My Sister's Husband Read online

  My Sister's Husband

  An absolutely gripping and suspenseful page-turner

  Nicola Marsh

  Books by Nicola Marsh

  My Sister’s Husband

  The Last Wife

  The Scandal

  Available in audio

  The Last Wife (Available in the UK and the US)

  The Scandal (Available in the UK and the US)

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Chapter 58

  Chapter 59

  Chapter 60

  Chapter 61

  Chapter 62

  Chapter 63

  Chapter 64

  Chapter 65

  Chapter 66

  Chapter 67

  Chapter 68

  Chapter 69

  Chapter 70

  Chapter 71

  Chapter 72

  Chapter 73

  Chapter 74

  Chapter 75

  Chapter 76

  Chapter 77

  The Scandal

  Hear More from Nicola

  Books by Nicola Marsh

  A Letter from Nicola

  The Last Wife

  Acknowledgments

  *

  For my brother Paul. Aren’t you glad I’m nothing like the sisters in this book?

  Prologue

  Families can be toxic.

  I dare anyone to disagree.

  You’re forced to endure interminable gatherings and endless small talk with relatives you barely know. Faking emotion in the name of obligation.

  It should be easier with siblings. Growing up together, sharing stuff, from clothes to music to excuses to get out of curfew makes the bond strong—it should be unbreakable. But sometimes it’s not. Sometimes those we love the most are the ones who hurt us irrevocably and we can never go back.

  Fathers are supposed to be role models. Mothers should nurture and encourage. But what if your dad doesn’t set a good example and your mom doesn’t care? If the family you have is in name only, patched together by the DNA that bonds you and little else?

  But the worst thing about families is the secrets.

  Half-truths, mysteries, and the outright lies perpetuated in the name of protection. Feelings to be considered. Sensitive souls to be sheltered from the harsh realities of life.

  But that’s a cop out.

  I should know.

  Secrets robbed me of the life I deserve.

  I’m angry. Enraged.

  I want what’s mine.

  And nobody, not even my precious family, will stand in my way.

  One

  Brooke

  My skin prickles as I near the outskirts of town, like a nest of ants has taken up residence under the dermis and are crawling all over me. I resist the urge to scratch because I know the feeling is psychosomatic, my body’s way of saying run while you still can.

  Instead, I press my foot to the accelerator and floor it past the ‘Welcome to Martino Bay’ sign, depicting oranges and a clifftop against an aqua background. Two hours north of LA, I’d never seen an orange grove anywhere near town. The cliffs, I’d rather forget. Rugged and terrifying, they are legendary for their beauty, and their danger.

  Our house sits atop one of those towering cliffs that wend their way along the Californian coastline and growing up we knew the hazards. But as kids we found them tempting and mesmerizing. As teens we’d hang out in groups, joking about being daredevils and who’d BASE jump first. It wasn’t until later I realized how menacing they could be.

  I’ve spent the last decade running from this town and the memory of what happened eleven years ago.

  The night that changed everything.

  Emotion tightens my throat, regret mingling with retribution. I’ve lived with the guilt for so long it has become as natural to me as breathing. Returning home will make it worse, I know this, but it’s time.

  Freya is getting married and I wouldn’t return to this hellhole for anyone other than my sister. We were close once. We shared everything. Being eleven months apart made for an unbreakable bond. Our relationship has never been easy but I love her, and the fact she reached out to me means she’s as ready as I am to reconnect.

  Though Freya isn’t the only reason I’m back in town. My cousin Lizzie’s email about Aunt Alice’s deteriorating health made my ever-present guilt for staying away so long flare. I can’t comprehend the strong woman who loved me like her own daughter being so ill she’s confined to her room, and I have to see her. My aunt has always been there for me, and my affection for the woman who raised me has a lot to do with me gunning the engine of my beat-up Chevy as I head down the highway for another mile leading into town. I ignore the speed limit. The faster I get to Freya’s the better.

  The town passes in a blur, with its trendy cafés and boutiques. I bought my prom dress in one of them; Cheri’s, a treasure trove of silks and chiffons, frequented by seniors and their moms alike. Eli and I had been prom king and queen, the golden couple of Martino Bay High. Everyone had loved us.

  When that love turned to hate I’d had no choice but to leave. Aunt Alice had taken care of everything. She’d been there for me and now I need to return the favor. Lizzie’s worried about her mom; she thinks the dementia is worsening. Aunt Alice has started to ramble about secrets and nothing’s making sense. If pragmatic Lizzie is concerned, there has to be something going on.

