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They were just climbing out of the car when they saw Charlie, a mid-length summer dress swirling around her knees, her hair pulled up into a loose bun. Aden felt his stomach flutter.

‘Hey.’

Charlie looked up, startled. ‘Hi. I didn’t expect to see you guys here. Hey, Rhys. How’s it going?’

Rhys nodded, his gaze captured on something fascinating somewhere around the level of her knees. ‘Good. Thanks.’

Aden grinned. ‘What are you doing here?’

She was wearing lipstick, something that struck him as odd. After all, when he saw her swimming she wore no make-up, her hair tugged back into a ponytail. But now she looked different, softer.

‘I, ah . . . I have an appointment.’ Her gaze fixed on Aden’s, the look meaningful. Imogen. ‘There was no point in me going home after swimming, so I’m going to pop and visit Ernie before he finishes. Grab a cuppa.’

‘Right.’

It was getting awkward, Rhys shuffling uncomfortably from side to side.

Charlie smiled brightly. ‘Okay, so I’ll see you guys anyway.’

‘See you, Charlie.’ Aden watched as she turned, the low sun catching on her chocolate-brown hair, and vanished through the hospital doors.

IMOGEN SLID BREAD
into the toaster, pushing on the lever. She had spoken to her sister early, had called, just to check in. ‘Amy’s doing fine.’ It had seemed that Mara’s voice was lighter than it had been in days. ‘There have been no more seizures. The doctors are really happy with her progress. Let’s just hope the gunman doesn’t come back – that’s the only thing I worry about now.’

The kitchen smelled of coffee, the percolator bubbling quietly in the corner. Imogen glanced up, her gaze drawn by Dave’s footsteps on the stairs. He wasn’t looking at her, hair still wet from the shower, his attention focused on the phone in his hand. Frowning.

‘You okay?’

‘Huh . . . oh, yeah.’

‘You trying to call someone?’ Imogen pulled plates out of the cupboard, glanced around for the butter knife.

‘No. Just checking my emails, that’s all.’

Imogen nodded, tried not to sigh. It was an obsession with Dave, that phone of his; rare that he ever let it out of his fingers, let alone his sight. It was a guy-thing, that was what she told herself. ‘Coffee?’

‘Yeah.’ He snapped the television on, pulling the dining chair free from beneath the kitchen table. ‘Do we have cream?’

‘Um . . . no. I can try and get some later.’

He pulled two cups from the mug stand, poured the thick black liquid in a steady stream. ‘It’s okay. Milk will do.’

‘I—’ Imogen’s sentence began and finished, her attention caught by the television screen, the block form of Mount Pleasant Hospital. Her stomach somersaulting suddenly, the instant thought that something had happened since she had spoken to Mara, that there was more bad news.

The reporter stood in front of the lobby doors, seemed oblivious to the smokers behind her watching the cameras curiously. ‘Police are no closer to finding the gunman that they say has been stalking the halls of Mount Pleasant Hospital. Despite three sightings, it seems there are no signs of an arrest.’

The scene changed, a cut-away to a hospital corridor. Imogen recognised it instantly. Could see the sign for Ward 12 in the background. It was ironic that it took her longer to recognise herself.

‘Yesterday the gunman pursued this lady, Mara Elliott-Lewis, through the car park. “Mara, how did you feel when that happened?”’

It coalesced then, the image that she was seeing. Her sister standing in front of the ward door, a tentative smile, her hair tucked back behind her ears, a hint of make up. ‘It was terrifying. It really was. I mean, we had heard the stories that he had been seen, but of course you never think someone like that could target you.’

‘So what did you do?’ The reporter’s voice was breathless.

Mara shrugged, a quick glance to the camera. ‘I ran. Fortunately he didn’t follow me into the hospital itself, but . . .’ She left it there, the implications of what could have happened hanging heavily. ‘I mean, you bring your children here, thinking they will be taken care of, that it is a place where you can be safe. You never think that something like this could happen.’

The footage snapped away then, returning to the reporter, her face impassive as she stood before the lobby doors. ‘Police say they are deploying substantial resources towards finding this individual and that, at the moment, there is no need for alarm. Mount Pleasant Hospital, Sharon Elderwood.’

Imogen stood, staring at the screen.

‘Bloody hell!’ said Dave.

‘Yes.’

