The Stolen Sisters
Praise for Louise Jensen
‘So good, raced through it in a day! Creepy and compelling, another great impossible-to-put-down thriller’
B A Paris
‘A clever, addictive thriller about family, loss and lies. Packed full of secrets and twists, it will keep you guessing until the final page’
Alice Feeney
‘Cements Louise as the writer of beautiful, character-led, yet still page-turningly good thrillers. This will (and should) be huge’
Louise Beech
‘Twisted and suspenseful, each layer of deception is peeled back for maximum dramatic impact’
Woman’s Weekly
‘This gripping psychological thriller slowly lures you in, then keeps you guessing about who’s good – and who really isn’t – all the way to the end’
Heat
‘A very good study of vulnerability, and how our best intentions can often lead us astray’
Guardian
‘Enchanted by danger’
Woman
‘A fast-paced, unputdownable read’
Candis
LOUISE JENSEN is a global No. 1 bestselling author of psychological thrillers. Louise has sold over a million copies of her books and her novels have been sold for translation in twenty-five countries, as well as being featured on the USA Today and Wall Street Journal bestsellers’ lists. Louise was nominated for the Goodreads Debut Author of 2016 Award and the Guardian’s Not the Booker 2018. The Gift has been optioned for TV and film.
When Louise isn’t writing thrillers, she turns her hand to penning love stories under the name Amelia Henley. Her debut as Amelia Henley, The Life We Almost Had, is out now.
Louise lives with her husband, children, madcap dog and a rather naughty cat in Northamptonshire. She loves to hear from readers and writers and can be found at www.louisejensen.co.uk, where she regularly blogs flash fiction and writing tips.
Also by Louise Jensen
The Family
The Gift
The Sister
The Surrogate
The Date
Writing as Amelia Henley
The Life We Almost Had
Copyright
An imprint of HarperCollins Publishers Ltd
1 London Bridge Street
London SE1 9GF
First published in Great Britain by HQ in 2020
Copyright © Louise Jensen 2020
Louise Jensen asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.
Ebook Edition © October 2020 ISBN: 9780008330149
Version 2020-08-26
Note to Readers
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Page numbers taken from the following print edition: ISBN 9780008330132
For Finley Duffy
Who always has the best ideas…
Contents
Cover
Praise
About the Author
Booklist
Title Page
Copyright
Note to Readers
Dedication
Part One
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-Two
Part Two
Chapter Forty-Three
Chapter Forty-Four
Chapter Forty-Five
Chapter Forty-Six
Chapter Forty-Seven
Chapter Forty-Eight
Chapter Forty-Nine
Chapter Fifty
Chapter Fifty-One
Chapter Fifty-Two
Chapter Fifty-Three
Chapter Fifty-Four
Chapter Fifty-Five
Chapter Fifty-Six
Chapter Fifty-Seven
Chapter Fifty-Eight
Chapter Fifty-Nine
Chapter Sixty
Chapter Sixty-One
Chapter Sixty-Two
Chapter Sixty-Three
Chapter Sixty-Four
Chapter Sixty-Five
Chapter Sixty-Six
Chapter Sixty-Seven
Chapter Sixty-Eight
Chapter Sixty-Nine
Chapter Seventy
Chapter Seventy-One
Chapter Seventy-Two
Chapter Seventy-Three
Chapter Seventy-Four
Chapter Seventy-Five
Chapter Seventy-Six
Chapter Seventy-Seven
Chapter Seventy-Eight
Chapter Seventy-Nine
Chapter Eighty
Chapter Eighty-One
Epilogue
The following letter contains spoilers
Acknowledgements
Book Club Questions
Extract
About the Publisher
Chapter One
Carly
Then
When Carly looked back at that day the memory was in shades of grey; the trauma had sucked the blue from the sky, the green from the freshly mown grass. She had sat on the back doorstep, the coolness of the concrete permeating through her school skirt, the late-afternoon sun warming her bare arms. Carly remembers now the blackness of a beetle scurrying down the path before it disappeared into the soil under the rose bush. The stark white of the twins’ socks, bunched below their knees.
Inconsequential details that later the police would jot in their notebooks as though Carly was somehow being a great help but she knew she wasn’t, and worse than that, she knew it was entirely her fault.
