The Lake by Louise Sharland (best ereader for pc txt) 📕

they understand that solving the mystery of how Michael died that night is the only way I can move on? If this Diving Fish person can help, whoever they are, isn’t that a good thing?’

‘I understand,’ Grace whispers, and, kissing me softly on the forehead, she adds, ‘I’ll always understand. I just worry you’ll get carried away, make yourself ill again.’

‘I appreciate your concern, really, but I’m fine.’

I fact, I have never felt so sane in my entire life.

We wake at eight – groggy, hung over and with tongues like sandpaper. I make tea and sit on the bed next to Grace. She’s reading her text messages, the bruise on her arm a kaleidoscope of purples, greens and yellows.

‘Everything okay?’

Grace sighs. ‘Ellie and Simon have had a row and she’s buggered off.’

‘Is she at a friend’s?’

Grace rubs her eyes. ‘Who knows. I was hoping to stay a bit longer, but with this—’

The words come out before I can stop them. ‘She can always come and stay with us for a while if that would help?’

‘What?’

‘You know, maybe over the summer? She likes the seaside, and I could take some time off from work, take her to Cornwall?’ It’s nice to be the one offering advice and support for once. ‘It could give you all a little space.’

There’s a telling pause before Grace replies. ‘I’m not sure that would be such a good idea.’

‘Why not?’

Grace avoids my gaze. The first time she has done so all evening. ‘Just leave it, Kate. Okay?’

‘Why not?’

Grace sighs, long and slow. ‘First of all, my darling, this isn’t about me and my family problems. This is about us, our mother and what we’re going to do. Secondly,’ she has her teacher’s voice on now, ‘to be perfectly honest Kat, I’m not sure I want my daughter staying in the same house as your husband.’

‘Oh.’

‘I’m sorry.’

‘Don’t be.’ I get off the bed and make a show of filling up the tiny kettle. Even though I understand why Grace said what she did, it still hurts.

‘Anyway,’ she says, changing the subject. ‘You’ve got enough on your plate with Mum, and now this diary thing.’ I’ve moved to the window and I’m staring out at the car park. Grace gets up and stands beside me. ‘After everything you’ve been through,’ it sounds as if she’s fighting back tears, ‘I just don’t know how you do it.’

I give a little shrug. It’s a question I have heard time and time again since Michael’s death. Over time, I have come up with a few faultless responses to make everyone else feel better.

Michael would have wanted me to carry on.

Michael would have wanted me to remain positive.

Adam and I made the decision to celebrate Michael’s life rather than his loss.

This morning though, I am too tired to reach for that sort of default reply. This morning I speak the truth. I turn to my sister.

‘I fake it.’

10

‘Why don’t you have the day off?’ says Grace after breakfast. ‘Go back to the house, see to the cat, get some rest. I’ll spend the day with Mum.’

I don’t argue. The thought of having to spend another day with my mother had woken me before dawn. I had lain next to Grace watching the early morning sun steal its way in through the half-opened curtains to settle on her face. The large wide-set eyes, so much like our mother’s, had flickered as she slept. High on her forehead, just below the hairline, is a thin white scar, a relic from when we were children and I had thrown my Bible at her. I still remember the terror I had felt when our parents returned from their church meeting – I had expected Grace to pronounce my sin. Instead, I watched in amazement as my sister emerged from the bathroom with her hair newly parted to the left, her fringe hiding the injury.

As I had lain there gazing at my sister’s beautiful, sleeping face, I had felt overwhelmed by love, loyalty, and a profound sense of gratitude. I had also realised, after our discussion the night before, that there is only so much I can tell her. If I am going to find the truth about the diary, Diving Fish, and what happened to Michael that night, I’ll have to keep my investigation to myself.

‘I can come back for visiting hours this evening if you’d like,’ I tell her, grateful for the hit of caffeine to clear my foggy brain.

‘Tomorrow,’ Grace insists. ‘Come back tomorrow. We can visit Mum, have lunch together and then I’ll head back about three.’

‘I must admit I could do with a bit of a break.’

‘Are you going back to Mum’s?’

‘Tonight, yes, but I promised Adam I’d go home tomorrow. I could do with a change of clothes and to sleep in a decent bed for a couple of nights. That old one of Michael’s is a killer.’

‘Why can’t he come here?’ There’s a hint of criticism on Grace’s voice that I choose to ignore. ‘After all, you’re the one coping with a critically ill mother and driving back and forth to the hospital. And what about the cat?’

My sister always won the arguments when we were little.

‘Adam’s work schedule is crazy right now, and Doris doesn’t mind looking after the cat for a day or two.’ I give her a hopeful look. ‘You could always come back for tea tonight. Stay over? See the old place again?’

Grace shakes her head. ‘Too many shitty memories.’

I nod in grim understanding. Part of me wants to say I have them too, you know.

I wave as Grace drives off towards the hospital, and then give a great sigh of relief. I could do with a day off and the opportunity to investigate the diary and mobile phone more deeply. Six years or yesterday – it doesn’t matter. My burden will not be lifted until I find the absolute truth. I desperately need to find a new inroad; a new source of information.