  I’ve been selfish, staying away for so long. But my aunt is tied up in memories of a time I’d rather forget and forgoing contact was a way to help me heal. She reminds me of what I’ve lost. Even now the hollow ache hasn’t gone away and I’m scared seeing my aunt again will bring it all back.

  I spy the crimson roadside letterbox two hundred feet ahead and my heart races. I drag in deep, calming breaths as I indicate and pull onto the dirt road beside the letterbox. Filling my lungs with air doesn’t help. I’m still breathless, my pulse thundering in my ears, as I glimpse the house at the end of a twisty driveway, a single-story stucco in terracotta that looks like it has been transported direct from south of the border. I’d loved living here, loved the laid-back vibe, the coolness of the stone-tiled floors, the potted cacti Aunt Alice bought by the truckload. She’d created a real home for Fr
eya and me, raising us as her own, alongside Lizzie.

  Aunt Alice is the only mother I’ve ever known. She never favored Lizzie over Freya and me. We all got the same allowance, the same homemade chocolate cake for our birthdays, the same second-hand Ford for our sixteenth birthdays. She created a home filled with laughter and love. Toasted marshmallows on a small bonfire in the backyard every Sunday night, homemade pizzas if we had a bad day at school, and individual tubs of cookies ’n’ cream, buttered pecan and choc-chip cookie dough ice cream, our respective favorites, in the freezer at all times.

  Not overly strict, she set clear boundaries and expected us to adhere to them. She trusted us and treated us with respect, which is why I felt comfortable in approaching her when my life imploded. She’d been supportive and practical rather than judgmental and cynical. It made me love her all the more.

  I definitely owe her. It’s not her fault I’ve stayed away so long and if she’s really ill, I hope I can be there for her at a time she needs me most, like she was there for me.

  Three cars, two small SUVs and a monster grey van, are parked parallel near the carport. I don’t recognize them. Then again, after almost eleven years, why would I? I reverse park away from the cars. It’s a habit, for a quicker getaway. Not that I’ve done anything bad while I’ve been away but I don’t stay long in one place. I haven’t made many friends over the years and when I do those connections don’t last long—there’s nothing about my life I want to share.

  I kill the engine but grip the steering wheel so tight my knuckles stand out. I shouldn’t be this nervous. Freya loves me, despite our distance for over a decade, and she wouldn’t have invited me to her wedding otherwise. Though her invitation took me by surprise. Why initiate contact now? We haven’t spoken since I walked out of this house over ten years ago, never to return. I’d had to make a clean break out of necessity but a small part of me resents Freya for not reaching out sooner. Does she wonder why I cut all ties with home? Has she missed me at all? Like me, has she wanted to bridge the gap between us before now? Is that what this invitation is about, finally giving in because one of us had to make the first move to re-establish some kind of relationship?

  I may not have been in the right headspace to reconnect back then but ten years is a long time to not speak to my sister. Then again, I shoulder some of the blame. I could’ve returned before this. Thankfully I’m stronger now and ready to face residual demons, to set the past to rest once and for all.

  What seems like a lifetime later I unfurl my fingers from the steering wheel, grab my bag and open the door. I’m not surprised nobody’s come out to greet me. They’ll be congregated in the sunroom at the back of the house, like we always used to at this time of day. I can never taste homemade lemonade or smell oatmeal cookies without thinking of home.

  I follow the flagstone path around the back, my flip-flops making a loud slapping in the eerie silence. As I round the corner of the house, I see them. Freya, her dark brown hair a stark contrast to my strawberry blonde, glowing in the waning sunlight. Her face is leaner, her cheekbones starker, and she’s lost a bit of weight, but inherently she’s the same. She’s poring over a bridal magazine, a small smile of contentment curving her lips.

  Lizzie is sitting beside her, her thumbs tapping at her cell. She’s gnawing on her bottom lip, a worried frown dipping her brows. For a moment they look like sisters rather than cousins and the thought saddens me. I should’ve been here all these years. I’m Freya’s sister, not Lizzie. I’ve missed out on so much.

  Lizzie finishes typing and flings her cell onto the table. She glances up, sees me and her frown vanishes. Her expression is one of relief as she stands, taps Freya on the shoulder, before making her way toward me.

  I smile and break into a half run, irrationally annoyed my cousin is the first to embrace me when it should be Freya. My sister seems happy enough to see me but her pace is slower as she moves toward me.

