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

curtain call, careful at the same time not to spill any of the Mexican beer I’m holding in my right hand. I take a sip.

      ‘I’ve heard Granny tell you that ladies should never drink from bottles.’

      Even wet from the shower, Luke’s funny cowlick is as unruly as ever, a tight swirl above his left temple. I poke a finger into its centre and twizzle it around until he laughs. ‘I’m not a lady.’

      ‘Granny told Grandpa before we left that he wasn’t allowed to drink.’

      ‘She worries about his health, Luke. And she knew he was driving.’

      ‘Beer is made of sugar. Cancer cells love sugar.’ Your son’s imitation of our mother is terrifyingly good. I try not to laugh but I can’t stop myself. I nearly spray Luke with a mouthful of liquid death.

      ‘Can I have a sip?’ he says.

      ‘No! But nice try. Smoothly done.’

      He pauses to watch a dazzling waterfall of blue pouring into the night, followed by a streak of red fire zinging upwards like a reverse comet and screaming all the way. ‘Please will you take me next year?’ He is still staring out the window.

      ‘I hope so. I’ll keep talking to Granny.’

      Luke rolls his eyes and turns back to the box. The cardboard has thinned in places, where sticky tape ripped off layers. ‘Do you think Granny’s looked through it?’

      ‘No – I asked – she said she didn’t.’ But I’m sure she has. I wouldn’t be surprised if she’s actually taken something out. I have already snuck a phone call to her to ask this very thing, but she will not depart from her little charade that she never even looked inside.

      I am not sure what we are expecting. Some obvious clue the police missed? Presumably they have already combed it all for DNA.

      ‘What’s this?’ Luke is holding a scrap of soft white wool, edged in silk and fraying.

      I reach out a finger to touch it, smiling. ‘The sole surviving piece of Mummy’s baby blanket. She used to tuck it into your cot with you.’

      He buries his face in it, then jumps up and sticks it beneath his pillow. ‘Please know that I will have to kill you if you tell anyone.’

      ‘Never.’ I glance at the doll’s house, half-expecting to see a spectral glow behind the paned windows. ‘Will you mind having this if you bring friends back here? You won’t be embarrassed?’

      ‘Nah. I’ll say it’s yours and you insist on keeping it in my room.’

      ‘Well that’s true.’

      ‘Part of the truth. Not all.’ He gives me a look. ‘I learned that from you. And Granny. Probably not from Grandpa, though.’

      I think of our father’s secret request for the police to return your things. Luke and I wouldn’t have this box at all, if it weren’t for him. ‘Your grandpa is a man of many wonders. I think your grandpa is a visionary.’

      ‘He’s the master puppeteer.’

      I look at him in surprise. ‘He is, yes. Though few people guess. Which is why he is so effective.’

      Luke picks up a pink plastic compact. ‘What’s this?’

      ‘Some kind of travel mirror? Face powder or blush, maybe?’ All of your make-up had designer labels on the containers, but this doesn’t. ‘Shall we see?’

      ‘Yep.’ He finds the clasp and it opens like a clam shell. Inside is a circle of pills, faded in colour. Each pill is numbered, to keep track of the days of a lunar month. Numbers 1 through 21 are pale yellow. Numbers 22 through 28 are light blue. The two of us squint at them. ‘Same question, again, Auntie Ella. What is this?’

      I gulp so much beer the bottle depletes by two inches. ‘They’re birth control pills. Women use them so they can have sex without getting pregnant.’

      He makes a face and thrusts the container at me as if we were playing hot potato. ‘Do you think Mummy used them?’

      ‘Probably, but she must have taken a break from them. Which is an extremely lucky thing for all of us. Because she wanted to have you.’

      All at once, he flushes. His nose begins to run. He looks down.

      My heart begins to beat faster. ‘What’s wrong, Luke?’

      But he can’t speak. I scoot close to him and he climbs onto my lap and I cradle him as if he were a baby, though he is bony and gangly. He sniffles onto my shoulder while I hold him tighter and rock back and forth, kissing the top of his head. His hair smells like the shower gel Ted uses – he must have persuaded Ted to get some for him.

      Luke pulls away to catch my eye. His own are red. ‘You won’t stop looking at things again because I got upset?’ He wipes his nose on a pyjama sleeve.

      ‘No. I won’t do that.’