Sister Sister: A truly gripping psychological thriller. Sue Fortin

an effort to switch that control off and go with the flow a bit more, otherwise you’re going to drive yourself mad.’

      I laugh and return the hug he gives. ‘Thanks. I’ll do my best.’

      ‘I mean it, Clare. Remember what happened at Oxford?’

      I wince inwardly at the memory. Of course I do. You don’t forget having some sort of blackout and not being able to get out of bed for three days. We’d both had a few drinks to drown my sorrows at yet another fruitless report from the private investigator and, for some reason, I had reacted badly to the alcohol. Or that was my theory.

      Tom, on the other hand, felt it was down to stress caused by my dogged determination to find my sister. For three days Tom had looked after me as if I was a child. He’d covered for me during lectures and afterwards helped me catch up on the work I’d missed. I certainly wouldn’t have been able to pass the exam the following week without his support.

      I let out a long breath in an attempt to blow away my anxieties and to show Tom that I’m already trying to relax. I don’t want him thinking I’m a basket case.

      ‘That’s better,’ says Tom. ‘As soon as you stop fretting and analysing everything to the nth degree, you’ll find it all so much easier to deal with. Trust me, I know these things. Now, come on, we’d better get back before Leonard finds us. He’s the last person you want poking his nose into everything.’

      ‘Yeah, come on,’ I say, although I’m not entirely sure I agree with Tom about Leonard. I wouldn’t go as far as saying he’s poking his nose in, although it is true he has always taken an interest in what I’m doing, but I put that down to him being Mum’s adviser and long-time family friend. ‘Leonard’s heart is in the right place, though,’ I add in his defence.

      Tom opens the kitchen door and turns to look at me, raising an eyebrow as if unconvinced. ‘If you say so.’

       Chapter 6

      It’s Saturday and I welcome the weekend with open arms. And an empty bed. I turn over and through bleary eyes inspect Luke’s side of the bed. The pillow is as puffed up as when I got in it the night before and the fitted sheet is smooth; not a crease to be seen. He clearly didn’t make it to bed last night.

      He’s having a creative spurt. He’s been working on an abstract landscape for a gallery in America. He was commissioned by a client who was visiting the UK last year and saw one of his pieces on display at the Pavilion in Brighton. Luke has been both excited and distracted by it. When I got in from work yesterday, he was already in his studio, having got the girls ready for bed and left them with Mum.

      It’s still early, not even six o’clock, but my own body clock doesn’t appear to be able to factor weekends in. I get up, slip my dressing gown around me and, bare-footed, sneak along the landing, poking my head in at the girls to make sure they’re both okay. They’re still asleep, although I probably only have half an hour before Chloe will begin to stir.

      I avoid the creaky stair, second from the top, and also the one halfway down, level with the spindle that has a small scratch at the bottom from where I’d dropped a toy car down the stairs when I was about six years old. Living all my life in this house, I am fully aware of its quirks and how to avoid detection when nipping up and down the staircase to get midnight snacks or to stay out of Dad’s way when he was in one of his moods.

      Luke’s studio is at the end of the hallway that runs at a right-angle from the main hallway. While it is still very much part of the house, it’s far enough away so that he doesn’t get bothered by the comings and goings of the rest of the house.

      I tap on the door and go in without waiting for him to answer. Sometimes he’s so lost in his work that he doesn’t always notice me at first. Today is one of those days. His back is to me and he is facing the canvas, brush in one hand, paint palette in the other. He’s wearing a pair of slouchy cotton trousers and a white T-shirt. His feet are bare and various splodge marks on his toes give a clear indication as to what colours he has been working with. I dread to think when he last brushed his hair, the untamed curls are all over the place. It could really do with a cut but I usually have to make the appointment and frogmarch him down there. Mum says it’s like having another child and I should let him look after himself. Most of the time I let the little remarks go over my head. I like looking after my family. They are everything to me.

      I lean back against the wall, admiring my husband as he waves the paint brush back and forth, from palette to canvas and back again. The radio plays quietly in the background. I think it’s Strauss, but I’m not sure.

      ‘You’d never make a spy,’ says Luke after a few minutes and I hear the amusement in his voice. He continues with the paintbrush, working on an area of sky. It looks perfect to me, but then I don’t have a trained eye.

      I push myself away from the wall and move behind Luke, slipping my arms around his waist and kissing his shoulder blade. ‘Sorry, didn’t mean to disturb you. I just woke up feeling a bit lonely. You never made it to bed last night, then?’

      Luke turns in my embrace and kisses me. ‘Sorry, but I wanted to get on with this. There’s been an exciting development.’

      ‘With the painting?’ I let go of Luke and look at the canvas and acrylics. I don’t really know what I’m looking for.

      Luke lets out a small laugh. ‘Not with the painting itself.’ He puts the palette on the sink over by the window, along with the paint brush. ‘I had a phone call in the night. From Teddy Marconi.’

      I wrack my brains trying quickly to locate the significance of Teddy Marconi. ‘Your American client?’

      ‘You got it. Well, he’s only invited me over to his house in Miami.’

      ‘Miami! Wow!’ It’s not unusual for Luke to meet with clients in their own homes, but usually it’s the UK. Luke likes to see where his paintings are going to be displayed; he says it helps him get a sense of what they want. The painting he’s working on now is for Marconi’s London apartment. When Luke had gone to meet with Marconi in Kensington, I had taken the opportunity to do a bit of sightseeing and we had met up afterwards for a night away in a hotel. It was a very romantic evening, as I remember.

      ‘Yeah, can you believe it?’ says Luke.

      ‘So, do I get to go with you again?’ I tease. A trip to London and leaving the girls with Mum for the night is one thing, but both of us away to America for at least three nights would be too much to expect of Mum.

      ‘Ah, sorry, Babe, I was just getting to that bit,’ says Luke. ‘Marconi wants me there next week, Tuesday in fact. He’s paying for the flight and everything. Said all I have to do is turn up. So, unless you can get the week off work, I’m flying solo.’

      I pull a mock-sad face. ‘So you’re leaving me behind while you go and have fun in Miami.’ I slip my arms around his neck. ‘I hope you’re going to make this up to me.’

      Luke pulls gently at the belt of my dressing gown and slides his hands inside. ‘I’m sure I can do that.’

      After our little interval, Luke decides that he has probably worked as much as he can for the day. It’s not unusual for him to work twenty-four hours solid when the mood takes him. However, he’s going to have a snooze for a couple of hours.

      ‘I’ll take the girls out for breakfast,’ I say. ‘Shall we take a walk along the seafront? It’s such a nice day for the time of year, would be a shame to waste it. We could get the girls an ice cream?’

      ‘Sounds good to me,’ says Luke. ‘Come and wake me up at lunchtime.’ He yawns and we pad out of the studio together, just as Chloe comes down the stairs.

      ‘Right, we’re going out for breakfast,’ I say, scooping her up in my arms. ‘Let’s go and get dressed.’

      Upstairs