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

Everyone knew where the women gathered, the desperate and needy with their short skirts and tight smiles and the promises of heaven. Marie leaned nonchalantly against a wall and tried to act as though she fit in.

  She did not.

  She was chased away by a tall, thin woman and a short, round girl with frizzy blonde hair who didn’t look old enough to be there.

  Marie slowed to a brisk walk when she reached the main road; a stitch in her side throbbing, her ankles burning as her feet wobbled in shoes that were too high. Her mind scrambled for possibilities. She’d steeled herself to do the unimaginable, and now she didn’t want to go home empty-handed.

  A trail of laughter led her to a pub, where three men gathered outside, their breath billowing with cold and smoke. Marie watched as they ground cigarette butts under their boots and stalked back inside. The heavy wooden door swung shut behind them. Marie crossed her arms over her chest to keep the shattered pieces of herself together, tucked her freezing hands into her armpits. Just as she was resigned to giving up – she didn’t know who she was but she knew she wasn’t this – the door swung open again and a familiar figure stepped outside.

  George.

  Her brother-in-law had always had a soft spot for her. Marie observed him for a few moments until – as though sensing he was being watched – he turned. His eyes met hers.

  And she knew from his expression that he would be the one to save her.

  Chapter Forty-Five

  George

  Now

  George doesn’t know how much longer he can keep up the pretence. Every single time he got home and washed her off his skin he promised himself he would be a better husband. A better father. A better version of himself but, no matter how steely his resolve, she is like a furnace, bending his good intentions out of shape until they are something entirely different. Until he is something entirely different.

  The shopping is defrosting in the boot. He should be getting home to Leah. It isn’t fair to leave her with a puppy she never wanted. At the time he thought it was a good idea. As soon as he saw the advert for the dog on Facebook he had called Francesca and asked her opinion. She had warned him that Leah wasn’t mentally strong enough for exposure therapy. He foolishly thought he knew better. He’d watched a documentary on Sky about phobias, a man with a fear of spiders held a tarantula and realized they weren’t so scary after all. He thought it might be like that – in his own way he thought he might be helping, but the second he’d seen her stricken face pale he realized he’d made a horrible mistake.

  Another one.

  And he has no idea how to sort it out either.

  Archie was in raptures. He’d fallen in love with that puppy the second he had seen him. George could still hear Archie’s excited screams ringing in his ears. To take him away now would be cruel, particularly… George swallowed hard – particularly if George was no longer living at home full-time. If he was honest, that was part of the dog’s appeal. Something that could protect his family if… when he was no longer around.

  ‘George…’ She stirs next to him, drawing him out of his thoughts and back into her bed. He feels the soft curve of her waist, the brush of her breasts on his chest as she levers herself onto her elbow and gazes at him with love. ‘What are you thinking?’

  ‘I’m thinking about Leah.’

  Her face clouds. George wants to kiss away her worries.

  ‘I can’t keep doing this,’ he says.

  ‘I know. Me neither.’ Her pain matches his, it’s hard for her also. She feels it keenly, the sense of betrayal. She cares about Leah too.

  ‘I’m going to leave her.’ Voicing the words outside of his head gives them weight and clarity.

  ‘Are you sure?’ Her face is both hopeful and afraid.

  ‘Yes. It’s you I want to be with. I love you, Francesca.’

  Chapter Forty-Six

  Marie

  Thirteen days ago

  As soon as Marie saw George kissing another woman outside the pub, she knew she held another secret in the palm of her hands. When George turned, as though sensing Marie’s presence, it gave her a clear view of the woman’s face. Marie was shocked and angry it was Leah’s therapist, Francesca. She was saddened for her sister that this clearly wasn’t some one-night stand.

  George’s expression as he caught sight of his sister-in-law was a mixture of shame and fear. She knew how he felt, terrified of being exposed for the person you were rather than the person everyone thought you should be.

  She waited while George spoke low and urgently to Francesca, who bowed her head and scurried away.

