The Second Sister: The exciting new psychological thriller from Sunday Times bestselling author Claire Kendal. Claire Kendal

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      Luke doesn’t notice, which makes me question my instinct that somebody is spying on us. Ever since we lost you I have imagined a man, hiding in the shadows, watching me, watching Luke. At least it cannot be Jason Thorne. He is locked away in a high-security psychiatric hospital.

      I walk close to Luke, in case somebody really is ready to spring out at us. When the rustling grows nearer, he turns his head towards it. I am no longer in any doubt that I heard something. I put a hand on his shoulder and stand more squarely on both feet.

      A doe pokes out her head, straightening her white throat and pricking up her ears to inspect us. She seems to be considering whether to turn back. All at once, she makes up her mind, crossing in front of us in two bounds, hardly seeming to touch the ground before she flees through the trees.

      ‘Wow,’ Luke says.

      ‘She was beautiful. Granny would say that seeing her was a blessing. A moment of grace is what she would call it.’

      ‘I can’t wait to tell Grandpa,’ Luke says.

      I smooth Luke’s hair. ‘Happier now?’ He nods. ‘Are you going to tell me what brought on these new feelings about where you live?’

      ‘I want to go to that secondary school in Bath next year. Why would Granny take me to the open day and then not let me go? She said my preference mattered. But I won’t get in if she doesn’t use your address.’

      ‘Isn’t the application due on Monday?’

      ‘Yeah. But Granny keeps saying she’s still thinking about it. It should be my choice.’

      ‘With our guidance, Luke. It wouldn’t be fair to you otherwise – it’s too much of a responsibility for you to make this kind of decision by yourself. Granny never leaves things until the last minute, so she must still be weighing it all up very carefully. I’ll raise it with her and Grandpa after breakfast – I can see it’s urgent.’

      ‘It’s my life.’

      ‘Is that why you wanted this private walk before Granny and Grandpa are up? To talk about this?’

      ‘Yeah.’ He kicks again. ‘And before you say it, I don’t mind that none of my friends are going there. As Granny keeps reminding me.’

      The school is perfect for Luke. It is seriously academic, and sits beside the circular park I’ve been taking him to since he was five. It’s also within reach of one of our favourite walks, along the clifftop overlooking the city. These are places he loves. Touchstones matter to Luke.

      ‘I want to be in Bath with you,’ he says. ‘Everything’s too far away from here.’

      ‘Stinky little lost village,’ I say.

      He looks at me in surprise.

      ‘That’s what your mummy used to say.’

      Would you be pleased by how hard I try to keep you present for him? How we all do?

      I take his hand. ‘The school’s not as far away as it seems to you. It’s only a twenty-five-minute journey from Granny and Grandpa’s. Maybe you can live with me for half the week and Granny and Grandpa for the other half. I know we can work something out that everyone’s happy with.’

      I promised Luke when I finally got a mortgage and moved out of our parents’ house that he would always have a room of his own with me. He was five then, and I nearly didn’t go, but our mother made me. ‘You need your own life,’ she said, squaring those ballerina shoulders of hers. ‘Your sister would want you to have a life. Miranda does not believe in self-sacrifice.’

      I thought, then, that our mother was right. Because you certainly weren’t – aren’t – one for self-sacrifice.

      Now, standing in our clearing with your son, I imagine you teasing me. Yeah. Because it suits you to believe it. So you can do what you want. Since when do you think our mother is right? Though the words are barbed, the voice is affectionate. The insight is there only because you apply the same filter to our mother that I use.

      Luke turns back towards the woods. ‘Did you hear that, Auntie Ella? Like somebody coughed but tried to muffle it? It didn’t sound like our deer.’

      I think of the interview I did a few months ago. Mum and Dad and I had always refused until then. But this was for a local newspaper, to publicise the charity. It seemed important to us, as the ten-year anniversary of your disappearance drew near. I talked about everything I do. The personal safety classes, the support group for family members of victims, the home safety visits, the risk assessment clinics.

      There was no mention of you, but Mum and Dad were still worried by the caption that appeared beneath the photograph they snapped of me. Ella Brooke – Making a Real Difference for Victims. My arms are crossed and there is no smile on my face. My head is tilted to the side but my eyes are boring straight into the man behind the camera. I look like you, except for the severe ponytail and ready-for-action black T-shirt and leggings.

      Could that photograph have set something off? Set someone off? Perhaps I hoped it would, and that was why I agreed to let them take it.

      I catch Luke’s hand and pull him back to me. ‘Probably a rambler. It’s morning. It’s broad daylight. We are perfectly safe.’

      ‘So you don’t think it’s an axe murderer.’ He says this with relish, ever-hopeful.

      ‘Not today, I’m afraid.’

      ‘Well if it is, you’d kick their ass.’

      ‘Don’t let Granny hear you talk like that.’ The sun stabs me in the head – warmth and pain together – and I squeeze my eyes shut on it for a few seconds, trying at the same time to squeeze out the worry that somebody is watching us. I am also trying – and failing yet again – to lock out the images of what you would have suffered if Thorne really did take you.

      ‘Do you have a headache, Auntie Ella?’

      Luke doesn’t know he pronounces it ‘head egg’. I find this charming, but I worry that he may be teased.

      Should I correct him? I didn’t imagine I’d be buying up parenting books when I was only twenty, and that they would become my bedtime reading for the next decade. They don’t usually have the answers I need, but I know that you would.

      ‘No headache. Thank you for asking.’ I smile to show Luke that I mean it.

      ‘I think Mummy would like me to live with you.’

      I love how he calls you Mummy. That’s how Mum and Dad and I speak of you to him. I wonder if we got stuck on Mummy because you never had time to outgrow it. Mummy is the name that people tend to use during the baby stage. You were never allowed to become Mum. Or mother, perhaps, though that always sounds slightly angry and over-formal.

      ‘If I live with you part of the time, can we get more of her things in my room?’

      ‘What things do you have in mind?’

      ‘Granny put her doll’s house up in the attic.’

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