It had all been so frustratingly normal. Leah and Marie had shrieked in mock disgust as Bruno, their boxer, bounded towards them, drool spilling from his jowls. But their screams then still carried an undercurrent of happiness, not like later when their cries were full of fear and there was nowhere to run to.
The things that have stayed with Carly are this.
The way her fingers gripped the cumbersome Nokia in her hand as though she was clutching a secret. Her annoyance as she angled her screen to avoid the glare, never dreaming that soon she would be craving daylight.
Fresh air.
Space.
The pounding in her head increasing as the girls bounced a tennis ball between them across the patio. The way she had snapped at the twins as though it was their fault Dean Malden hadn’t texted her. Of all the things that she could, that she should, feel guilty about, she had never forgiven herself that the last words she spoke to her sisters before they were all irrevocably damaged was in anger rather than kindness.
Although in truth, she had never forgiven herself for any of it.
‘Shut up!’ She had roared out her frustration that the first boy she loved had shattered her thirteen-year-old heart. Crazy now to recall that she once thought the absence of a text was the end of the world. There were far worse things. Far worse people than the floppy-haired blond boy who had let her down.
Her younger sisters turned to her, identical green eyes wide. Marie’s sight trained on Carly’s face as she chucked the ball for Bruno. Carly’s irritation grew as she watched it fly over the fence.
‘For God’s sake.’ She stood, brushing the dust from the back of her sensible pleated skirt. ‘It’s time to come in.’
‘But that’s not fair.’ Marie looked stricken as her gaze flickered towards the fence.
‘Life isn’t fair,’ Carly said, feeling a bubbling resentment that at eight years old the twins had it easy.
‘Can you fetch our ball, please, Carly?’ Marie pleaded.
‘Fetch it yourself,’ Carly snapped.
‘You know we’re not allowed out of the garden on our own until we’re ten,’ Marie said.
‘Yeah, well I’m in charge today and I’m saying you can. It’s not like we live in a city. Nothing ever happens in this dump.’ Carly was sick of living somewhere so small where everyone knew everyone else’s business. Where everyone would know by tomorrow that Dean Malden had rejected her. ‘Be quick and shut the gate properly.’
She turned and pushed open the back door, stepping into the vast kitchen that never smelled of cakes or bread. It never smelled of anything except freshly roasted coffee. Carly clattered her phone onto the marble island and yanked open the fridge door. The shelves, which were once stocked with stilton and steak and that had groaned under the weight of fresh fruit and vegetables, were woefully bare. There was nothing except a shrivelled cucumber and some out-of-date hummus. It was all right for her mum and stepdad out for the evening at yet another corporate function. They spent more time on the business than with their children nowadays, although Mum had assured her it wouldn’t be for much longer. She’d soon be at home more but in the meantime it was left to Carly to sort out tea again. She had loved her half-sisters fiercely since they day they were born, though sometimes she wished Mum still paid the retired lady down the road to babysit, but since Carly had turned thirteen, Mum felt that she was responsible enough.
She sighed as she crossed to the shelf above the Aga and lifted the lid from the teapot. Inside was a £10 note. Chips for tea. She wondered whether the money would stretch to three sausages or if they should split a battered cod.
Minutes later the twins tumbled into the kitchen.
‘Yuck.’ Leah dropped the tennis ball coated with slobber into the wicker basket where Bruno kept his toys.
‘Wash your hands.’ Carly checked her phone again.
Nothing.
What had she done wrong? She had thought Dean liked her.
Marie perched on a stool at the breakfast bar, swinging her legs, the toes of her shoes thudding against the kick board. How was Carly supposed to hear her text alert over that? Marie had her chin in her hands, her mouth downturned; she hated being in trouble. Carly could see the way her lip trembled with upset but she couldn’t help yelling again.
‘Shut. Up.’
Marie slid off the stool. ‘I… I left my fleece in the garden.’
Carly jerked her head towards the door in a go-and-get-it gesture before she clicked on the radio. The sound of Steps flooded the room. Marie paused and momentarily their sisterly bond tugged at them all. ‘5, 6, 7, 8’ was one of their favourite songs. Usually they’d fall into line and dance in synchronicity.
‘Let’s do this!’ Marie flicked her red hair over her shoulders and placed her hands on her hips.
‘It’s childish,’ Carly snapped although inside her shoes, her toes were tapping.
