The Sister-in-Law, Pamela Crane [have you read this book txt] 📗

THE SISTER-IN-LAW

Pamela Crane

Copyright

Published by AVON

A Division of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2021

Copyright © Pamela Crane 2021

Cover design by Holly Macdonald © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2021

Cover photograph © Karina Vegas/Arcangel Images

Pamela Crane asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this ebook on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

Source ISBN: 9780008378394

Ebook Edition © April 2021 ISBN: 9780008378400

Version: 2021-03-08

Dedication

To Angie, the inspiration behind the story. Thank you for making your brother single for me, you evil genius.

To Missy, the inspiration behind the characters. Not because you’re crazy, but because you’re crazy awesome.

To Jamie, the inspiration behind the family bond. You set the bar high for all sisters-in-law to follow.

To every sister-in-law out there, this book is dedicated to you. May family drama never drive you to murder.

Epigraph

No matter what you’ve done, I’ve done worse. I’ve been a thief, a liar, a killer. But I’m also a wife, a mother, a sister. They see me, but don’t really see me. Not the real me, the darkness under my skin. And I’ll do anything to ensure they never find out.

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Epigraph

Chapter 1: Harper Paris

Chapter 2: Lane Flynn

Chapter 3: Candace Moriarty-Flynn

Chapter 4: Lane

Chapter 5: Harper

Chapter 6: Harper

Chapter 7: Candace

Chapter 8: Harper

Chapter 9: Harper

Chapter 10: Harper

Chapter 11: Candace

Chapter 12: Harper

Chapter 13: Harper

Chapter 14: Candace

Chapter 15: Harper

Chapter 16: Candace

Chapter 17: Harper

Chapter 18: Lane

Chapter 19: Harper

Chapter 20: Lane

Chapter 21: Candace

Chapter 22: Harper

Chapter 23: Harper

Chapter 24: Candace

Chapter 25: Candace

Chapter 26: Harper

Chapter 27: Harper

Chapter 28: Candace

Chapter 29: Harper

Chapter 30: Harper

Chapter 31: Lane

Chapter 32: Harper

Chapter 33: Candace

Chapter 34: Harper

Chapter 35: Candace

Chapter 36: Candace

Chapter 37: Candace

Chapter 38: Lane

Epilogue: Harper

Acknowledgements

The Boy in the Mirror

Keep Reading …

About the Author

About the Publisher

Chapter 1

Harper Paris

I didn’t believe in therapy, but I believed what my court-mandated therapist once told me: You are what you leave behind. According to this logic, we were a composition of our choices. You leave trash? You’re trash. You create beauty? You’re beautiful. As I ran from the living room, I left behind a bloodbath, but I wasn’t sure what that made me as I sobbed at the sight of crimson residue staining my hands.

The sight of my husband of twelve years sprawled out on the sofa, a knife jutting from his chest cavity, palms loosely circling the hilt – that was the reason I screamed. It was a howl that shattered my voice, the wail flowing up from my chest and out into the empty air. When the last bits of my cry wafted away, I pressed frantic fingers against his neck, his wrist, finding him deathly cold. Then I ran. And kept running until I found myself on the front porch, the scent of metallic blood singeing my nostrils and the taste of bile burning my throat.

Don’t ask me why I ran to the porch. Not the bathroom, not the kitchen sink – both more reasonable places to purge my stomach – but outside, where a floral scent lingered with my vomit. One never knows how you’ll react in any given situation until you’re in the midst of it. I was in the midst of my husband’s gruesome death, and all I could do was scream and cry and run out my front door into the night, apparently.

I needed to go back inside, but I was terrified. Terrified that it was real.

‘God help me,’ I whispered, drawing in a shaky breath. My voice was drowned out by the cacophony of crickets.

By now I was certain I was having a heart attack as the panic thrummed against my chest. Every beat physically hurt. The fresh air, soaked in lavender and honeysuckle, helped a little, but not much. Feeling faint and feverish, I raised my hand to my forehead, damp with sweat that drizzled down my temples. My body pulsed, hot and cold all at once. Delirium started to set in.

My temples drummed with a terror of something unnamed and unknown. I didn’t know what to do. There was no way Ben could still be alive. I had checked, several times, pressed my fingers to his neck searching for a pulse. Ran my hands along his wrists, his face, begging for him to come back to me. It was the call of regret for a mistake I couldn’t take back. And now he was dead, because of me.

The only man I had ever truly loved was nothing but cool skin against my warm touch. I’d realized he’d been long dead when his stiff arm fell against my leg, causing me to yelp. Mere hours ago I had relished the feel of his flesh; now it scared me to touch it.

It. My husband was no longer him but it. Dead, rotting flesh.

I relived it again and again, that first moment when I arrived home. The living room was black, under night’s spell. He fell asleep on the couch again, I had grumbled to myself when I vaguely saw Ben’s form cocooned under the blanket I had custom made with a family photo woven into it. While I tidied the coffee table of an empty potato chips bag and a half-drunk bottle of vodka, his