  “It’s good to see you, Brooke.” Lizzie’s hug is tight and I blink back tears as her familiar patchouli fragrance tickles my nose. I hate the smell, had teased her about it endlessly growing up. Now, a wave of nostalgia swamps me, making me cling to her until Freya draws near.

  When Lizzie releases me, Freya opens her arms wide. “Long time no see, Sis.”

  I’m overcome for a moment as I stare into eyes as familiar as my own. We were close once and I see every emotion I’ve been bottling up—loss, regret, heartache—reflected in her tear-filled gaze. But she’s wary too, as if she can’t believe I’m here. I shouldn’t be surprised she’s circumspect. Like all sisters, we had our rough times. Freya had a jealous streak and she’d let me know about it sometimes. She could be moody and cunning and provoke me deliberately, but I put up with her foibles the same way she did mine.

  I want to say so much. I’m sorry for staying away so long. I’m sorry I never told you the truth about what happened. I’m sorry for being a lousy sister the last decade. I missed you.

  Instead, I manage a subdued “Yeah” as her arms envelop me and she hugs me tight. But Freya releases me quickly and I sense an undercurrent as her gaze sweeps me from head to foot, like she disapproves of my cut-off denim shorts and red tank top.

  “You hungry?”

  “I’m good,” I say, though I’m starving. But I’m overwhelmed and would prefer to sit and take everything in than eat.

  “Mom’s going to be so happy you’re home,” Lizzie says and once again I see that flicker of disapproval in Freya’s eyes. “Though she seems to be getting worse every day and may not recognize you.”

  I reach out and squeeze Lizzie’s hand. “I’m really sorry to hear it.”

  “Thanks.” Lizzie’s smile holds a wealth of pain. “Fancy a lemonade?”

  “I’d love one.”

  Lizzie waves us toward the outdoor table. “You two sit, I’ll get it.”

  The moment we’re left alone, Freya fixes me with a probing stare that makes me uncomfortable and for a moment I wish she’d volunteered to get the drinks. I hadn’t expected Freya to be overly effusive, it’s not her style, but she’s acting like I’m intruding, which is bizarre considering she reached out to me.

  “Everything okay?”

  “Just wedding stress.” Her nod is terse as she gestures at the bridal magazines on the table. “You tired?” Before I can answer, she says, “You look it.”

  And just like that, I feel like I’m really home. I know this Freya, with her sly passive-aggressive jibes. She’s done this since we were little but I never let it bother me; not that I would show her, that is. It infuriated her when I wouldn’t jibe back, my feigned indifference the best comeback.

  I’d assumed we’d be past this. Almost eleven years is a long time. When I glance at her, she’s smiling, but there’s no joy in it. She’s smug, like she’s lording it over me that I’ve been away so long and she’s the queen of the castle.

  “Why did you invite me to your wedding?”

  I ask the million-dollar question, the one I’ve lost sleep over the last few weeks while I dithered over the decision to return home. My life may have been transient for the last decade as I moved from job to job, place to place, trying to come to terms with my guilt and my grief. Volunteering with an aid organization in South America for the last five years taught me to be self-reliant but also to read people.

  And right now I can’t get a read on my sister, when I once thought I knew her better than I knew myself.

  “I invited you because you’re family,” she says, with a simple shrug. “And I’ve missed you.”

  “I’ve missed you too.” I sling my arm across her shoulder and squeeze. “Can you believe it’s been so long?”

  “Whose fault is that?” She shrugs off my arm and pokes me in the ribs like she used to; we laugh. “A small part of me is still mad at you for leaving and not coming back. And I’m sorry if I acted weird a minute ago. It’s just…”

  “What?”

  She gives a little shake of
her head, as if she still can’t believe I’m here. “You practically look the same and seeing you stroll in here after all this time threw me.”

  “It’s weird, isn’t it? Being apart so long, feeling like strangers almost.” I wave my hand between us, wanting to ease the tension. “Remember how we used to sit here all the time in summer, giving each other manicures or trying to outdo each other in those Cosmo quizzes?”

  For the first time since I arrived, Freya seems to relax, her stiff posture easing as she nods. “Yeah, I remember.”

  “Those were good times,” I say, feeling like I’ve made a breakthrough when Freya smiles and blinks several times, like she’s staving off tears. She always held her emotions in check better than me and I’m relieved to see this softer side to her, like she too misses what we once had.