The Lake Louise Sharland (each kindness read aloud txt) 📖

sits back down on the bed and after a moment motions for me to join her. ‘Honey,’ she says, her voice thick with Sauvignon Blanc. ‘Do you know how ridiculous this all sounds?’

I am taken aback. ‘You do think he made it up.’

‘I’m not sure what to think.’ Grace reaches for her glass. ‘All I know is that before you found this stuff at Mum’s you were starting to get your life back together.’

‘My life will never get back together.’

Grace stares at me, her lips parted slightly as if in surprise, her slim fingers clutching the wine glass. It’s a moment before she speaks again. ‘I’m sorry,’ she says. ‘I suppose six years isn’t really that long, is it?’ She takes a tissue from the bedside table and hands it to me. I haven’t realised I’ve been crying. ‘I’m worried about you though. Fixating on Michael’s death like this – it just isn’t healthy.’

‘I just want to know the truth.’

‘What difference will it make? Will it bring him back?’

‘Of course not, but at least I can be sure justice is done.’

Grace frowns. ‘What do you mean by justice?’

‘For whoever was responsible.’

Grace replies so softly that I have to lean in closer to hear. ‘No one was responsible. It was an accident.’

‘It wasn’t,’ I say, finally able to voice the suspicions that have haunted me since the night my son died. ‘Michael may have been a bit dramatic, but he wasn’t a lunatic.’ I can feel my heart pounding and long to reach into my bag for a tiny blue piece of calm. ‘And I’m his mother. If it was an accident, why does every bone in my body shout out that it wasn’t?’

‘What else could it be?’

‘Someone did this to him, Grace. Someone killed Michael.’

Grace turns very pale. ‘You can’t really believe—’

‘Why not? The police report was inconclusive. The coroner’s verdict was open.’

Grace puts her wine glass on the bedside table, turns to me and grabs me fiercely by both shoulders. ‘I will not let you do this to yourself again.’

‘What do you mean do this to myself?’

‘Create some ridiculous scenario in your mind.’ Her eyes have gone very blue. ‘Do I have to remind you about last time?’

‘Oh, for Christ’s sake!’

‘Your trips to the school? The police station? Harassing that family liaison officer?’

‘I didn’t harass her!’

‘Kate, you were charged. If Adam hadn’t got that psych report—’

‘So, you’re on his side now are you?’

‘Of course not,’ says Grace. ‘I’m on yours. I’m always on yours.’

I don’t believe her. No one is on my side. This has become more and more obvious in the six years since Michael’s death. The police, the coroner, the school, social services; everyone including my husband and now my sister would rather let the truth lie than face the facts. My questions and subsequent confrontations with the so-called experts were in no way hysterical or unfounded – not like Grace is suggesting. It was all evidence-based enquiry. I have collected a lot of facts in the last six years. I know what I’m talking about. The realisation that my sister is one more doubter is more painful than I could have ever imagined. It’s time for me to shut down this conversation.

‘If this were Ellie—’

‘Don’t!’ Grace jumps up as if stung. She fumbles through her bag for the packet of cigarettes, swearing as the contents scatter across the floor. Pulling on her jacket, she heads for the door. I sit on the bed unmoving, resolute. I hear the metallic click of the handle and the sound of the door being thrown wide open. There is a pause and then Grace speaks.

‘Are you coming outside for a smoke or not?’

We stand by the back door of the hotel, smoking in silence, not even daring to look at each other. Even though I love her with all my heart, I know now that my sister is just one more obstacle keeping me from the truth. I also know from experience that it is best not to push her: she will talk when she’s ready. What I won’t do, however, is give in. If anything, our argument has only strengthened my resolve.

‘Does Adam know?’ Grace exhales loudly, the cigarette smoke curling around her ears like horns. ‘About the diary and mobile?’ I shake my head. ‘What do you think he would say if he did?’ I know where she is going with this, but I choose not to reply. Instead I think of the diary; of the gently sloping letters of Michael’s handwriting; of the heartfelt poems. ‘Don’t you think telling him might help?’

‘Help?’ I stub the cigarette out fiercely beneath my shoe. Leaning back against the metal railings I stare up at the night sky. ‘Do you know that after Michael died I wanted to hire a private detective?’ I wait for Grace’s response but there is none. ‘There were so many mistakes with the police investigation; so many inconsistencies. Do you remember when they lost some of his blood samples? I knew something wasn’t right. But Adam wouldn’t let me hire somebody to look into it, and the only way I could have afforded it was to use money from the joint account.’

‘And then he would have known,’ says Grace.

‘He said he’d put a block on the account if I did.’

‘Could he do that?’

‘I don’t know …’ I shrug. ‘But by then I’d sort of lost the confidence.’

‘I’m sorry,’ says Grace, putting an arm around my shoulders. ‘Your husband can be an arse sometimes.’

‘I left it because I had no choice.’ I take a deep breath, drawing in the scent of bergamot and sandalwood from her perfume. ‘But now – finding the rucksack, the diary, and that strange text – well I just can’t let it rest. Even if I’m completely wrong, at least I’ll know I did everything in my power to find out what happened.’ I rest my head on Grace’s shoulder. ‘Everyone is always going on about the need to move on. Why don’t