  ‘What… what are you doing here?’ asked George as he drank in Marie’s too-short skirt, her too-glossy lips that could spill his sordid secret.

  Sarcasm sat on Marie’s tongue but instead of releasing it, she swallowed it down and pursued a rare course of action.

  She was honest.

  ‘I… I’m an addict.’ This time it was Marie who couldn’t meet George’s eyes.

  ‘Marie…’ George toed the kerb. ‘We all know you like a drink—’

  ‘It’s more than alcohol now, I’m afraid.’ She rubbed her arms, whether to draw attention to her track marks or hide them, she did not know.

  ‘Does Leah know?’

  ‘Leah doesn’t need to know everything.’ Marie’s eyes flickered in Francesca’s direction.

  ‘This isn’t what it looks like,’ George said quickly.

  ‘Good. Because it looks like you’re cheating on my sister.’

  ‘It’s complicated. Leah’s complicated.’

  ‘We all are,’ Marie said. ‘But don’t give up on her, George. Please. What we went through has made us who we are today but we can change. Leah wants to. I want to.’

  ‘Have you tried… to give up?’

  ‘Yeah. But… it’s…’ Marie tugged down her skirt. ‘To say it’s a craving doesn’t even cover it. We crave food or drink or… love and when we have it we feel satisfied, but this… it’s like I’ll die if I don’t have a hit. I can’t think about anything else. I can’t focus on anything. I’d do anything – I have done anything.’

  Marie told George about the money she owed her dealer. The way he’d held her head, knotting his hands into her hair as he thrust himself into her mouth. Her sorry tale tumbling heavy and toxic onto the pavement between them, crouching among the dog-ends and the crumpled fag packets, ready to spring again and again.

  ‘Christ. Marie…’

  ‘That’s why I’m here. Dressed to impress.’ She fluttered jazz hands and tried to smile but she couldn’t. ‘I was chased earlier by two women. I was on their spot. George,’ – her teeth begin to chatter – ‘have you got any cash?’

  ‘Marie. I can’t… I can’t give you money for drugs. To kill yourself.’

  ‘I wasn’t selling myself for that. I was trying to raise enough for rehab. I…’ Her voice cracked. ‘I want…’ she whispered, ‘I want to be clean.’

  Strangely it was this admission that brought her the most shame, as though it was other people who led good, healthy lives and she had no right to any of it. But how she wanted it. How she wanted her life back. No, not even back. She wanted her adult life to begin in a way it hadn’t before. Free from guilt, from secrets.

  Free from lies – but now in addition to the dirty untruths she already carried, she was adding to her burden. She eyed George warily. She didn’t mention blackmail – Leah was her sister and she didn’t want her to be hurt – but she didn’t have to say it aloud. George knew what she had willingly done in the putrid alley, on her knees, mouth in a perfect ‘o’. He knew what she had come here to do tonight. He’d seen the worst of her and so he assumed the worst and it was this that made her want to cry. Longing to tell him that, despite everything, she had morals and there were things she could not do.

  ‘How much do you need?’ he asked wearily.

  She did a quick calculation in her head, adding on some for rehab. He winced as she presented her final
figure.

  ‘Fuck, Marie. We’re not doing that great ourselves…’ he trailed off but he hadn’t said no.

  ‘There’s money coming in. The book royalties are going to be higher this quarter and we’ve been offered a TV interview – the fee for that is huge if we can come up with a new angle.’

  They talked for several minutes more before he turned and left. Francesca was waiting for him in the shadows of the car park. Marie watched as George hugged her close before guiding her forwards, one hand on the small of her back.

  More than anything, that was what Marie craved. A touch that came from kindness, from love. As she watched him tenderly settle Francesca in his car, Marie knew that Leah had already lost him and, although Marie felt sorry for her sister, she also felt a pang of envy that Leah had known that kind of love.

  And relief. She felt relief that George had ultimately said yes. That he was going to help her.

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  Leah

  Now

  The air stills around me, the hum of the fridge fades while I try and process what Graham has told me. Is Marie with our dad and if so why?

