My sisters downfall, p.1
My Sister's Downfall, page 1
Copyright © 2024 SM Thomas
All rights reserved
The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
ISBN: 978-1-7385686-0-4
Cover design by: Rocking Book Covers
Edited by: My Favorite Pen
Dedicated to my Mum & Dad
Thank you for always supporting my flights of fancy and for reading every single one of my books - even though they scare you a little!
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Contents
Copyright
Dedication
Prologue:
Chapter One: Isabella
Chapter Two: May
Chapter Three: Isabella
Chapter Four: May
Chapter Five: Isabella
Chapter Six: May
Chapter Seven: Isabella
Chapter Eight: May
Chapter Nine: Isabella
Chapter Ten: May
Chapter Eleven: Isabella
Chapter Twelve: May
Chapter Thirteen: Isabella
Chapter Fourteen: May
Chapter Fifteen: Isabella
Chapter Sixteen: May
Chapter Seventeen: Isabella
Chapter Eighteen: May
Chapter Nineteen: Isabella
Chapter Twenty: May
Chapter Twenty One: Isabella
Chapter Twenty Two: May
Chapter Twenty Three: Isabella
Chapter Twenty Four: May
Chapter Twenty Five: Marcus
Chapter Twenty Six: Samantha
Chapter Twenty Seven: Chris
Chapter Twenty Eight: Mum & Dad
Chapter Twenty Nine: Isabella
Chapter Thirty: Isabella
Epilogue
Acknowledgement
Prologue:
I watch my sister float through the air like a gravity-defying ballerina, all limbs pointed as though ready for her stage debut. At the back of my mind, I can hear the anticipation of the crowd in the theatre, thrilled to witness the prima donna’s debut. Their collective breath drawing in as the conductor signals the first swell of the orchestra. All eyes on her as the flashing lights outline her movement through the skyline.
I note the way her red coat dances in the wind that is growing in ferocity around her, playing with her movements as she falls. As though she’s Mother Nature’s favourite plaything. There are voices all around me, crying out in horror and shock as gravity pushes on.
Pulling the phone from my face, I realise that my jaw is aching. My mouth is wide, practically unhinged, as a scream fights its way from my stomach to my throat; unleashing my terror like a banshee upon the world. Even though I’m eleven stories below her I know instinctively that our cries will be synchronised in pitch. Bonded together by blood and love, creating an ominous harmony for the witnesses around us.
As expected, my legs move before I’ve had a chance to think through my actions. On autopilot, I am moving towards the end of her path, where an abandoned car waits unaware in a parking bay. Her cries are broken syllables now as she rushes towards the ground. I scream out her name. One singular word that I hope carries up through the air towards her. I need her to know that I’m here.
The air disappears beneath my feet as I’m hoisted from the pavement by two strong arms that wrap themselves around my waist. They prevent me from moving any closer, taking me from the biological draw towards her. I thrash around as best I can, hoping to slip from their grasp but it’s no use. I can do nothing but watch as my sister lands on the roof of the car.
The noise is horrific. The collective breath now a collective cry from everyone on the street as we struggle to comprehend what we’ve just witnessed. She hit the car with such force that it felt like a small bomb had exploded. The sound of twisting metal giving way to a broken body harmonised poetically with the sound of shattering glass spraying over the road and into nearby lampposts. The ping ping of the shards is the only noise remaining as the car sighs in defeat and shock renders everyone silent.
Reality reels me back in and I scream her name again and again as witnesses haphazardly step towards her. I don’t want her final moments to be shared with strangers. It’s supposed to be me who’s by her side.
The arms around my waist loosen and I break free. There’s a wall of emergency service workers between me and my sister and I yell at them that I’m family, but they don’t let me through. Instead, they offer me sad expressions and platitudes as they tell me she’s gone, that she died on impact, that no one could have survived.
A friendly paramedic gently places his arm around my shoulder and leads me towards a waiting ambulance, concerned I’m in shock. He offers me a foil blanket as though that can solve all my problems. I take it despite doubting its effectiveness, it can’t make this situation any worse. Then a familiar voice is at my side. It belongs to the person who prevented me from reaching my sister before she hit the ground - the Inspector.
“I’m so sorry for your loss,” he offers. A phrase I guess I’ve got to get used to all over again now. Another funeral for me to sit through and bite my tongue. As though praying will bring her peace just as it did our parents. The dead can’t feel peace. The dead can’t feel anything.
Loss is the wrong word though. I didn’t lose anything, that implies being careless. And I’m never careless.
All I can do is nod my head at him. I don’t think I could find the words right now. The paramedic is right, I am suffering from shock. As a chill creeps up my spine I pull the foil blanket closer around myself, grateful now for its presence.
My sister is dead.
My sister has died.
And it is all my fault.
