The Stolen Sisters: from the bestselling author of The Date and The Sister comes one of the most thrilling, terrifying and shocking psychological thrillers of 2020

by Louise Jensen

  The second man, though? Moustache. She wasn’t so sure.

  Doc stood and brushed grey dust from his knees and this small act gave her hope. If he cared about dirt he wouldn’t leave them here in this grimy room. The sun barely filtered through the thick bars at the window. Sour air clogged her nostrils, making her mouth taste of wee. But he did leave, trailed by Moustache. As Moustache strode towards the door he scratched the back of his neck. His balaclava rose and Carly saw the tattoo of an eye. She shuddered. Even when he wasn’t facing her, he was still watching her.

  She was left here for the second time that day but this time the door slammed shut although the men were still there, outside the room. Carly could hear their voices, one loud and angry, the other speaking more slowly and calmly.

  Terrified, her eyes scanned the room. There were no other exits. No other way out.

  They had to get out.

  Carly tore off the tape that covered her mouth and before tackling the binding around her own ankles she reached across to her sisters.

  ‘I’m going to untie you both,’ she whispered, eyes darting fearfully to the door. On the back of the wood someone had sprayed a clown’s face, a shock of orange hair and a bright red nose, his mouth stretched into a macabre grin. She gently eased the tape from Marie’s mouth, millimetre by millimetre, not wanting to pull at her skin.

  ‘Now for your blindfold. Leah, I’ll get to you in a minute. Marie, are you okay? Say something,’ she whispered but Marie’s lips remained clamped together, too scared to make a noise.

  Once she had uncovered Marie’s eyes, Carly could see they were glazed with shock. ‘It’s okay. We’ll be home soon.’ Carly started on the ropes tying Marie’s hands but her shaking fingers couldn’t unpick them.

  ‘Shit.’ She leaned forward and tried to work the knots free with her mouth. The rope was bitter and strands of thread stuck to her tongue. She was only making it worse. Frustrated, she began to try and rip the rope apart, grunting with the effort, until finally it began to give.

  ‘Quick. Pull your hands free.’

  Marie shook her head fearfully.

  ‘Marie. Quick.’ Carly was as careful as she could be but had to yank the rope over Marie’s hands to free her, wincing as she saw the red welts left in its wake. Carly turned her attention to Leah. ‘Shh.’ Carly removed the tape covering her mouth. ‘It’s okay. I promise.’

  Soon they were all untied.

  Free, but not.

  There was one last angry shout from the corridor outside and then the sound of bolts sliding closed.

  One.

  Two.

  Three.

  Three bolts for three sisters.

  It was then the screaming started.

  Chapter Eight

  Leah

  Now

  While I’m fetching my coat from Marie’s kitchen I collect Carly’s denim jacket. I know she won’t stay here without me. There are often awkward silences when we’re all together nowadays and those silences can be deafening.

  ‘Sorry to rush off,’ I say to Marie. ‘And sorry about the TV thing. If you need some money?’

  It’s a genuine offer although I’ve no idea what I’ll do if she takes me up on it. Each month end we’re practically stuffing our hands down the back of the sofa, fishing out a few meagre coins along with Archie’s Lego bricks and sweet wrappers, so we can afford milk. George’s architectural practice is floundering. My part-time job doesn’t pay much, it’s more for my mental health, to get me out of the house. It gives me the semblance of being able to function normally among other adults. I’m reluctant to increase my hours because I don’t want somebody else picking Archie up from nursery every day, even if it is Carly. I think being a mother is the most important job of all but I do feel I should be doing more to help financially. When Archie starts school next year I’ll be able to work nine to three every day, which will take the pressure off George.

  ‘Thanks but I’ll be okay. The theatres will be scheduling their next quarter shows after Christmas and I’m sure something will turn up. I won’t starve.’

  ‘In the meantime, get that new man of yours to take you out to dinner.’ Carly gives a hollow laugh. She doesn’t offer to lend Marie any money. One too many times in the past we’ve pushed notes into her hand, knowing that she’ll drink them. Knowing that we’ll never get them back.

