fullest potential. Lisa Milton and the entire HQ family, in particular Melanie Hayes, Janet Aspey in marketing and Lucy Richardson in PR and the production team. Thanks to Jon Appleton for the copy-edit.
Big thanks to all the book bloggers whose cheerleading immensely brightens up my day and to everyone who speaks to me on social media. Writing can be a lonely process. It’s great to have a friend who is also in the business so, even though I drink too much coffee and eat too much hummus with Darren O’Sullivan, it’s great to be able to chat about our writing lives. My non-writing friends: in particular, Hilary, Sarah, Natalie, Sue and Kuldip. Emma Mitchell – thanks for your friendship and support.
To my family: Mum, Karen, Bekkii and Pete, thanks for supporting me through another book. And to Glynn, who we miss dearly.
My husband, Tim, the Sinclair sisters’ heartbreaking tale affected me emotionally at times so thanks for the end-of-the-day hugs.
My children, Callum, Kai and Finley who remain my entire world.
And Ian Hawley. With so much love.
Book Club Questions
The story features an unusual medical condition. Had you ever heard of this? What did you make of it?
‘A comma not a full stop. This isn’t the end,’ Carly says. There was a time she could have escaped and fetched help, leaving her sisters behind. Do you think she was wrong to stay?
Part One of the story closes with a dramatic twist. Discuss.
In the Sinclair family, secrets are kept. Is it ever okay to keep things from those closest to you?
‘I would do anything to protect my child. Anything,’ Leah says. Do her actions shock you?
What theories did you form throughout this book?
Did any of your theories turn out to be correct?
Who is your favourite Sinclair Sister and why?
‘I can choose to be happy. I can choose to forgive,’ Leah says. Are our emotions, to a point, a choice?
What do you think the future holds for the girls?
Turn the page for a sneak peek
from the next nail-biting thriller
from Louise Jensen.
Coming October 2021
Prologue
I’m not sure how I know something is wrong, but I do.
A sixth sense perhaps.
Some deep, primal instinct screaming that I need to get home to Connor. It isn’t just because of the row we had. The horrible, hurtful things he had said, it’s something else.
A knowing that, despite being seventeen, I should never have left my son alone.
Hurry.
The flash of neon orange cones blur through the window as I gather speed until the roadworks force me to a stop. The candle-shaped air freshener swings from the rear-view mirror – its strawberry scent cloying.
My fingertips drum the steering wheel while I wait for the temporary traffic lights to change to green, the rain hammering against the roof of the car, windscreen wipers lurching from side to side. It isn’t the crack of lightning that causes my stomach to painfully clench, or the rumble of thunder – even though storms always take me back to the time I’d rather forget – but a mother’s instinct.
I’ve felt it before. That bowling ball of dread hurtling towards me.
Remembering what happened last time, I draw in a juddering breath. Tell myself everything is fine. It’s only natural that worry gnaws at me with sharpened teeth. Teenage boys are disappearing from our small town with alarming regularity and every mother is on high alert.
But I have more reason to worry than most.
Next to me, Kieron sleeps. His head lolling against the window, breath misting the glass. The dark sweep of his lashes spider across his pale skin. The hospital visit has exhausted him. The red tartan blanket I always keep in the car has slipped from his knees and I reach across and pull it over his legs. The passenger seat is swallowing his thin body. At thirteen he should be growing but his illness is shrinking him. It’s shrinking me. Sometimes I feel as though my entire family is disappearing. Aidan barely talks to me, never touches me. In bed there’s a cold space between us. Both of us teetering on our respective edges of the mattress, a strip of cold sheet an invisible barrier between us. My head no longer resting on his chest, his leg slung over mine, his fingers stroking my hair.
Connor is monosyllabic and moody in the way that seventeen-year-olds often are but he never was, before …
But it isn’t just that, it’s also this sickness that isn’t just Kieron’s. It’s everybody’s.