‘Did you know? Did Mara tell you?’

‘That she was on TV? No.’

The toaster popped loudly, a slice of overdone bread leaping onto the counter. Imogen grabbed for it, without thinking.

Dave shook his head. ‘It’s mad, mind. All this. I mean, it must have scared the crap out of Mara.’

Imogen thought of that moment in the lobby, her sister flying into her arms, that feeling of her heart pounding against Imogen’s own. ‘Yes. She . . . It was awful.’

‘Wonder who the hell it is, then?’

Imogen pulled the butter closer, began to smear it over the toast. Tried to push away the crowding thoughts. So what if Mara had an affair. People did. It wasn’t good, but it happened. That didn’t necessarily mean it had anything to do with her sister flying into the hospital lobby, terrified, with this unknown man chasing her. Imogen swept the golden butter so that it lined up against the ends, so there were no dry cracks. And yes, it wasn’t the first time Mara had done it. There had been that fling when Amy was six months old, ex-army guy – the one Mara had said had been a dreadful mistake, that she had ended unceremoniously. That couldn’t have anything to do with this. Why wait so long, if you were angry? Imogen slid the toast onto a plate, handed it to Dave, reached for another slice. Felt the guilt nestling inside her. She kept her sister’s secrets. She was her twin. That was her job. Did that make her just as guilty? And if it worked out that the cost of those secrets was higher than either of them had ever imagined, would that mean Imogen was culpable as well?

Imogen made excuses for her sister. She knew that she did, and that to some extent she always had. But she was Mara’s sister, her twin, older, healthier. It was, after all, her job to protect her. And Mara was – always had been – the kind of person who needed someone there, needed to be reassured that she was loved, had not been forgotten. A fact that Jack had overlooked when he took the job in Dubai. An awesome opportunity, the chance to experience how another police force ran. It would look good for promotion, could lead to more money. ‘Thing is, Im, I just can’t pass up a chance like this.’ Imogen remembered Mara’s face, pulled up into a faux-smile that got nowhere near her eyes, could see the diamond sparkles of tears, could have told Jack then that he was heading for trouble. But she didn’t, because Mara was her sister, and Imogen would protect her, whatever the cost.

‘So, is Jack actually going to come home now?’ asked Dave.

‘You need to call Jack.’ It was after the police had taken their statements, after the curious crowd in the hospital lobby had spilled back into their lives. Imogen had tucked her sister’s arm into hers, guided her back towards the ward, where Amy waited. ‘You need to tell him what’s been going on. He is Amy’s father, Mara, he deserves to know.’

Mara hadn’t spoken at first. Had clutched Imogen’s arm, like a child on her first day of school. ‘I can’t, Im. Not right now.’

Imogen had stopped then, pulling away, a sudden unfamiliar feeling shaking her – anger. ‘Why, Mara? What aren’t you telling me? It’s about him, isn’t it? Your boyfriend.’ The word felt like a glass shard in her mouth, piercing her tongue.

Mara hadn’t looked at her, had folded her arms around herself, seemed to wince almost, and turned away. ‘You don’t understand anything. I just . . . I don’t want to talk about it.’

Imogen took a bite of cold toast now. Chewed slowly. ‘Dave?’

‘Yeah?’ He was sitting at the table, playing with his phone.

‘I . . . I’ve been thinking.’ A deep breath, courage. ‘About the wedding.’

Dave looked up at her, studying her, and Imogen felt her breath catching in her throat. ‘I was just wondering if maybe you wanted to, I don’t know, set a date?’

It felt like such uneven ground, the words that had been trapped within her head finally eking out. He didn’t say anything; seemed like a lifetime within which there was only the drip of the percolator, the chatter of the television, and Imogen reached out to hold onto the kitchen counter, wondering if this was it, if her words had precipitated the fracture she had feared.

Then he smiled. ‘Yeah, let’s do it. Why don’t you bring your diary home tonight and we’ll have a sit-down, see what we can work out?’

Imogen felt herself flush, relief making her dizzy. ‘Oh, okay – well, I have it here. I mean, not here. It’s online. Let me just . . .’ She flipped open the lid of the laptop, keeping her eyes averted from him. Because if she looked at him now, then he might see the fear, the way it had rushed into her from nowhere that she could define. Her fingers fumbled against the keyboard.