  ‘Carly, do you want to stay and have a bite to eat?’ Marie puts a hand on Carly’s arm. Her bracelets jangle. She seems jittery at the thought of being on her own. ‘I’ve no plans tonight. I haven’t got much in but…’

  ‘I’ve got to go, sorry.’ Carly pulls a face, quickly hugs Marie and steps outside. I am left with my twin. Our relationship is strained but it’s still a wrench to leave her. It always is. ‘I’ve forgotten my mug,’ I say.

  ‘I’ll go and fetch—’

  ‘Don’t. You can give it back to me another time. Let’s not leave it too long. Come and see Archie?’

  ‘I’d love to. It would be good to hear how he’s getting on rehearsing for his first nativity. I could perhaps give him some tips.’

  I kick myself for not mentioning Archie’s starring role in his nursery’s production. Carly must have mentioned it before I arrived. It was something he had in common with his aunt, it might have made the conversation flow a little more easily. ‘He’d like that. George would love to see you too.’

  ‘I don’t… I…’ Marie’s face reddens. ‘Perhaps we could take Archie to the park, you and me?’

  ‘Okay but…’ I hesitate, unsure whether to mention Marie’s last meeting with George; she had turned up on our doorstep late at night – steaming drunk and rambling about all men being bastards – but I have to. It’s obviously still playing on her mind. ‘It’s all forgotten, you know.’ The last thing I want to do is embarrass her, so I wrap her tightly in a hug. Her brittle blonde hair is rough against my cheek. ‘I love you,’ I whisper into it.

  ‘I love you too,’ she says. ‘I will see you soon. I promise.’ She offers her pinkie. ‘Cross my heart.’

  I find myself smiling, linking my little finger through hers, seeing through the layers of her dark make-up down to the freckles dotting pale skin. Skinny jeans may have long replaced the white knee-length socks that had always bunched around her ankles but I see the child that still exists inside. I let my inner eight-year-old come out and play and we chant:

  ‘A pinkie promise can’t be broke

  Or you’ll disappear in a puff of smoke

  This is my vow to you,

  I’ll keep my promise through and through.’

  Carly rolls her eyes at us – ‘You two are so lame’ – falling back into her too-cool-for-school role. For the first time in a long time we feel united, slipping seamlessly back into our identities. I feel that as I leave Marie it won’t be for long. I turn to wave as I reach my car and she mouths she’ll see me soon.

  And I believe that she means it.

  Archie launches himself at me – you’d think it’s been four weeks instead of four hours since I last saw him – but I don’t mind. I feel much the same. Each time I say goodbye to someone my stomach gives a series of tiny flips like the jumping beans Marie and I used to hold in the palms of our hands. It doesn’t settle until I see them again. Rationally I know that Archie is safe at nursery. That I always collect him at one o’clock unless I’m working and then Carly is always there, but that doesn’t stop me worrying.

  I zip up his coat, covering the Weetabix crusted to his Thomas the Tank Engine jumper that my wandering mind had missed that morning.

  ‘Let’s get you home, mister.’

  ‘Is Daddy there? He said he’d have lunch with me today.’

  ‘I know! He should be.’ The fact that George is popping home to eat with Archie means he’ll likely be working late tonight. I stretch my face into a smile as I strap Archie in the car, trying not to worry about what might be waiting for me if George is home.

  As I drive, Archie chat
ters incessantly, his words falling out in a rush. ‘Mum, a policeman came to visit today.’

  ‘Why?’ I ask sharply, already fearing the worst as I grip the steering wheel. A child has gone missing. There’s been a stranger hanging round the nursery gates. That happened last term and I kept Archie home for a week. George says I have to loosen my hold on him as he gets older but I don’t think there’s anything wrong in trying to protect him. An image flashes into my mind of my mum at the police station when we were finally reunited. ‘I’ll never stop blaming myself.’ She had wiped tears from her cheeks. It’s a big responsibility having a child, isn’t it? As joyous as it is watching them grow, it’s also equally terrifying.

