I can ever tell anyone. I fear I've left it too late...
The burden of my secret and the hurt and pain that silence cost each and every member of my family is too overwhelming.
But you can't avoid fate and now I have the opportunity to right the wrongs inflicted on us.
There was no justice. Not then. Not now. But I can change that.
The big question is, how far am I willing to go?
Diane Saxon’s immersive thriller will have you debating how far you would go for your family to right a wrong…

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Informations

Publié par	Boldwood Books
Date de parution	19 janvier 2023
Nombre de lectures	0
EAN13	9781804264768
Langue	English

Informations légales : prix de location à la page 0,1500€. Cette information est donnée uniquement à titre indicatif conformément à la législation en vigueur.

Extrait

MY SISTER’S SECRET

DIANE SAXON
John, Margaret and Lynn. Because you’re all so precious to me.
CONTENTS

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

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

Chapter 53

Chapter 54

Chapter 55

Chapter 56

Chapter 57

Chapter 58

Chapter 59

Chapter 60

Chapter 61

Chapter 62

Chapter 63

Chapter 64

Chapter 65

Acknowledgments

More from Diane Saxon

About the Author

About Boldwood Books

The Murder List
1

Gary Philpotts, aged fifty-nine, of Adelaide Street, Brierley Hill, was today discharged from court as Judge Marcus Delaney ruled there was insufficient evidence to convict.
Mr Philpotts, accused of inciting a child to engage in sexual activities and other charges, was allowed to go free after the court judge ruled that the CPS had presented flawed evidence.
Flawed evidence! Flawed evidence?
How in hell’s name could the evidence be flawed? The man was guilty as sin, and everybody knew it. The police, the social services, the parents of yet another victim. The courts and that court judge.
Barely aware of the gentle simmer of annoyance, the explosion of unleashed terror and fury took me completely by surprise.
It was the damned newspaper article. I wish I’d never seen it.
I never read the papers these days. Stupid gossip plastered over the front page. This ‘influencer’ or that ‘model’. Some damned foolishness that no one wants to see. We want news. Not ‘he said, she said, tit for tat’ from so-called reality TV stars I’ve never heard of and, quite frankly, never want to.
Today was different, though. There it was, roughly folded and dumped on the table next to the brown sugar and pot of thin wooden stirrers. I almost dropped my double shot caramel latte as I tried to place it on the coffee-stained worktop with trembling fingers.
Air backed up in my lungs and I could almost count the seconds in the silence as I stared at that photograph. Ice chilled my veins. A chill I couldn’t attribute to the air-conditioned Costa coffee hut.
It was the cold memory of fear that trickled down my spine.
That man. That evil beast who had destroyed more than one life in my family. Not to mention the others he’d wrecked too.
My skin crawled.
I wouldn’t have spotted the article if the newspaper hadn’t been lying in the Costa coffee, folded, with Gary’s face uppermost. It was a short article. Almost insignificant. As though it wasn’t important. As if this man didn’t deserve more exposure for the things he’d done. Because there was insufficient evidence, or the evidence had been botched. Not because he wasn’t guilty, but because some bureaucrat decreed that he wasn’t dangerous enough to warrant hanging onto and investigating further just because an ‘i’ hadn’t got the correct dot, or a ‘t’ wasn’t crossed at the correct angle.
Well, that didn’t mean to say it was justice.
Not for the things he’d done. Things he’d managed to get away with for years.
I’d lost my faith in the justice system.
Then again, I’d lost faith in my own sense of justice, if indeed I’d ever had one. It was stolen from me long before it had the chance to properly form.
The sun glared in through an enormous pane of glass to blur my vision of the small photograph of him. Just a head shot. A face.
The bright flash of sunlight on water.
The quick flick of a minnow’s tail.
The swish of a child’s fishing net.
He’d changed, I’d give him that, but I’d recognise him anywhere. Still, that scarred, pockmarked skin that no amount of treatments could ever put right. The hairline that had receded far enough to reveal wrinkles etched deep into his brow. A brow that hung low over eyes I could never forget. Pale, watery blue. Eyes that had haunted my life for what seemed like an eternity.
Eyes that had tormented me with evil deliberation.
The gaze that would follow me around the room, filled with a veiled threat only I could understand.
I swallowed back the hot acid sting in my throat as I reached with trembling fingers for the newspaper. To study it in more detail. Not a reassurance, hardly that. Confirmation though, that it wasn’t my imagination.
Knees turned to water, I backed up, ready to read the small print of the article, and sank into the nearest plastic bucket chair, the curved edges digging into my thigh.
‘Ah, hell.’

