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Back The Widow Save as PDF
Chapters (92)
  1. Cover
  2. Dedication
  3. PART I
  4. 1
  5. 2
  6. 3
  7. 4
  8. 5
  9. 6
  10. 7
  11. 8
  12. 9
  13. 10
  14. PART II
  15. 11
  16. 12
  17. 13
  18. 14
  19. 15
  20. 16
  21. 17
  22. 18
  23. 19
  24. 20
  25. 21
  26. 22
  27. 23
  28. 24
  29. 25
  30. 26
  31. 27
  32. 28
  33. 29
  34. 30
  35. 31
  36. 32
  37. 33
  38. 34
  39. 35
  40. 36
  41. 37
  42. 38
  43. 39
  44. 40
  45. 41
  46. 42
  47. 43
  48. 44
  49. 45
  50. 46
  51. 47
  52. 48
  53. 49
  54. 50
  55. 51
  56. 52
  57. 53
  58. 54
  59. 55
  60. 56
  61. 57
  62. 58
  63. 59
  64. 60
  65. 61
  66. 62
  67. 63
  68. 64
  69. 65
  70. 66
  71. 67
  72. 68
  73. 69
  74. 70
  75. 71
  76. 72
  77. 73
  78. 74
  79. 75
  80. 76
  81. 77
  82. 78
  83. 79
  84. 80
  85. 81
  86. 82
  87. 83
  88. ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
  89. MORE FROM VALERIE KEOGH
  90. ABOUT THE AUTHOR
  91. The Murder List
  92. About Boldwood Books

Allison was stunned into silence. Didn’t Jo remember? Allison had left her there, had shut the door on her entreaties and made her escape. Perhaps Jo had been spared that memory. Allison wished she had. She forced her lips into a smile. ‘We’ve a lot of years to make up for but first, we need something to eat. Let me see what I can rustle up.’

83

Allison stood in the kitchen and tried to settle her thoughts. She was a monster. The catcalling from her younger years rang in her head. Monster, monster, mon-ster. Jo – Allison didn’t know if she’d ever be able to call her Beth – didn’t know what her sister was capable of. Her sister… perhaps if Allison had known about her earlier, things might have turned out differently. Perhaps. But in as much as leopards couldn’t change their spots, she wasn’t sure a monster could stop being monstrous.

Listlessly, she opened a cupboard and rummaged inside, shut it, opened the next, did the same. All she found, for her efforts, was pasta and a jar of sauce. There was Parmesan cheese in the fridge. It would have to suffice.

With the pasta simmering, she opened the jar, poured it into a glass jug and covered it in cling film to put into the microwave once the pasta was ready. She went back to the living room and stood in the doorway. Jo was sitting there staring into space, her hideous wig slightly askew. A tear had trickled down the taut skin of her cheek and had dried, leaving a slug-like shimmer in its wake.

She’d always been one to cry easily… a sharp word, a sad story, the day Allison had broken her favourite doll. Sometimes, she remembered with a twinge of regret, she’d set out to make the tears roll, fascinated even then by an ability she herself lacked.

Their differences were more apparent now, she taking her stature from their tall, thin father, Jo, obviously, from their shorter mother. Had their mother been stocky too? Allison couldn’t remember.

Despite their differing physiques, would they have looked alike? The photograph Jo had shown her was too blurred with age to be sure. Perhaps they would have looked similar enough for strangers to pass comment. You two have to be sisters!

They wouldn’t say that now.

Allison cleared her throat to draw Jo’s attention. ‘Pasta with a ragu sauce and Parmesan is the best I can do; that okay with you?’

‘Sounds good. Can I help?’