  That day – all those years ago when the police had turned up on the doorstep – hadn’t seemed unusual. We were used to them dropping in. We knew they’d caught Moustache for armed robbery and that he was in hospital.

  ‘Come in.’ Mum gestured them inside. In the kitchen she wiped her hands on her apron and asked, ‘Sorry, I was just serving up dinner. Do you want tea? Coffee?’

  ‘No, thank you, Mrs Sinclair.’

  Dad, Marie, Carly and I were sat around the table. Five plates rested on the worktop, a mound of steaming mashed potato on each. Under the grill, sausages hissed and spat while peas in boiling water bubbled on the hob.

  We waited.

  Worriedly, I glanced at Carly. She was so pale, her lips devoid of colour.

  ‘Has he… Moustache. Has he escaped?’ she whispered.

  ‘No. Goodness. No.’ Graham looked at us sadly. He’d become close to our family. ‘But he has told us that when he took you girls he was acting on instructions. Simon Sinclair…’ Graham approached the table. ‘I’m arresting you for—’

  Mum screamed over and over. Dad stood, his chair falling loudly onto its side. He slammed his palms on the table, eyes darting left and right. Towards the door. He ran. Graham grabbed his arms, clicked on handcuffs. Mum shouted, ‘They must have made a mistake—’ Carly wrapped her arms around Marie and I. Shuffling together – an awkward centipede – down the hallway as Dad was dragged, struggling to be free, all the way to the front door.

  My sisters and I stood disbelieving on the doorstep as Dad was put in the police car, protesting his innocence. Mum’s legs crumpled as she covered her face. ‘I can’t believe it. I can’t believe it.’

  Again, the reporters returned to our street.

  Again, we were prisoners in our own home.

  ‘It’s a mistake,’ Mum told us. ‘There’s no proof.’

  But there was. Dad had been seen with Moustache and Doc. His fingerprints were in their car. He’d withdrawn a large amount of cash the day before Moustache deposited it in his account. The police found a list among Moustache’s possessions of things we liked to eat and drink, it was written in Dad’s handwriting.

  Mum visited him. When she came out her nose was pink, eyes red.

  ‘He’s pleading guilty.’

  ‘But… why?’ Still none of us could believe it. None of us wanted to believe it, I suppose.

  ‘Because he did it. He thought that financially it was the right thing to do. I don’t think he thought it would have a permanent effect on you. Children are supposed to be resilient.’ She sounded almost resentful as she said this, but as she spoke she tugged off her wedding ring and never spoke his name again.

  While Dad was held on remand we were sent back to school but whereas before we were treated with pity, now the other kids taunted us in the playground.

  ‘The Sinclair Sisters are so ugly their dad paid somebody to take them away.’

  ‘What do you do when you can’t pay your bills? Kidnap your daughters.’

  ‘What do you call a father who makes dreams come true? Father Christmas. What do you call a father who makes nightmares come true? Simon Sinclair.’

  Whereas before life was difficult, now it was unbearable. Neighbours who had been leaving casseroles on our doorstep, cheesy lasagnes and thick vegetable soups, now crossed the road to avoid Mum. Dad may have been a monster but she was the one who had married him.

  We didn’t go to the trial. Mum wanted to but the police told her it would give the impression that she was supporting him and there was enough speculation as it was. Some newspapers hinted she must have known something but, of course, she didn’t. None of us thought for a second he would be capable of staging the abduction of his daughters. It horrified not just our close-knit community but the country, then the world.

  What did the media want us to share now that could be worse than that? Marie reconciling with him?

  A new angle.

  Suspicions creep from the corners of my mind where they stamp for attention in the centre of all other thoughts.

  A new angle.

  Marie couldn’t be the one sending letters for him, she wouldn’t.

  Would she?

  I don’t believe it. I can’t believe it. And yet she’s seemingly vanished without a trace the day after he was released. When she was desperate for a story to sell.

