Dragonfly falling, p.1
The Twin Sister: A BRAND NEW totally addictive psychological thriller with twists that will make you gasp, page 1
THE
TWIN SISTER
A totally addictive psychological thriller with a shocking final twist
YVETTE DAVIES
Joffe Books, London
www.joffebooks.com
First published in Great Britain in 2025
© Yvette Davies
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organisations, places and events are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental. The spelling used is British English except where fidelity to the author’s rendering of accent or dialect supersedes this. The right of Yvette Davies to be identified as author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner for the purpose of training artificial intelligence technologies or systems. In accordance with Article 4(3) of the Digital Single Market Directive 2019/790, Joffe Books expressly reserves this work from the text and data mining exception.
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Cover art by Nick Castle
ISBN: 978-1-80573-287-7
CONTENTS
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Trigger Warning
Prologue
BEFORE
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
AFTER
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
Acknowledgements
Also by Yvette Davies
The Joffe Books Story
Glossary of English Usage for US Readers
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Trigger Warning
Please note this manuscript contains scenes of sexual assault, which some readers may find upsetting.
For Paul, Amy and Matt. You are my world.
Prologue
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He takes in the upturned vehicle lying across two lanes of the motorway. The roof crumpled and squeezed like a discarded tin can. Fragments of glass, glinting like ice cubes, and other debris strewn across the road. An item of black clothing lies abandoned. Who is the owner? Experience tells him the atmosphere among his colleagues is the best barometer as to the fate of the occupants. Faces are pinched, hardened to what they must deal with. He smells it in the air, carried on the wind. Death.
It never fails to amaze him how the start of the most ordinary of days could become anything but for some people. Life pivoting and changing based on split-second decisions. Someone’s mother, father, son, daughter, brother or sister is still trapped in the wreckage.
Barrier tape has already been put across the motorway; crowd-control is essential for the safety of all. He’s been informed that Fire are on their way; specialist hydraulic equipment is needed for this incident. He lets the first responders do their job and awaits confirmation on casualty numbers. He sucks in a deep breath and braces himself for what is evidently going to be a long afternoon.
An abrupt movement in his peripheral vision catches his attention. A woman with striking auburn hair ducks underneath the tape and runs towards the RTA vehicle. Terror and panic etched into her face. He lunges and manages to grab her by the arm.
‘No, Miss. Stop.’
BEFORE
Chapter 1
Beth
I’ve been stewing all day like a casserole on a slow simmer about to reach boiling point. Here’s my dilemma: I was sorting through the laundry basket and checked David’s jeans pockets. Something I do routinely as he’s always leaving stray tissues, which make a right mess in the washing machine. No tissues, but I did pull out a receipt for an expensive meal for two with a bottle of wine at a fancy restaurant. It wasn’t me who dined with him. What am I supposed to think:
a) Great. My husband works so hard that he deserves to splash out.
b) Lucky me. He’s obviously giving it a test-run for a surprise thirteenth-wedding-anniversary romantic dinner he must be planning.
c) He’s having an affair.
Answer c). What a scumbag.
David’s key turns in the front door and, boy, am I about to erupt. He’ll be taking off his suit jacket and draping it over the banisters, loosening his tie. Six strides down our small terrace hallway and he appears in the kitchen doorway. I sniff hard and swallow.
I dangle the crumpled receipt in front of his nose. He deliberately ignores me as he makes a beeline for the fridge.
‘What the hell is this?’
He turns to look at me, smile fading. Clutching what I’m sure isn’t his first after-work beer, he directs a cursory glance at me.
‘And good evening to you too, my little praying mantis. That, darling wife, looks like a receipt of some sort.’
Do I catch flames of guilt licking that face? My mouth forms the words I don’t want to say.
‘Be honest with me. Are you having an affair?’
‘How the hell did you draw that conclusion?’ David screws up his face like a five-year-old who’s been forced to eat a Brussels sprout.
‘You’re not denying it, then?’
‘Of course I’m denying it. You’re kidding me, right?’ Frowning, he pulls his bottom lip in below his teeth and chews on it for a second. Is he buying time to concoct a story? I grit my teeth.
‘Explain. Now.’
‘Explain what, exactly?’
‘This receipt. I certainly didn’t dine on Dover sole and a bottle of Chablis,’ I say, holding it out for him to see.
David shrugs, barely giving it a glance. ‘Oh, that.’ He prises the top off the beer bottle and takes a swig. ‘It’s from when I had lunch with the new company sales director. I told you about it, I’m sure.’ Did he? I don’t recall. ‘And I’ll be able to claim it back on expenses if that’s what you’re worried about.’