  ‘The policeman taught us about being safe when we cross the road,’ Archie says. ‘We have to hold our grown-up’s hand. That would be you or Daddy. And then look left and right and not step off the pavement until the green man says it is okay but I said I’ve never seen a green man and the policeman said he’s not actually a man at all so it’s silly he’s called one, isn’t it, Mummy?’

  ‘Yes.’ I take one hand off the wheel and use my glove to mop my damp brow. A routine visit, that’s all. Nothing is wrong.

  ‘And we can only cross the road when it’s straight and not on a corner because we are little and the cars can’t see us but, Mummy, cars can’t see us because they don’t have eyes. I think the policeman was a bit bonkers bananas, don’t you?’ He screams with laughter.

  I think policemen are many things: brave, resourceful but also sometimes painfully slow. There’s a process they have to follow, rules. I get that, but sometimes the wait for justice can seem endless and sometimes you have to take matters into your own hands. I feel sick as I meet Archie’s innocent eyes in the rear-view mirror.

  We drive past the cemetery. I don’t look. I can’t look.

  George’s car is already on the driveway. The knot in my stomach tightens, along with my chest.

  I lift a wriggling Archie from his seat and carry him in front of me like a shield. He kicks his legs, desperate to get down and walk.

  ‘Hello!’ I shout down the hallway that smells of strawberries thanks to the diffuser on the windowsill. ‘We’re home.’ My shoulders are concrete but I keep my voice bright and breezy. I’m not sure whether George knows so I brazen it out.

  ‘I’ll fix us some lunch…’ I trail off as I enter the kitchen. See the brown box on the worktop.

  The open brown box on the worktop.

  George stands next to it, a knife in his hand. I can tell from the set of his jaw that he’s angry.

  He’s angry again.

  Chapter Nine

  George

  Now

  George is furious with himself. He knows it’s guilt that drives him home at lunchtimes as well as a desire to see Archie. He isn’t treating his wife well, and it pricks at his conscience each time he sees her, and yet when he does spend time with her, he can’t help snapping at her as if everything wrong is down to her and her alone. And there’s such a lot wrong, it seems impossible to think he can ever put it right. Does he even want to? He loves his son, he really does. And his wife? He thinks he must still – that’s why he still hasn’t made a final decision – but it’s a question he asks himself endlessly.

  George is home earlier than usual. On the street is a car he knows belongs to a reporter. He stalks over to it and tells him again to piss off before he calls the police.

  He shouts, ‘Hello,’ as he steps through the front door although he knows nobody will answer and not just because Leah’s car isn’t on the driveway – there’s something different about the atmosphere when Archie’s not present. Even if he’s asleep the space somehow feels lighter. Happier.

  George hasn’t been happy for a long time. He hopes he and Leah will be able to talk calmly later. He had tried so hard to repress his anger last night but nevertheless it had spilled out anyway. He needs to apologize. Throughout their marriage it seems he is always saying sorry. It’s Leah’s day off but he can’t remember if she said she had plans today. They only half listen to each other nowadays. Hear what they want to hear.

  He tosses his keys onto the worktop, his eyes skimming the kitchen. It’s tidy. Clean. At first glance you wouldn’t guess a lively four-year-old lives here. There are no Lego bricks strewn across the floor. No stick-man pictures clinging to the fridge with magnets. George frowns. He was sure there were displays of Archies ‘art’ on the baby-blue Smeg a few weeks ago. The only reason Leah would have taken them down would be to make the fridge easier to wipe clean and the thought of this makes his stomach plummet.

  He can’t go through it all again.

  George pops a cappuccino tab in the Tassimo machine and while the coffee bubbles into his mug he gazes at the photo of them all at Drayton Manor. He remembers it well. It was a couple of years ago and Leah was going through a good patch, which meant they were going through a good patch. After the event they never talk about – just before she fell pregnant with Archie – he had thought they’d never have any sort of normality again. That the woman he fell in love with had vanished for good, but then she had started seeing Francesca and everything changed. She’d visited so many therapists before but Francesca had been different. She hadn’t looked at them with sympathy in her eyes. Or with the horror he had seen before as Leah began to roll out the story of her childhood. Instead, she had said she wanted to focus on the future. To help them all move forward as a family. And she had. For a time.

