Book Description:
When they were children, Megan adored her younger sister Chloe. Now she can’t bear to be in the same room as her.
Megan believes Chloe is a psychopath and her sister does appear to be a textbook case: cold, cruel and lacking in empathy.
Why does Chloe want to taunt Megan at every opportunity? And why does she persist in manipulating their mentally ill mother, Tilly?
When Tilly, under Chloe’s malignant influence, becomes dangerously unstable, the consequences are ugly. Megan’s world falls apart. Her sister’s out of control and there’s little she can do about it. Until Chloe’s actions threaten the safety of Megan’s former lover. A man from whom she has kept an important secret…
A study of sibling rivalry and dysfunctional relationships, Sister, Psychopath tells the story of one woman’s struggle to survive the damage inflicted by her own flesh and blood.
1
Suspicion
I jolted awake, fierce resentment welling inside me at the intrusion of the alarm clock. As I rubbed sleep from my eyes, I glanced around my shabby bedsit. On my desk sat the pile of proofreading I needed to tackle if I wanted to earn any money; the morning’s work stretched before me in an endless stream of corrections. For a second, one glorious second, it was a day like any other. Then reality swept in, and with it the agony of what happened ten years earlier, on the same day. A wave of devastation hit me; salty tears stung my eyes, ran down my cheeks. The anguish was as raw, as brutal, as ever. I mourned, and hard too, plunging into the gut-wrenching sorrow I thought I’d locked firmly in the past. Buried under layers of denial, a pain so deep I feared I’d end up as unstable as my mother should I ever revisit it.
Today though, I chose to do so, unable to resist the lure that was Alicia. My fingers reached out to turn off the alarm clock. I pulled the duvet over my head, then curled into a foetal ball, allowing myself the luxury of remembrance.
***
One hour could have passed, or it might have been three. I had no idea how long it took before I cried myself dry.
At last I hauled myself, reluctantly, out of bed and padded into the bathroom. Impossible to tackle the pile of proofreading, not today. Instead, I decided, I’d head over to see Mum, knowing she’d also be remembering the horror of that day. Besides, I wanted to check her mood, which had been relatively stable in recent months.
Over breakfast, I prayed Chloe wouldn’t be home. No way could I mention Alicia to her without provoking some hurtful jibe. Few people would ever call my sister a nice person, although the men she suckered would probably declare her a sex-soaked gift from heaven. Initially, anyway, until they realised she’d only been after their money. As for Mum, she’d blinded herself to her younger daughter’s less desirable traits.
Chloe, my opposite in so many ways. How we looked, for example. Over the years, I’d grown accustomed to fading into the background once people spotted my sister. Something about her hooked people’s attention, hoodwinking them into seeing her as an exotic orchid rather than the Venus flytrap she really was. Beside her, I rated as a daisy at best.
Because Chloe was beautiful. Petite, a mere five feet two, curved like an archer’s bow. She came across as all soft chocolaty-brown, with her long dark hair and cocoa-rich eyes shooting out I’m-so-vulnerable vibes. Not to mention the pale cappuccino hue of her skin, a legacy from her father.
At least Chloe had always known who he was. Her genes came from Mum’s fling with the Spanish teacher at the college where she worked back then. He’d left England before Mum had a chance to tell him she was carrying his baby. She’d never hidden the truth from Chloe though. If only she’d been as forthcoming with me about my father. Whenever I’d asked about him, Mum had always changed the subject. I had no idea who had given me my height, all five feet ten of it, along with my pale skin, blue eyes and mid-brown hair, such a contrast to Chloe’s dark beauty. Father unknown, my birth certificate said. One thing was for sure, Mum hadn’t given me the tall gene. Her height was somewhere in between Chloe’s and mine. Same with her skin tone. As for her hair, she’d been a blonde before it had faded to grey.
Father unknown. It hurt. Rankled even.
I thrust all thoughts of my parentage out of my head. It wasn’t the right time to scratch off that ancient scab. My breakfast finished, I placed my plate and mug in the sink, then grabbed my jacket and keys. I had no idea that later that day my emotions towards my half-sister would coalesce into hatred, after years of dislike and mistrust.