‘It doesn’t work unless we all do it.’ Marie’s voice cracked. ‘We have to be together.’
Carly pulled the scrunchie she’d been wearing like a bracelet from her wrist and smoothed her long fair hair back into a ponytail. The twins got into position. Waited. Carly reached for her phone and tried to ignore the pang of meanness that flitted through her as the smile slipped from Leah’s face. Marie’s small shoulders rounded as she headed back outside.
Minutes later she raced back in, socked feet skidding across the tiles, tears streaming down her freckled cheeks. ‘Bruno’s got out. The gate was open.’
‘For God’s sake.’ Carly could feel the anger in her chest form a cold, hard ball. It was one of the last times she ever allowed herself to truly feel. ‘Who shut the gate?’
Marie bit her lower lip.
‘I did,’ said Leah, slipping her shoes back on.
‘You’re supposed to bang it until it latches, you idiot. You know it’s broken. Three times. You bang it three times.’
The girls pelted into the garden, calling the dog’s name.
Marie hesitated at the gate. ‘Perhaps we should wait—’ Under her freckles, her skin was pale. She’d been off school yesterday with a stomach ache and although she’d gone back today, she didn’t look well. Carly knew she should ask if she was feeling okay but instead she shoved her roughly into the street. ‘It’s your fault, Marie. You search that way.’ She pointed down the avenue lined with beech trees.
Marie grabbed Leah’s hand.
‘No,’ Carly snapped. ‘Leah can come with me.’ The twins could be silly when they were together and she had enough to worry about without them getting into trouble.
‘But I want—’ Marie began.
‘I don’t care what you want. Move.’ Carly grabbed Leah’s arm and led her in the opposite direction, towards the cut-through at the side of their house, which led to the park.
It all happened so quickly that afterwards Carly couldn’t remember which order it all came in. The balaclava-clad face looming towards hers. The forearm around her neck, the gloved hand clamped over her mouth. The sight of Leah struggling against arms that restrained her. The scraping sound of her shoe as she was dragged towards the van at the other end of the alley. The sight of Marie, almost a blur, flying towards the second man also clad in black, who held her twin, pummelling him with her small fists.
‘Stop! You can’t do this! Don’t take her. I don’t want you to take her!’
The soft flesh compacting against hard bone as Carly bit down hard on the fingers that had covered her mouth.
‘Run!’ she had screamed at Marie as the man who held Leah grabbled to find something of Marie’s he could hold on to, clutching at her collar, her ginger pigtails, as she dodged his grasp.
‘Run!’
Chapter Two
Leah
Now
Dread crawls around the pit of my stomach. It’s impossible to ignore the urge to run back into the room. I push open the door and step inside. The kitchen is exactly as I left it, not surprising as I am the only one home, but nevertheless I twist the dial on the oven three times to make sure that it’s off, despite knowing that I haven’t cooked anything today.
Safe.
I have to keep us all safe.
My compulsions are worsening again. If I was being kind to myself I’d think it’s not surprising considering what I’ve been through, what I’ve yet to face over this coming week.
I’m rarely kind to myself.
But still, I remember what happened the last time everything got out of hand. The build of pressure. The loss of control. Despite the scrutiny I’ll be under over the next few days, I have to hold it together this time, if not for me, then for George and Archie.
The silver-framed faces of the three of us at Drayton Manor Park beam down at me from the dresser. Archie has inherited bits of both of us. He has my fiery red hair but instead of being poker-straight it’s curly like George’s dark mop would be if he didn’t keep it so short. Unlike George’s hair, Archie’s always smells of the apple shampoo I wash it with each night and as I recall the familiar scent, momentarily I allow myself to relax, until an incoming text lights up my phone.
I need you.
I tell myself I can just say no, but anxiety rises as quickly as Archie’s tears do when he’s overtired.
Calm yourself.
I force my eyes to travel around the room and name three things to ground myself.
Archie’s cuddly toy Labrador curled up its wicker basket, a fake bone between its paws. He’s forever begging for a puppy but I can’t cope with the thought of a real dog.
George’s sheepskin gloves on top of the microwave; he always forgets where he’s left them.