Chapter One: Isabella
“This is unacceptable, you must see that." Andrew, my campaign manager is incredulous, which he’s making obvious in the way he's speaking to the poor Inspector in front of us. Andrew isn’t a man to mince his words, especially where I’m concerned. I watch the Inspector’s face, hoping for a twitch of his lip that shows his annoyance but none comes. Either this man is the world’s best poker player or he's been working this job long enough that unfounded rage aimed in his direction is water off a duck's back.
"I understand your concerns, Mr. Carter," the Inspector places his left hand on the surface of my desk as he talks, and I note the lack of a wedding ring. There’s no denying that the Inspector is a very attractive man. He’s older than me, just my type, and his salt and peppered hair only serves to highlight his strong jawbone and dark eyes.
“Blackmail is something we take very seriously in the force, especially when it comes to members of political parties." He turns his attention to me now and offers me a comforting smile. It stirs animalistic butterflies in my stomach. I really need to get out more. "I promise you, we will get to the bottom of this, Mrs. Thompson."
"Miss," I correct him, unable to help the flirtatious smile that comes with it. "And I know you will, Inspector Coulson."
"Please, call me James." He keeps his mouth in a straight line but I notice the twinkle in his eye. Perhaps he's feeling the same chemistry I am or maybe he's wondering why I appear so laid back considering the note left for me this morning.
Five words, written in red paint to give the illusion of blood.
I know what you did.
I admit when I first found the note on my desk inside my locked and alarmed office it did cause me some concern. Right after calling Andrew, my prone-to-dramatics campaign manager, I logged a call to security, asking them for an access report for my office.
The report showed that my office had been accessed using my security pass at 2 a.m. How convenient that this was the time the CCTV tapes were switched over for the day. Whoever left that note had inside knowledge - which meant it was an issue we could have dealt with internally. But no, Andrew had to get the police involved. The gossip would be all over the tabloids by this evening; clearly what the perpetrator was after. We were giving them the attention they craved, which would only encourage them. I’ve learnt it’s always best to starve the trolls rather than feed into their games.
I was the youngest female member of Parliament to hold my seat, and now, after three years of constant graft, I was in line to become the youngest and first female head of our party. I wasn't sure if it was because of my age or my gender that the press had such an interest in me, but this wouldn't help matters. They'd paint me as a damsel in distress, make out that politics were too dangerous a game for me, and the voters might buy into that narrative, something I couldn't afford. If I didn't have the public onside then I sure as hell didn't have the faith of my party onside. They needed a leader who could win the next election, and a lost little girl wasn't that leader.
Andrew may have fanned those flames with his call to the police, but I suppose I can't be too harsh on him. We had some news last week that rattled us both - an ex-boyfriend of mine was found murdered and left with a red hankie covering his face. The deep royal red of my parties flagship colour.
I’d recently heard through the grapevine that he was planning a kiss-and-tell with one of the more tawdry tabloids but I hadn't let it bother m e. I was confident that my track record would survive any saucy secrets he might share. Andrew had wanted to buy him off but I'd refused. If word got out it would just open the floodgates for more vermin to come sniffing around for their piece of flesh. Nothing came of the fodder, although we had prepared for it. I penned several personal press releases expressing my disappointment in my ex and in the journalists who associated themselves with these kinds of assassination attempts and the distribution of revenge porn.
But we never had to use them. No article ever appeared. And then news of his death trickled through my social grapevine until it landed on my phone in the form of a text message from a long-forgotten mutual acquaintance. She thought I deserved to know the news of his death firsthand, and I was grateful for her consideration. He might have been an ex from a long time ago, but he had been a part of my life for a good two years before we split. It gave me ten minutes to centre myself before the press put two and two together and Andrew was called to get my statement on the matter.
So yes, I completely understood why the note had led to Andrew calling the local station and demanding their best Inspector take on the case personally. I don't know why he kept referring to it as blackmail though, no demands for money had been left on the note. Just those five words.
I know what you did.
Those five words that I knew couldn't be true. Which is why all the worry in my body evaporated as I changed my security code. That was the end of that I told myself.
"Thank you for your time today James." I like the feel of his name on my tongue and I can tell from the shift in his posture that he does too. "We'll let you know if we receive any more messages but I imagine the situation has now resolved itself with the change of my security code. Probably just a disgruntled employee trying to unnerve me."
“They’re probably getting a pay cheque from the opposition," adds Andrew with a snarling tone and I glare at him.
"That's a very serious accusation, Mr. Carter," says James and he's not wrong. Underhanded techniques like that are taken very seriously these days in Parliament. And it's not an accusation we can afford to make without strong evidence.