  The click of the machine pulls George’s eyes away from the photo but the image is forever imprinted on his mind. The three of them crammed on a tiny caterpillar rollercoaster. Archie’s arms thrust high in the air. George’s arm looped around his wife and son’s shoulders. But it’s Leah’s hands he remembers the most. Skin bare on the safety bar that rested against their laps. Her eyes clear and bright, no hint of concern about germs. No distress at touching the place other hands had touched. He remembers how proud he was that she hadn’t pulled out one of the antibacterial wipes she carries in her handbag and wiped the metal down. He remembers how much he loved her then, and now? His heart is torn in two.

  George isn’t proud of himself. He never thought he would be that man. The one in four who supposedly have affairs. But she had caught him at a vulnerable time. Leah had turned him away once too often; her fear of becoming pregnant immense. Archie was an accident, although ultimately a happy one, but Leah spent the pregnancy is a state of constant anxiety about giving birth in a hospital. The germs. The risk of infection. Although they had hired a birthing pool and set it up in their lounge, Leah had known there was a risk that medical intervention might be needed, and she had been right. Archie was breech. The midwife wasn’t happy with the way Leah’s labour was progressing. George had had to drive them to the hospital, Leah sobbing all the way. Screaming when they entered the ward because he hadn’t brought the kit she’d assembled containing her antibacterial spray and hand sanitizer. Her gloves. It took Leah months to recover from the trauma. She kept Archie away from mums-and-tots’ groups because of the risk of illness and became so distressed when George had taken him anyway, that he had never tried again. Gradually, though, she’d relaxed into her role.

  Being a mum doesn’t come easy to her, he knows. It’s not only the germs, it’s the constant fear that something might happen to Archie. Something bad. He feels this himself as a father. The nagging worry that the outside world is too big, too harsh for his precious boy. He thinks this is probably true for most parents, but of course for Leah everything is heightened because of what she’s been through. Still, he had hoped as Francesca gradually lifted some of the heavy burden of fear Leah felt that she would want another baby – George had always dreamed of having a large family – but she was adamant she could never go through it again. Her heart couldn’t take it, and as a result his heart was half-empty.

  Was.

  George takes his phone out of his pocket and calls Marie. It rings and rings and he pictu
res her in her chaotic flat, shifting junk as she hunts for her mobile. Running her fingers through her hair while she tries to remember where she last had it. Hair that Leah says used to match hers, but Marie changes its colour all the time. There’s no hiding from those green eyes though and sometimes when Marie looks at him, it’s like looking at Leah and then the guilt kicks in. She’s so much like his wife, and yet equally different. Her answer service kicks in and he rings off. Tries again but she doesn’t pick up.

  The sisters have been through so much, he doesn’t want to come between them. It’s suffocating to think that he could make their relationship, or break it. That his actions will have such a profound effect on all their futures.

  During a therapy session Francesca had told him he had a ‘rescuer identity’. A need to be needed. A desire to save and he believes that to be true. He remembers the first time he met Leah there was something about her that brought out his protective instinct. She had a fragility about her that made him fall instantly in love. It was weeks of gentle courtship before she began to open up to him, tentatively at first, but then her story rushing out as though she couldn’t possibly contain it for one more second. She had wept as he held her shaking body against his, but what she didn’t know was that he was crying, too, for all that had broken her – but he believed then that he could be the one to put her back together, and he thought that he had. However, since that terrible time with the police a few years ago and the questions and the suggestion that perhaps Leah should be committed for her own safety – for everyone’s safety – it feels so temporary. The good periods may stretch for longer with Francesca’s help but he’s always on tenterhooks, waiting for Leah to shatter again. Wondering if he has the strength to hold her together once more.