David wears his well-rehearsed butter-wouldn’t-melt look. He is a supreme master of casual denial and defusing situations. He closes the fridge door and gives me a peck on the cheek as he reaches to open the messy top drawer.
‘Takeout tonight? What do you fancy?’ He holds up Indian and Chinese takeaway menus with a flourish.
Confused innocence or a deflection technique? He does look genuinely baffled. Am I overthinking this? Every bit of me wants to believe him. David has never given me cause to doubt him before, but things haven’t been good between us lately. Years of trying for a baby take their toll. I know that, but I’ve always taken David’s faithfulness for granted. Things may have crumbled around our once cosy cocoon, but I still thought we were a given. Now I’m not so sure. How do I get to the truth?
‘Think I’ll go for the crispy chilli beef. We can share an egg fried rice. What are you having?’ David puts a hand on my shoulder and gives a reassuring squeeze. He pulls out a chair and sits at the kitchen table with his back to me, scrolling through his phone to call the Chinese. ‘Oh, by the way . . . I’ll be away Friday and Saturday night. I’ve said I’ll go to Gavin’s golf stag weekend after all.’
Suspicious thoughts circulate again at alarming speed. I can’t quell them. Will he be out on the green or in the arms of someone else?
‘I thought you weren’t going? We agreed to save the money.’
‘Gav persuaded me. Besides, it’ll give us a well-earned break, BeBe, do us both good. And you could go away with Cate. It’s this weekend — that cottage thing, isn’t it?’
‘If a break is well-earned, why do we have to take it separately?’
David lets out an exasperated sigh. ‘Because I’ve already promised the lads I’ll go. And be
‘I so wouldn’t.’ Has he chosen to focus on our infertility issues to mask the other capital I in the air? Infidelity.
‘The subject is parked, Beth. If we’re not together then we can’t talk about it, can we? It’s a metaphorical pause button, that’s all. I’ll be back Sunday night.’
‘So, can we agree to discuss another round of IVF on Sunday? And maybe revisit the topic of adoption?’
David pushes back his chair, stands up and runs his hands through his hair. He’s not avoiding my gaze now.
‘For Christ’s sake, Beth. Stop. We can’t afford more IVF at the moment. And I’m telling you right now — I will not be raising someone else’s child. This has become a total obsession with you.’
‘Well, I’m not surprised we can’t afford it if you keep going on piss-up weekends. And don’t you dare call me obsessed. I thought we were in this together. How could you?’
‘You’re not here, Beth. Not anymore. Can’t you see what you’re doing to us?’
The pressure-cooker effect steaming inside my head all day intensifies. I want to slap him but make do with jabbing my finger.
‘What do you mean, I’m not here? You’re the one who comes home late. I don’t know where the hell you are most of the time.’
‘I mean . . . You’re. Not. Present in this . . . relationship,’ David says, spelling it out slowly for maximum effect. He takes a step towards me. I mirror it by taking a step backwards. I shrink into myself, not wanting to hear any more. ‘Some couples are always destined to lose at the baby-odds table. That’s us, Beth. We both have to accept it.’
What is he saying? I stand mute as the tears start to fall. I can’t. I can’t accept it.
‘And perhaps once we do, our sex life can become less mechanical too. Spice it up with a bit of that thing called spontaneity,’ David says with more than a hint of sarcasm. And then the killing blow. The passive-aggressive Exocet, delivered in a tone more pertinent to informing me that he’d rather not holiday in Majorca again this year.
‘Nearly ten years of trying is enough. I can’t do this anymore.’
He puts both hands up towards me, palms facing, and slices them horizontally through the air to indicate the conversation and my dreams of us having a child are over.
Chapter 2
Beth
It’s Sunday morning and with David away, I’ve joined my perfect sister, Cate, and her perfect family at a perfect rented cottage in the New Forest. Do I believe David’s on a golfing weekend? Like hell. Especially after having shared my suspicions with Cate.
‘Read the signs, Beth. I’d perform a Bobbitt and stick his dick in a blender. That’ll teach him.’ She really has no idea what it’s like for me; everything seems to fall in to place for Have-It-All Cate.
Dishwater-grey light filters through the chink in the curtains. I’m in no rush to get up, exhausted from thinking about David. He’s not even bloody phoned. I want to kill him.
Cate and Giles are awake as well. An iron bedhead rhythmically bangs against the paper-thin bedroom wall next door. Grunting noises too — like a warthog. How romantic.
I can’t believe David’s called time on us ever trying for a baby again. My mind keeps spinning. Infertility . . . Infidelity . . . cause and effect.
‘Come on, Cate, come on.’ Giles gasps through the wall.