A canvas print of three girls holding hands on a golden beach. I don’t know who they are but when I saw it hanging in the window of a local gallery I stood there for the longest time, unsure whether it made me feel happy or sad. For three years it’s hung on my wall and I still feel a flurry of emotions when I catch sight of it. I still can’t unpick what they are.
Calm.
A second message buzzes.
It’s important.
I can just say no.
But I won’t.
I can’t delay it any more. Peeling off my disposable gloves I snap on a fresh pair and gather my keys and my mobile. On the doormat is a business card from a reporter with Call me scrawled across it.
I won’t.
At times like these I wonder why I’ve never moved away from this small town I grew up in, where everybody knows who I am and what happened to me. I think it’s partly because there’s no getting away from it. Once you’ve been global news there is no fading into anonymity. It only takes one person to post a sighting on Twitter or Facebook and your face is everywhere again. The public like a game of hide-and-seek even though I don’t want to play. There’s also a comfort in being surrounded by familiar faces. Strangers still terrify me. The main reason though, if I’m honest, is because staying so close to where it happened is a form of punishment and deep down we all feel in some way responsible.
We still blame ourselves.
Although I’m late, I’m in no hurry to get there; part of me knows what she’ll want to talk about and I don’t think I can face it.
I’m careful as I drive, headlights slicing through the gloom. The dark skies give a sense of early evening rather than midmorning. We’re barely into autumn and it already feels like winter. I’m mindful of the traffic, peering into cars, wondering who’s inside and where they’re going.
If they’re happy.
Everyone in the town was more vigilant after our abduction. The community was pulled together by threads of horror but over time they… not exactly forgot but moved on. Or tried to. Eyes that once looked at me with sympathy became filled with annoyance as another anniversary summoned a fresh batch of true-crime fans, pointing out the house we grew up in. Our old school. The swings in the playground our parents once pushed us on – higher-higher-higher. It’s where I now take Archie.
I’m almost halfway there when I notice the fuel gauge is nearly empty. Inwardly, I curse. George was supposed to fill my car up last night, he knows I find it difficult. I can’t bear the smell of fumes. I was sure he’d gone to do it while I gave Archie his bath and read him a story but I must have been mistaken. He probably got caught up in another long work call. The hours he’s putting in at the moment are ridiculous but I’m lucky he’s working so hard towards our future, even if we don’t always want the same thing.
It’s tempting to go home but I’d still have to refuel before picking Archie up from nursery so I indicate left and pull into the forecourt of the BP garage. The instant I step out of the car the smell of petrol invades my nostrils and I have to swallow down bile.
My hand is shaking by the time I replace the pump and go and pay.
The cashier is busy with another customer and as I wait I impulsively pick up a KitKat for Archie and a Twix for George. I don’t snack, preferring proper meals. My debit card is already in my hand, ready to tap it on the reader, but I’ve gone over the contactless limit and so I stuff the card inside the machine. Out of my peripheral vision I notice a white van pull up alongside my car. Flustered, I enter my pin number incorrectly twice before I remember what it is.
A man with spiked black hair steps out of the van. I’ve never seen him before. He’s young. Younger than me, and he looks happy but still, that doesn’t mean he’s not dangerous, does it? We all wear a mask sometimes, don’t we? I’m guilty of it myself. The calm mother, the carefree wife. That’s unfair. I’m being hard on myself again. I’ve had periods of months – years even – when I’ve almost, if not forgotten what I’ve been through, come to terms with it. Learned to live with it, I suppose, like the patches of eczema that used to scab my skin when I was stressed. Oddly my skin has been clear since my rituals became all-consuming. My mental health plummeted and my physical health problems disappeared almost overnight.
‘You can take your card.’ The sharp tone of the cashier’s voice tells me this is not the first time he’s asked me. I mumble a ‘thank you’ to him, an apology to the van driver standing behind me, whose eyes I do not meet. I hurry outside.
I’m just passing the van when I hear a thud coming from inside. I hesitate, ears straining. There’s nothing to be heard except the steady thrum of traffic coming from the main road but still I cup my hands and peer through the driver’s window.
‘Oi!’
I jump at the noise and try not to cower as the driver jogs over to me. ‘What do you think you’re doing?’ His manner as spiky as his hair.
‘Do you have anyone else in the van?’ I ask.
‘What’s it gotta do wiv you?’
I keep my gaze steady, waiting him out.