The Lost Sister: A gripping emotional page turner with a breathtaking twist

Becky feels anger bubble up. It’s so tempting to ask her mum where her eight-year-old daughter’s comfort was when she was lying in bed alone at night, wondering when her mum would return. But instead, Becky forces a soft smile, squeezing her mum’s hand.

‘I promise you won’t regret going to the hospice. Let me get more information about it, and some others too so you have options. I think you’ll come to realise it’s the right thing to do.’

Her mum shakes her head in frustration. ‘Please, you’re the only hope I have, Becky! These people here won’t chance it, all obsessed with health and bloody safety. What does it matter when I’m dying anyway?’

‘I’m sorry, Mum. I couldn’t do that to you. Let me go and ask about those brochures. Is there anything you need me to get for you while I’m out there? Shall I go to the shop, get some chocolates, a magazine?’

Her mum’s face turns glacial and she looks away. ‘No. I’d like to be alone actually. Probably best if you go home. It’s late.’

Becky watches her mum for a few moments. ‘Are you sure? I can stay, really.’

Her mum folds the top of the bedsheet down, smoothing it. ‘Absolutely.’

‘Right.’ Becky stands up. ‘You know my number, just call if you need anything. I’ll be back first thing tomorrow.’

Still no response.

Becky leans over, squeezing her mum’s shoulder. ‘It’ll be okay,’ she says softly. ‘Sleep on it. Things always seem clearer in the morning.’

Her mum’s forehead crinkles slightly. ‘Someone else said the opposite to me once. That clarity comes with darkness.’ Then she sighs and closes her eyes.

Chapter Six (#ulink_f1dc4641-2518-5c1b-918b-b66f7f775571)

Selma

Kent, UK

27 July 1991

Idris was wearing just shorts, holding a fishing line in his hands. His golden hair fell to his tanned shoulders, and his green eyes were so vivid they didn’t seem real. His bare chest was bathed in moonlight and, in that light, I saw scars tapering down his chest.

‘You can,’ he said again, stepping towards me. ‘Whatever the question in your mind is, you must answer yes.’

I looked at him in surprise. ‘How did you know I even had a question?’

‘You’re on a precipice. I can sense it.’ He placed his rod down and sat beside me, looking out to sea. He smelt of the sea, salty and luxurious. ‘Your body screams it,’ he said. ‘Your posture, the expression on your face, everything.’

I crunched my hands into fists, watching as the sand squeezed out between my fingers. I wasn’t sitting on this beach to be preached to by someone like him, no matter how much he fascinated me.

‘I came here to be alone,’ I said.

‘Then I’ll leave.’ He went to get up.

‘Wait!’ I couldn’t let him go before asking something. ‘How do you know so much about me? My name? The fact I’m an author?’

He gestured towards the small bookshop in town. ‘You did a signing there.’

‘Ages ago.’

‘They still have a poster up at the back.’

‘Ah. I see.’

‘We’re all reading your book. It’s wonderful.’

‘The Queensbay Cave Dwellers’ Bookclub, is it now?’

He laughed. ‘Something like that. I’ll leave you to it then.’

He went to walk away but something inside me wanted him back. I was so curious about him. Why was I sending him away?

‘Wait. Stay. It’s fine. Now I know you have good reading taste anyway.’

He smiled, walking over and sitting next to me again. ‘Is that how you judge people, by what they read?’

‘Why not?’

We sat in silence for a few moments more, then I turned to him. ‘You said I should say yes to the question in my mind. What if yes means losing everything?’

He thought about it, brow creasing. ‘What is everything to you?’

‘My family. My husband and daughter.’

He explored my face. ‘No. I don’t think that’s everything.’

‘Excuse me?’

‘If that’s the case, that your family is everything, that it makes you whole, why are you looking so empty right now?’

I took in a deep breath then let it out.

‘Society tells you family is everything,’ he said, drawing a circle in the sand with his finger beneath the moonlight. ‘But for some, it’s not enough. For some, there needs to be more.’ He drew an oval around the circle, turning it into an eye.

‘What kind of more?’ I asked, feeling my heart thump against my chest, the hair on my arms stand on end. I did feel I was on the precipice of something. Idris was right.

‘You’re a writer,’ he stated. ‘How do you feel when you’re writing?’

I paused a few moments. ‘Right,’ I said eventually. ‘It just feels … right.’

‘It makes you feel whole?’

I nodded. ‘Yeah.’

‘We have callings in life.’ I couldn’t help but scoff and Idris smiled. ‘I know how clichéd that sounds, but it’s the truth. We each have a role to play. Our true callings. Anything that takes us away from that makes us unhappy.’

‘That’s too simplistic a view! Idealistic too. Real life means we can’t dedicate all of our time to one thing.’

He looked me in the eye. ‘Whose version of real life?’