There’s no sound from Cate. Not even a whimper. I imagine my sister lying there, bored, allowing Giles to perform. Dear, cumbersome Giles. Sunday-morning perfunctory sex. I suppose this is the price Cate pays for the security of a dull but loyal husband and a seriously overloaded bank balance.
‘Mum-eee. Where are you?’
Oops. I leap out of bed and poke my head around the door into the hallway. ‘Boo!’
‘Auntie Beth!’ Georgie clutches her threadbare teddy. She bounds over and wraps herself around my pyjama-bottomed legs.
‘Hey, gorgeous. Whassup?’
‘I don’t know the doors. I can’t find Mummy and Daddy.’
‘Think I heard Daddy snoring so let them sleep, huh? Want to come in my room?’
Georgie comes and sits with me on my bed, and I pull the bedspread over her bare legs.
She eyes my phone on the bedside table. ‘Can we go through the photos again, Auntie Beth?’
‘Sure thing, chicken wing.’
Georgie snuggles up beside me. We scroll through the photos I took yesterday on our walk. We were near the mill pond in Beaulieu and came across a drove of donkeys. Dozens of them. Grey ones, brown ones, baby ones. Georgie and her older brother, Charlie, were ecstatic.
‘Can I have some of the pictures to take to school? I can show them to Esme and Willow. They’ll be sooo jealous.’
‘Pleasure, treasure. I’ll send them to your mum.’
‘I love you,’ Georgie says as she flings her arms around my neck to give me a hug.
Wham. It hits me again like an express train emerging full pelt out of the tunnel.
‘Love you more,’ I manage to reply.
She squeals with delight as I tickle her. The most wonderful, infectious giggle. It’s rising up from the pit of my stomach, though, passing through my soul, through my very being until it leaves an acrid taste in my mouth that threatens to choke me. I pretend for a second I’ve got a stray lash in my eye. It’s always the same feeling on repeat. I couldn’t love Georgie more, but it’s not enough. I want to be loving my own child.
My attention turns back to the activity in the room next door as the hideous grunting stops. No post-coital tender snuggling — within seconds their bedroom door creaks open, the bathroom door opposite bangs shut, a bin lid clunks and the toilet flushes. Giles appears to be done as he thuds downstairs.
I glance at the door. ‘I need to nip to the loo, honey. You can borrow my phone and show Charlie the pics if you like?’
Georgie doesn’t need any more encouragement. She leaps off the bed. ‘Charlie. Charlie! Look!’
* * *
Perched on the loo, the bathroom bin is right opposite me. It’s one of those metal pedal-bin types. I extend my right foot over the lever, wiggle my toes and the lid shoots open. I don’t have to rummage far to find the holy grail of what I’ve been looking for. It’s neatly wrapped in tissues like a little gift.
Minutes later and I’m back in my room taking a few more moments before I face the day. I lie topsy-turvy on the bed, splayed out on the ditsy-print patchwork quilt, my pelvis elevated on a pillow. With a little wiggle, I manipulate everything into place and we’re ready for the send-off. I lean my legs up against the wall at right angles to the rest of my body. A yoga pose, of sorts. I need to relax. If I can clear my mind of my cheating husband, then, you never know, this could work.
Dishwasher-emptying duty has clearly been bestowed on Giles. The clatter of utensils as they’re flung onto the granite worktop reverberates around the cottage. The echo of stainless-steel saucepans being thump-stacked together crashes through my brain. Then it’s the turn of the china plates as they’re bump-slid into the rack above the sink. The inevitable breakage — or that could almost certainly be plural — arrives with the shattering of glassware on the stone-tiled kitchen floor. Not just a tinkle, but a cascade of vessels meeting their end. They’re probably only Ikea, but even so. Oh, gosh, Giles — what a bumbling buffoon you can be! At least he can easily afford the security deposit.
The cacophony shakes our weekend rental to life. The latch on the bathroom door snaps open and Cate yells down the corridor. ‘What the hell, Giles?’ followed by a mutter, ‘Can’t fucking do anything right . . .’ before she slams the bathroom door shut again. Georgie and Charlie charge out of their bedroom and thump down the stairs like a herd of baby elephants eager to get a look-see into their father’s mess.
Baby Edward starts to whimper from next door. Within seconds he’s going full throttle. I’m done here now so I swing my legs over the side of the bed, grab my dressing gown and go to placate Ted. Cate hasn’t shown any signs of leaving the bathroom yet, which should be my next destination, but I don’t need an excuse to grab a cuddle of the gorgeous baby. Lifting him out of his travel cot, I cocoon him in my arms, bringing his head to rest upon my shoulder. I breathe him in deeply. He smells sweet and new. Of powder and milk. God, I want this.