Birmingham Crown Court heard the offences happened between October 2001 and March 2002 with a victim who was then eight years old.
During a trial of the facts, a jury considered whether Philpotts had committed twelve acts of indecent assault. They found he had committed three.
Mr Philpotts was issued with an eighteen-month supervision order after the court decided he had been unfit to plead after his mother died under traumatic circumstances at the start of the trial.
The victim, who cannot be named due to their age at the time of the alleged crime, said, ‘I can’t believe this has happened. My life has been a complete nightmare for the past twenty years and he hasn’t given it a second thought. I feel cheated. He’s used his mum’s death as an excuse to be found unfit to be sent to prison. How can that happen?’
The victim claims they were subjected to horrific abuse and have suffered breakdowns and anxiety ever since. ‘This is not justice. He’s not been punished for anything. A supervision order is a joke.’
As part of the order, Philpotts is subject to numerous conditions to limit any contact with children under the age of sixteen to ‘supervised only’.
Supervised only. What kind of punishment is that? None whatsoever.
He’d got away with it. How had that happened?
I dropped the paper on the small, shiny table. I didn’t need to read any more. He’d walked. Free. There would most likely be some kind of mental health order on that decision, but if there was, it wasn’t evident in the newspaper article.
My face turned numb. I don’t know how long I sat, staring into space, before a voice filled with irritation called over.
‘Hey, hey! Is this yours?’
The man was tall, blond, possibly late thirties. Good looking, if a little puffy around the face, possibly from too much drink the night before. Eyes bloodshot. He held my latte up, which was evidently cluttering up the small counter, and gave it a slight sideways jiggle while he balanced a tray of four disposable coffee cups in his other hand.
‘Do you want to move it, luv?’
His passive aggressiveness hung in the air between us. That ‘luv’, said with a downward tone which suggested I definitely wasn’t his love.
There was no saliva in my mouth. I couldn’t swallow. I sent him a jerky nod instead.
Perhaps he thought I was the ignorant one as he dropped the take-out cup none too lightly onto the small table beside me with a slight flick of his wrist, as though it offended him. As though he was doing the queue of people behind him a personal favour by ridding them of my one solitary cup that was evidently barring his way.
Froth sputtered out of the little hole in the top like one of those miniature volcano projects. It ran in foamy rivulets down the side of the cardboard cup and puddled out onto the Formica surface.
There’d been no need for it. No necessity for his attitude.
Why are some people so easily offended by nothing? Like the motorists who hurtle up behind you in a 30 mph zone, pushing, pushing for you to get a move on, go faster, break the speed limit.
Unwarranted aggression.
If I’d wanted, I could have spoken, told the impatient arse to get a life. To maybe understand that bad things happen sometimes. Shock hits people in different ways, and a little understanding goes a long way. Patience is a virtue. Any one of those clichés I could have pulled from my extensive file and launched at him.
I could have reduced him to ashes.
But I didn’t. I couldn’t.
My insides had crumpled, a piece of clingfilm wadded into a tight fist. Limp. Useless.
The bright flash of sunlight on water.
The quick flick of a minnow’s tail.
The swish of a child’s fishing net.
It’s strange how memories long since buried can rear their ugly heads and knock your entire being right on its arse.
I pushed aside the newspaper and lurched to my feet. Unsteady for a moment, I held onto the back of the chair and then headed for the doorway, weaving like a drunkard.
‘Oy, you’ve left your drink!’ Why the blond guy felt a personal responsibility for my latte, I had no idea. After all, it was my bloody drink. I’d paid for it. If I wanted to bloody well leave it behind, it was up to me, wasn’t it?
On a good day, I might have challenged him. Actually, on a good day, I probably would have turned around, smiled serenely and thanked him as I picked up my coffee.
Today wasn’t a good day.
Without looking back, I raised my hand, showing him the middle finger as I punched through the doorway and strode to my car. There was so much I had to do. Literally, I had more than anyone else I knew on my plate right now. Normally I’d handle it.
A sliver of regret edged its way through. I shouldn’t have been rude. There’d been no need. The guy, in all honesty, was probably just trying to be helpful.
I visualised the froth trickling down the side of the cup. Maybe. Maybe not.
I slipped into my car and reversed just as my stomach gave a l