The computer screen filled up with a picture of Amy. And a narrow box.

‘Dave? What’s this?’

‘What?’

‘The computer. It won’t let me in.’

A long silence, and Imogen glanced at Dave, thinking that he hadn’t heard her. There was a look on his face: a boy caught throwing stones, a brief flit of an expression, gone as quickly as it came. Then, ‘I set up password protection. I did it for you too. Your usual password. AmyMara1. Hardly hacker central. Just change the username at the top.’

There was an uneasy feeling in Imogen’s stomach, a premonition of things to come. ‘Can’t I just use yours? What’s your password?’ She said it, her voice a little breathless, like she was walking along a narrow ridge, could slip at any time.

Something flew across his face, a flash of irritation. ‘Imogen, it’s not rocket science.’ His voice was hard-edged now. ‘Just change the username.’

Imogen sat, her fingers frozen above the keys. The feeling nestling in her that something had been confirmed, that she just didn’t know what.

Silence settled between them then. The quiet after a storm. Imogen pressed the keys slowly, movements stilted. She wanted to cry. It wasn’t meant to be like this. When you were engaged, and supposed to be getting married and planning on starting a family. It wasn’t supposed to look like this.

It was Dave who punctured the silence first. ‘You know,’ he said, ‘I’m not being funny, but Jack’s a prick.’

Imogen paused, her fingers hanging above the keys, thoughts dislocating with the speed of the conversation change. ‘What?’

‘Well, I’m saying. If Mara was my wife, no way would I be in bloody Dubai.’

Imogen stared as the Google image filled the screen.
If Mara was my wife
.

‘YOU CAME BACK.’

‘I did.’ I smooth my dress down, the purple thread of it curling back on itself.

‘I wasn’t sure that you would.’

I give a laugh, shift in my seat, studying the hem. It’s beginning to unravel, a single thread breaking free from the mass of it. ‘I’m still hoping you’ll give me those sleeping tablets.’

Imogen smiles. Not a professional smile: the kind that sits just at the lips, lasting that little bit longer than it should. A proper smile. ‘You know that I can’t prescribe.’

I nod. A little laugh. ‘I know.’ I look down at the hem again, rolling back in on itself. I don’t know why I came. Don’t know why I came the first time, or the second time, or why I kept coming. I just wanted sleeping tablets, something to take the edge off the endless hours watching the clock tick around. One o’clock, two. Studying the patchwork of digital lines, the realisation – after hours of watching – that a line is missing, so that an 8 becomes a 6. Then thinking how ridiculous it was that this was how I spent the night hours of my life. Falling into an uneasy sleep, somewhere around three. Then the dreams. Always the same. The casket the colour of polished chocolate. The weeping strangers that crowd around it.

‘I’m glad you did.’ Imogen smiles again, balancing a notepad on her knee, pen poised, waiting to capture the brilliance that will surely spill from my mouth. She’s a thin woman, the kind of skinny that comes with nervous energy, flame-red hair tied neatly at the nape of her neck.

I went to the doctor, got a last-minute appointment with a locum GP in my surgery, a narrow woman with a long swishy skirt, thick-soled shoes. Can I have some sleeping tablets? She gave me a long look over narrow glasses. Why do you need sleeping tablets? I bit back the sarcasm that sat on my tongue. Managed a sweet smile, in case it would help. I’m having trouble sleeping. She gave me a long look, canted her head to one side. What I’m reluctant to do, Charlotte, is treat the symptoms rather than the underlying problem.

I really wanted to roll my eyes.

We have a wonderful counsellor here. She rolled the word ‘counsellor’, adding in another syllable where there shouldn’t be one. She leaned forward, lowered her voice conspiratorially. She’s a good friend of mine.

Yeah. Not a chance.

I had mentioned it to Aden, one day in the pool as we were resting between swim sets. Had presented it as an anecdote: insomnia, the twenty-first century disease. But he hadn’t laughed, had watched me as I talked, his eyes red-rimmed from the chlorine. I know someone who can help. She’s a psychologist. She’s good. He’d looked away then, down the swim lane, like he was giving me a chance to think about it without his presence. She won’t be able to prescribe anything, but she may be able to help, if you . . . you know. Had turned, looked back at me, a bead of chlorinated water rolling down his forehead. She’s my psychologist. Because of the shooting.