  I hurry to the back door to call Archie in. I’ll settle him with a sandwich in front of the TV and then I’ll phone Carly. See what she makes of it all. Hoping she’ll tell me I’m being ridiculous. Even if we were no longer close, Marie wouldn’t betray us.

  A new angle.

  I fling open the back door. Scream as I see them on the step immediately.

  Oh God, no.

  Mice.

  Three dead mice laid out like an offering. Dark, empty spaces where their eyes should be.

  Three blind mice.

  ‘Archie?’ I look wildly around my garden.

  My empty garden.

  I am falling. Hurtling through time and space. The past and present strobing. A searing pain in my head. My heart.

  The gate is swinging open.

  My parents’ gate.

  My gate.

  Bruno is missing.

  Our new puppy is missing.

  Archie, too. Missing.

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  Carly

  One week ago

  Carly was emotionally drained when she left Marie’s flat. As she drove home she couldn’t stop thinking about the offer of the TV interview. A new angle. Knowing that Marie must want Carly to stand up in front of the nation, in front of the world and take the blame caused something to shrivel inside her like a deflated balloon. Twenty years ago YouTube hadn’t existed. Neither had Facebook. It wasn’t until their book was published that the public felt they had access to the girls and they had lapped up the details like a thirsty dog.

  Poor Leah.

  Poor Marie.

  Poor Carly.

  They’d never told about the things that took place before the abduction. The argument. The way Carly had been so fixated on a boy whose name she couldn’t recall that she’d been careless with her sisters’ feelings. Her sisters’ safety.

  She could still feel it. The sun on her skin. See the whites of the twins’ school socks. The blackness of the scurrying beetle. Inconsequential details she shared with the ghost writer. She never shared that Leah hadn’t shut the gate properly. Carly knew Leah blamed herself too.

  Carly slotted her car into a space outside her flat and rummaged in her bag for her mobile. Leah should be home by now and she wanted to check she was okay. She wanted to ask whether Leah had any second thoughts about turning down the interview. Perhaps Marie was right. It might be cathartic to share it all, a confession of sorts. Perhaps then they might be left alone, for every year there woul
d be an anniversary, journalists picking over the carcass of their past. If there was nothing left to tell, the meat stripped bare, there’d be no truth left then for them to fight over, would there? And the money? Blood money, but Carly knew that Leah and George were struggling and she hated to think of Archie going without. Her nephew was the light of her life. Sometimes it was more than she could bear that Leah had brought him into a world that was heartless and cruel.

  Her fingers skimmed over a tube of Polos, her purse, a packet of tissues but not her phone.

  Carly sighed as she remembered she’d been bidding on eBay when Leah had arrived. She’d tossed her mobile onto Marie’s worktop so she could hug her sister. She hadn’t picked it back up. She restarted the car, a blast of cold air shot from the vents before blowing hot once more, and she pulled back onto the main road. Carly thought it might be a good thing that she was returning to Marie’s alone. A chance to talk. A new angle. Carly mulled this over. She’d make Marie tell her exactly what she had in mind.

  Chapter Forty-Nine

  Marie

  One week ago

  It was less than half an hour after Leah and Carly had left that Marie stripped off her top that was dripping with perspiration. She was instantly freezing in her grubby once-white camisole but she knew to ride it out. It wouldn’t be long until heat swept through her body once more. A few months ago she had tried to detox herself. Had shut herself in her bedroom with a bucket for vomit and a bucket for the waste that would spew from her body like poison. Her skin crawled and her veins burned and she hadn’t been able to cope. She’d staggered down the street in her pyjamas, desperate for the hit, which she took in the overgrown parking space behind the pizza parlour with the broken glass and the rat that sauntered out from behind a skip, eyeing her as though she was the vermin.

  Now she thought that she was better off using the cash George supplied her with to feed her habit until she could get hold of the extortionate fee for rehab – the NHS had already tried and failed her. She needed more than their resources could offer. She needed to be locked in a room for a longer period, with no access to the outside world.