"Forgive my campaign manager. He spoke out of turn out of emotion because he was concerned for my well-being." For a moment it looks as though Andrew is going to protest my claim, but he must catch the gleam in my eyes as he has the good sense to keep his mouth shut.
“Of course, completely understandable. Please do keep me up to date on any developments, or if you think of any useful information. I’ll be happy to come back out anytime.” Now I’m certain the Inspector is flirting with me, there’s no reason for his eyes to linger on my lips as he talks. Not the brightest idea I’ve ever had, to develop a crush on a cop, but that’s the way the cookie crumbles.
“Thank you again for your time.” I stand and extend a hand, he follows suit and his handshake lasts a little longer than is necessary. Then Andrew shows him out of my office and I find myself feeling a little put out that I’ll have no need to see Inspector Coulson again. Of that I’m certain. This has just been a dark prank, the result of somebody becoming far too bored on a night shift.
I suppose there’s a sense of relief to be had in the fact Andrew called the police over my sister. If I thought his reaction was dramatic, then hers would have blown it out of the water. My older sister has always looked out for me. I was fifteen when our parents passed away. I was already fully raised, as far as I was concerned and ready to unleash myself on the world, but May insisted we stay together as a family. Despite only being eighteen herself, she did her best to give me all that I needed and then some. My constant protector and champion.
All I had to do now was grow a backbone and call her. She’d never forgive me if she learnt about the note through the press rather than from the horse’s mouth directly. I don’t know how she’s managed to cope since I won my seat and had to sign the Official Secrets Act - she’d grown so used to knowing about every moment of my day that it must drive her mad knowing there are parts of me she’s no longer privy to. I mean, I kept secrets from her long before my career in politics, but now she knows there are things I don’t tell her.
I take a deep breath and pick my mobile phone up from the desk where I left it. Holding it towards my face I wait until it has scanned my features and then offer it my thumbprint. All Government-issued phones now have two levels of biometric security enabled, since a few too many of my colleagues had a habit of leaving their phones or briefcases on public transportation and now the ship is run so tightly it’s impossible for it to leak. That’s the theory anyway.
Leaks still happen. That’s the problem with relying on humans. Humans are fallible. And prone to accepting bribes or acting rashly out of jealousy. We’ve already rooted out two rats in my office alone, Lord knows how many there are working within the walls of the Houses of Common.
Christ - that’s probably who's responsible for the note - the goddamn rats we fired. Despite firm evidence that they were both guilty of speaking to the press, they pleaded their innocence to my face as security escorted them to pack up their desks. Andrew had told me I didn’t need to come in and witness their dismissal, but I wanted to look into the whites of their eyes and have them know the level of my disappointment. I must tell Andrew of my suspicions when he returns. He’ll know what to do.
I scroll through my recent call history until I find my last call with May. It had only been last night but already it was thirty lines down on the list. We’d spent twenty minutes on the phone together as we each cooked our dinners, a daily ritual that meant we had at least one verbal touch point every twenty-four hours. By now, she was more of a friend than a sister, something thirteen-year-old me never would have believed. We used to fight like cats and dogs, like most siblings, but now we just want the best for one another and we make sure to celebrate every little win the other achieves in life. That’s the problem with it being just the two of us, we have to be the entire cheering squad for every occasion.
My sister is a very well-liked accountant in a central London firm. She could easily move positions. She's constantly headhunted and has been offered the role of Financial Director at other companies but she’s happy where she is. She’s been with the company for thirteen years and has turned her role into a hybrid one. This gave her the perfect excuse to start thinking about getting a pet. It’s been a year since she started the search and sometimes I wonder if she prefers window shopping for an animal over the responsibility of owning one. Can’t say I blame her. I’m not a fan of keeping things alive either - it’s too much responsibility having to know where they are at all times, making sure they behave themselves. It’s exhausting just to think about it. I guess I’m lacking any maternal instincts.
The dial tone rings at least three times, as it always does before her voice comes over the line. Sometimes I imagine her sitting at her desk, hand poised over the phone, waiting for those three bars of music to play before answering. She’s a creature of habit for sure, but she’s my creature of habit and that’s a comfort. I cross my fingers as she greets me, hoping she’ll take the news about the note exactly how she ought to. Just an interesting tidbit about my day.
Chapter Two: May
“What do you mean it was in your office?" I know my tone is sharp, and I hate speaking to her like this but she doesn’t sound like she’s taking this threatening note seriously.
Just as I knew she wouldn't.
That’s right.
I sent my sister the note.
Go ahead and judge me all you like but it's my job as her older sister - her only family - to make sure Isabella keeps her wits about her.
I'd hoped that my note would have woken her up a little to the dangers her career choice brings alongside it, but she isn’t rattled, not even in the slightest. We live in a day and age where MP’s are consistently threatened every time they speak out on any matter. In someone’s eyes they are always wrong.