***
Within ten minutes, I was letting myself into my childhood home in the St George area of Bristol.
Not hearing any sounds, I called up the stairs. ‘Mum? It’s me, Megan.’
Her bedroom door opened, the creak reassuring me. My mother appeared at the top of the stairs. I exhaled a nugget of tension when I saw her. She’d made the effort to get dressed – always a good sign – and her black trousers and cerise top looked good, classy even. Her hair was brushed, her skin less pale than normal. She was having a good day then.
‘I thought you might come over,’ she said as she made her way downstairs.
Our eyes locked, hers filled with awareness of the date. No words were needed, not then. Instead, my mother walked into the kitchen, filled the kettle and busied herself with mugs and spoons, her back towards me. I ached for a hug, the press of her arms around me, despite experience telling me it was unlikely. Oh, she loved me, in a muted kind of way. It had never been enough though.
‘I’m sorry, Megan,’ she said. ‘I realise you’ll be hurting, today of all days.’
I choked back a sob.
‘I miss my beautiful granddaughter,’ Mum continued. ‘I think of her every day.’
A tear escaped my eye and slid down my cheek. I was transported ten years into the past, my child’s pale, lifeless body an unspeakable horror. In contrast, I recalled when she was alive, the soft grasp of tiny fingers against my own. Her wisps of dark hair, scented with baby shampoo and curling around ears as delicate as petals. Her precious body, cradled in my arms. Back then, I’d smile to myself, allowing my mind to roam through various scenarios: my daughter as a toddler, a teenager, a young woman. Would she take after me: awkward around strangers, gawky and lacking in confidence? Or would she be like Chloe: all sass, brass and sarcasm?
Perhaps Alicia would have resembled her father. He’d never known about his daughter’s birth.
Or her death, nine weeks later.
Back then, I didn’t think I’d ever recover from my loss. Ten years later, I knew I never had. Or would.
From what my mother had said afterwards, she’d also feared for me. For once, Tilly Copeland, in a break between episodes of depression, had been the stronger one mentally. Alicia had been born when Mum had been more stable, and she’d adored my baby instantly. God knows I needed all the support my mother had to give, what with being nineteen and a single parent. Mum rose to the challenge, attending antenatal classes with me, being there at the birth and doing everything possible to help afterwards. She’d even managed to stay silent about Alicia on the rare occasions when she’d seen my child’s father.
‘It should never have happened,’ I whispered.
My mother turned to face me. ‘Alicia’s death was a tragic accident.’
‘Do you think that makes it any better? It doesn’t.’ Mum must realise that. But what was she supposed to say to someone who had birthed and lost a child within nine weeks? Nothing would ever heal my wounds, the wonder being that I hadn’t buckled under the strain, gone the way of my mother.
‘I know these things happen,’ I continued. ‘To other people though. Not to me.’ I wiped another stray tear away. ‘I’ve always felt bad about Pepper. It wasn’t her fault, poor old thing.’
Mum handed me my mug of coffee, then sat down opposite me. ‘You must have hated me at the time.’
‘No. I couldn’t think of anything other than…’ A strangled sob. ‘Alicia’s death.’
‘That was why I did it. You were beside yourself with grief. I decided you didn’t need any reminders.’
I sipped my coffee. ‘I understand. It’s just… you know how much I loved Pepper. But you’re right. I’d have found it unbearable to have her around afterwards.’
Pepper. My cat, adored by me, loathed by Chloe, and tolerated by Mum. Brought home from a rescue centre after much pleading on my part. An animal which one day, while I’d gone shopping and Mum was supposed to be minding Alicia, had climbed into my baby’s cot, seeking warmth. Her fur proved thick enough to smother the tiny child on whom my cat went to sleep. A sleep not disturbed until I, rushing upstairs on my return to check my baby, screamed my throat raw with the horror of what I’d found. A rare occurrence, they said at the inquest, but not one without precedence. The following day, Mum surreptitiously took Pepper to the local vet, telling him, without needing to lie, that the animal was eighteen years old. Then she added, not so truthfully, how it appeared in pain.
