Bad Sister: ‘Tense, convincing… kept me guessing’ Caz Frear, bestselling author of Sweet Little Lies. Sam Carrington

the closed lid, as if it might pounce on her if she got closer. She really should hand it straight over to the police, to DI Wade, and have done with it. But while she’d been relaxing in the bubbles of the bath, Connie’s curiosity had been piqued. She wanted to be prepared, no surprises.

      She had to look.

      But not on that laptop. If there was a virus, or spyware, she didn’t want to risk it destroying her new device. She had another laptop – had used it during her degree work. It’d been redundant for some time, due to its age and bulkiness – it wouldn’t matter if she plugged the stick in and it screwed it up.

      Now, where was it? She’d still got boxes in the second bedroom; the spare room, which she hadn’t got around to sorting yet. She’d moved in two years ago; laziness had prevented her dealing with them. That and becoming too busy with setting up her consultancy. It took half an hour of rummaging through containers filled with junk – an old video box-set of The X-Files she’d been obsessed with when she was a teenager, puzzles she used to do with her mum, old Vogue magazines from a time when she’d cared about fashion, Stephen King novels she hadn’t got around to putting on the bookcase – to find the laptop and charging cable. She carried it downstairs and plugged it in. It still worked. Connie’s stomach contracted. Should she do it? Her hand, the stick clenched in it, hovered over the port. What was she worried about? What could possibly be on it that would cause her to be nervous? Come on, Connie. Just do it!

      The high-pitched alarm jolted Connie back into the moment, a painful sensation shot through her heart like a knife piercing it. She dropped the stick and jumped up, running to the kitchen. Smoke billowed from the oven. The pizza. She grabbed a tea towel and recovered the blackened circle from the oven, blinking her eyes to rid them of the stinging. She threw it into the sink, hearing a loud hiss as it touched the water. She sighed. It’d have to be baked beans on toast then. After. She’d have to do the deed first otherwise she’d likely burn the toast too.

      Kneeling on the floor, laptop open, she finally placed the stick in the USB port.

      Two file names appeared.

      And both took the breath from her lungs.

      She stared with a mixture of disbelief and curiosity. She had to open them now.

      One click and the news article from 1995 filled the screen. And the sadness she’d felt back then returned automatically. A single tear began its journey, surging over her cheek and landing on the keyboard.

      Who wanted to give this to her? It’s not like she needed a reminder of the incident that had rocked her world. It was part of her.

      Connie clicked on the other file. She read the document, her curiosity slipping into anger, and she slammed the laptop shut.

      Why the hell was someone dragging this up now?

       CHAPTER SIXTEEN

       Connie

      Wednesday 7 June

      Having been sleep-deprived for the second night in a row, the journey to her office was slow, her legs leaden. Connie was heavy – with resurfaced grief and anger. She was glad she’d looked at what the memory stick held though, before handing it blindly to the police. It had nothing to do with their investigation. Just her. And her family. But the who and the why were questions she needed answering. Another burden she didn’t need.

      The fresh cut grass wafted from the room as she opened it, and for the first time the scent made her stomach churn, like the queasiness of early pregnancy. For a moment Connie stood, hand placed over her belly, and thought. No. She couldn’t be. Dates were completely wrong. She let her hand drop and carried on over to her desk. The memory of her unsuccessful pregnancy lingered even once the queasy sensation had disappeared. Last year had been a tough one. She wasn’t sure if she could cope with another like it.

      She fired up her computer and hung her suit jacket over the back of her chair. Steph should be arriving soon, she wanted to run through all the information she held on her first, find out if any of yesterday’s story checked out – the family history, the names. It didn’t. Very strange. She leant back and stared at the screen, then retrieved the paper file from her desk drawer. She frowned. Both said the same: mother in a home, father’s whereabouts unknown – not dead in a fire, as Steph had described – and no siblings. No brother. No one named Brett. How could it be so wrong? It was likely that Steph had lied. But why? What could she gain from making it up? Attention? Continued input from the services she was so afraid would abandon her? It made some sense. In Steph’s mind, if she came up with a story in which she or her child were in danger, then Miles would offer further protection and Connie would offer more sessions. Could that really be what Steph was trying to do here?

      The intercom buzzed. Hopefully, she was about to unravel whatever was going on.

      ‘Morning, Steph.’ Connie opened her door to let Steph in. ‘No Dylan this morning?’

      ‘I took him to pre-school, I had to. Needed to see you on my own.’ She looked drawn, a deep line ran from one side of her forehead to the other, her lips were tightly closed and her nostrils flared. ‘He’s out.’ She brushed past Connie and sat heavily in the chair.

      ‘Brett?’

      ‘Yes, Brett!’

      ‘How do you know?’

      ‘Got this.’ Steph held her hand out, in it a piece of folded paper. ‘Another one. This morning.’

      Before Connie got into this, she needed to retrace a step, or twelve. She hadn’t found out what the first letter had contained yet.

      ‘Okay. Try and keep your breathing steady.’ Connie flinched as Steph shot her an angry glare.

      ‘Are you for real?’

      ‘I just want to understand what’s going on, Steph. And for that to happen, I think being calm would be best.’

      Steph snorted. ‘Fine.’ She took a deep, exaggerated breath in, and slowly out.

      ‘Can you tell me about the first letter?’

      Steph sighed, slumping her shoulders. ‘I wasn’t gonna read it, but somethin’ made me. I had this feelin’ that it was gonna be bad. Bad for me and Dylan.

      ‘It started off the usual – Dear sis. I need to see you. Why didn’t you write or come see me?’ Steph shook her head gently. ‘But then it changed. His letters usually blamed me for some stuff, like abandoning him when he needed me, being a bad sister, that kind of bull. But this one was different. Seemed even more angry than usual.’

      ‘Angry in what way?’

      ‘Like in that he threatened me and Dylan. Said he’d finish what he started.’

      ‘Oh. He said those exact words? Have you brought the letter?’

      ‘Oh, right, so you’re questioning me, don’t believe what I’m tellin’ you?’

      ‘No, it’s not that, Steph. I thought reading it would help me to interpret his words.’

      ‘What’s to interpret? He’ll finish what he started, Connie. He started the fire, he killed his dad, Mum’s as good as dead, and his big sister is the one that got away. It’s pretty simple, eh? He’s wanting to kill me and Dylan now. Finish whatever weird, psycho fantasy he’s got going.’

      ‘Sometimes, when we’re scared, things that are meant one way are taken another. We read things into it, and can blow things up, out of proportion—’

      ‘I don’t scare easy. I grew up learning how to cope wi’ being afraid, I dealt wi’ it every day just crossing my own estate.’ Steph glared at Connie, and huffed. ‘You