The Sister Surprise Abigail Mann (most difficult books to read TXT) 📖

it couldn’t have been you, unless you’ve had a personality transplant since I last saw you.’

A cold, slick feeling of guilt spreads in my chest and pools in my stomach like crushed ice.

‘Do you know who did it?’

‘Yeah, therein lies the rub. It was Duncan.’

‘What?!’

‘The Big D. Dunc-zilla.’

‘Yes, I know who you’re referring to. You don’t need to say his name 500 different ways for me to understand how fucking disastrous this is,’ I say, slowly thumping my head with my fist.

‘Is it terrible if I say congratulations?’ asks Max. ‘Your diaries are the most read section on the website.’

‘Yes – it absolutely fucking would be.’

Hearing Max’s voice amidst the background titter of office gossip and snatched laughter throws my situation into stark contrast. What am I doing? I didn’t think to read back my diaries after they were published. Other things took precedence, like helping Kian out with the farm, the grant application, and Moira. My sister. As soon as I found her, I knew I couldn’t chuck her in as ‘content’ without telling her why I was here, but I never found the right time and now the window of opportunity is so small, I’d have to get on my hands and knees with a magnifying glass to find it. Thinking back to my first entry, I cringe at how supercilious I sound, let alone after Duncan mashed them up with his ham fists.

John the mechanic-cum-taxi-driver-cum-train-guard pulls round the corner in his pick-up, a wing mirror narrowly skimming the Jeep as he passes. Although he looks older, he’s about Max’s age, with a little boy strapped into a booster seat behind him. He beeps in acknowledgment and I nod back, blinking angry tears away.

‘This is awful. What am I going to do?’ I say, my voice wobbling.

‘Maybe look on the bright side? Duncan isn’t giving anyone else this level of attention, so it could be a good sign for you, career-wise. I’ll be honest – if I were your sister, I wouldn’t be buzzing about my internet debut – how did you introduce her? “Riding a pig like she was on a bucking bronco?” What’s her name again?’

‘Moira,’ I say, quietly.

‘You could have given her a pseudonym …’

‘Please don’t tell Duncan that I haven’t told Moira who I am.’

‘I won’t, but look – if it were me – I’d keep my head down, film a fake reunion, and get the fuck out. This could be great for your career. We had a tabloid call up yesterday asking if they could buy your content for an op-ed feature. We said no, obviously.’

‘Thanks?’

‘Hey, no problem. Your reunion video is due this weekend, right? Do the sister reveal then. Rip the plaster off, and all that.’

‘No way. I know that’s what Duncan asked for, but I emailed him back and told him I couldn’t rush this.’

‘Well, I know what I’d do.’

‘That’s because you have no conscience.’

‘It’s useful at times. Hey, I’ve got to go. Keep in touch, yeah?’

‘Wait! Can you talk to Duncan? Get him to take the diaries down?’

‘Sorry, that’s a no-can-do. I’ve moved to a different department. I cover sports, technically speaking. I’ve got no sway. Talk to Duncan when you’re back. I know I can’t force you to do anything, but you know it’ll make the narrative stronger if you’re able to get Moira’s side of the story.’

‘Yeah, well, it’s going to be a lot harder now that I’ve apparently authored an entire series depicting her hometown as a backwards dump, isn’t it?’

‘It’s not a problem I’m envious of, mate. Right, Olz is back. I’ve got a date with a cup of fermented green tea that’s supposed to purify my bowel or some other bollocks. Look after yourself, all right?’

Chapter 28

I wake up to the sound of someone trying to be very quiet, which I gather from the clattering sound of a spoon hitting tiles and the swift ‘Fuck!’ that accompanies it. I pick up my phone, which I keep switched on, even though its use has diminished to that of a clock. Six-forty-five. Practically a lie-in.

I yank the curtains back and sit up to lean against the window sill as the radiator clunks into life, a dull warmth against my side.

The sleep I had last night was riddled with dreams so weird it’s like I’d chowed down on half a block of cheese before I went to bed. In one, I’d gone to find Ross, except he looked incredibly like Jesus and couldn’t stop to talk because of how busy he was herding sheep out of the church. Every time it looked empty, more popped up, multiplying like amoebas, until I could barely breathe from how closely their woollen faces pressed up against me, their eyes glassy and wet.

I know dream interpretation is inherently bollocks, but this has to have something to do with how rattled I’ve been since Max’s phone call. My cautious plan to find a good moment for The Big Chat with Moira has morphed into a monkey on my back that I can’t shake off. Whilst there are secrets between us, my mind hums with anxious thoughts that bounce around my skull like ping-pong balls, keeping me awake at night. I’ve replaced herbal sleeping tablets with a few pages of the Kilroch village newsletter, but even that isn’t enough to hush my brain before bed.

I shed the duvet and pull on my indoor fleece, followed by my outdoor fleece (my new normal), and head downstairs. A chair scrapes in the kitchen. I swear Kian has the same sleep pattern as world leaders who claim they only need four hours of sleep a night and then wonder why they look haggard by forty. As I walk in, he’s stuffing papers into the front pocket of a laptop case, a scattering of plastic sleeves on the table. I refill the kettle, still warm to the touch, and place it back on the stove.

‘You’re in a suit!’ I say as he straightens up.

‘What? Yeah.