I, however, was the one in pain. So much so that I’d needed to defer my English degree at Bristol University. For weeks, I’d not ventured out of bed, sleeping most of the time, hardly eating. When I did get up, I spent hours slumped on the sofa, staring into space. My skin, always acne-prone, deteriorated into a lunar landscape of angry eruptions and my hair went unwashed for days. My progress back to being able to function again took months. Amy Hamilton, my only friend from school still around, tried to shake me from my depression but failed. My soul was too raw, too bruised.
One day I announced I couldn’t live at home anymore, saying the house held too many memories and how the time had come to move out. I’d rented a tiny bedsit and got myself a temporary job at Waitrose until I felt strong enough to resume my degree. Mum had protested, Chloe not at all.
Back in the present moment, I sniffed. ‘I should have put a net over the cot. Or shut my bedroom door to keep Pepper out.’
‘You can’t blame yourself. Either Chloe or I should have realised what might happen, made sure your door was shut.’
Mum’s comment went unnoticed at first. Then my mental light bulb lit up, my mind clicking into place. What she’d said made no sense.
‘Chloe? What do you mean, Chloe could have shut the door? She wasn’t even there.’
Mum’s face looked stricken. When she didn’t answer, I continued. ‘She wasn’t, was she? Both of you said Chloe had been out all morning. She certainly wasn’t there when I found…’ My voice trailed off.
‘You’re right. Not when you found Pepper asleep on Alicia…’
‘I’m talking about before. Was Chloe here with you that morning?’
Mum didn’t reply, but my answer came from her evident disquiet, the way her eyes refused to hold mine. My unease, the sense that something was way off-kilter here, increased tenfold.
I leaned across the kitchen table, grasped her arm, my fingers pincer-like. ‘Be honest with me. Was Chloe in the house when Alicia died?’
Tension coiled around us while I waited for her reply. Mum chewed her bottom lip, her gaze fixed on her coffee mug. When she answered, her voice was barely audible. ‘Chloe was, yes. I wasn’t.’
My mind did a mental somersault. ‘You weren’t with Alicia? What the hell do you mean?’
‘Oh, Megan, you mustn’t get all worked up about this.’
I stared at my mother, tears threatening to fall all the while. ‘Worked up? My baby died, Mum. Don’t you think I have a right to know what happened?’
Dismay stole over her face, and I sensed her withdrawal. I was pushing her too hard, I knew, but pressed on regardless. ‘Tell me. Where were you that morning, if not with Alicia?’
Mum shrank back, clearly stung by my vehemence. ‘I spent a lot of that morning in the garden, talking with Mrs Lucas next door. I was around, just not in the house.’
‘And Chloe? What about her? When I left to go shopping, she’d already gone out.’
‘You’re right. She went out just before you did. But she came home not long afterwards. That’s why I went into the garden, because Chloe was in the house with Alicia.’
‘Yeah, sure. Like she ever bothered to lift a finger for my baby.’ Bitter hurt, laced with resentment, washed over me.
‘She spent most of the morning in her bedroom. Then, right before you got back and found Alicia dead, I asked her to go buy some milk, which she did. We didn’t realise anything was wrong then, of course.’
‘So why did both of you say Chloe was out of the house all morning when Pepper smothered my baby?’ Anger at having been lied to surged through me. I’d been treated like a child instead of a grieving mother.
‘It seemed best.’ Mum’s voice rose high, her tone agitated. Normally I’d be treading carefully, mindful not to upset her, but not this time. I needed to know why she’d lied.
‘Why, exactly?’
‘Chloe’s so sensitive at times. So caring too, even though you don’t give her credit for it. She came home with the milk, found you hysterical, the ambulance crew here, me in shock. She talked to me later, pleaded with me to say she’d been out all morning. She was only fifteen, and scared.’
‘Of what, exactly? Why lie? Why pretend she wasn’t there, if she was? That’s the bit I don’t get.’
‘Because she was worried you’d believe – if you knew she’d been at home and I was occupied elsewhere – that she’d somehow been responsible. Even though she wasn’t. You’ve always thought the worst of her. You’ve got to admit that.’
‘Responsible? For what? It was an accident, they said at the inquest. Nobody to blame.’
‘Of course not. But Chloe was scared you’d somehow accuse her. She saw you falling to pieces and didn’t want you having a go at her. I must say it did seem the right thing to do at the time. A tiny white lie, to save everybody more grief.’
‘To save herself, more like.’
Mum spread her hands in what I assumed was a request for forgiveness. ‘I meant well. So did Chloe.’
‘Yeah, right. When does she ever?’
Anger burned fiercely in my heart. Impossible to stay any longer, not with shock still pounding through me. A few minutes later saw me saying goodbye to my mother.
***
Later, back at my flat, fury at her raged in my mind, until I considered Mum’s motive for telling such a full-blown lie. Understanding bloomed in me then. Her agreeing to protect Chloe, while making me out to be the unreasonable older sister, was Mum doing what she’d always done. She’d been hooked on Chloe since the day she was born, not once acknowledging her behaviour as anything worse than thoughtlessness and high spirits.
I seemed to be the only one who saw Chloe’s faults, who didn’t make excuses for her. Once I had loved her; I’d been delighted when Mum told me I would have a baby brother or sister, too young at four to see the weariness hidden behind her eyes at the thought of bringing up two children on her own. She’d been fine after the birth though, from what she’d told me. No post-natal depression, something she’d feared, having been laid low for months after I was born. Perhaps that explained why she’d never loved me the way she did Chloe, why she rarely gave me a hug; she’d simply never bonded with me.
I hadn’t cared how absorbed Mum became in her new daughter, besotted as I was myself. When allowed, I helped bathe and change the baby, my small fingers quicker and more accurate than Mum’s, singing to Chloe when she wouldn’t sleep. I told myself we’d play together when she was old enough, share a bedroom as teenagers, be best friends.
Oh, the poignancy of spoiled dreams. When did my sibling love turn sour? Did it start with hearing Mum excuse my sister’s behaviour towards other children yet again? Saying Chloe couldn’t have hit little Tommy, Mandy, whomever. She wasn’t like that, she was such a sweet girl, honestly she was. Despite the fact I witnessed the way she bullied the other kids. Or was it when I came across Chloe shovelling earth into a hastily dug hole, later connecting the dots when the neighbours reported one of their rabbits had gone missing?
Whatever had caused it, the damage seemed permanent. I distrusted my half-sister with the same intensity I’d once loved her. I feared her a little too. I didn’t like to think about what the missing rabbit said about Chloe. Or about my baby’s death.
In hindsight, I realised I’d always harboured doubts about that day. Maybe, on some gut level, I’d recognised I was being lied to, but been unable to acknowledge it due to the intensity of my grief.
I made a decision; somehow I’d uncover the truth about what happened ten years earlier. Because Mum’s revelation wasn’t the whole story, of that I was sure. A suspicion, vile beyond words, had seized hold of my mind, wouldn’t let go. The thought pounded through my brain: had Chloe killed Alicia?
The more I considered the possibility, the more likely it seemed.
***
Author Bio: 
Maggie James is a British author who lives in Bristol. She writes psychological suspense novels.
Before turning her hand to writing, Maggie worked mainly as an accountant, with a diversion into practising as a nutritional therapist. Diet and health remain high on her list of interests, along with travel. Accountancy does not, but then it never did. The urge to pack a bag and go off travelling is always lurking in the background! When not writing, going to the gym, practising yoga or travelling, Maggie can be found seeking new four-legged friends to pet; animals are a lifelong love!
Links:
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Goodreads Author Page: http://www.goodreads.com/author/show/828751.Maggie_James
Blog: http://www.maggiejamesfiction.com/blog
Website: http://www.maggiejamesfiction.com
