She’d bought the strychnine as a backup, in case something went wrong in the station. In case she’d chickened out at the last moment. Hadn’t been able to give that final push. Hadn’t really been able to kill her husband.

Mariticide. She’d looked up the word later. The word for killing a sister was already known to her: fratricide. There was no word for killing two. Allison had let the monster out; why not make use of it before burying it deep inside again? See it as payment for all the years she’d put up with that awful chanting that still rang in her ears. She could hear it even now over the bubbling pasta, that awful sing-song: monster, monster, mons-ter. Why not use it, when she needed to?

Without Jo, the money would be hers. Enough to buy the house, plenty left to do all that was needed to make it a home. Her home.

She put the jug of sauce into the microwave, drained the pasta and divided it between two shallow bowls. When the microwave pinged, she took the jug out and poured half the sauce over her pasta.

It was time. She twisted the cap on the small bottle, held it to her nose and sniffed. Not too unpleasant a smell. She touched the tip of her finger against the rim and put it on her tongue. Slightly acerbic but not too strong. The ragu sauce was quite spicy; Jo would never notice the addition. She took the Parmesan from the fridge and used a vegetable peeler to add shavings to each bowl.

All ready. She put both bowls on a tray. ‘Here we go,’ she said, placing the tray on the coffee table.

‘That looks lovely!’ Jo sniffed. ‘And smells divine. I’m suddenly starving.’

‘It’s only pasta and ragu; I wouldn’t get overly excited.’ Allison handed her one of the serviettes she’d added to the tray. ‘Enjoy.’ She sat on the opposite sofa with her bowl in one hand, the fork poised in the fingers of her other. ‘Buon appetito.’

Jo looked at her, the smile still hovering. ‘You did mean what you said, didn’t you?’

Allison used her fork to stir the cheese through the pasta. What was Jo talking about? She’d said so many things. Some were even the truth. ‘I’m sorry, I don’t understand…’

Jo’s smile faltered. ‘About taking me to get a new wig, maybe better make-up… make me look, you know, a bit better.’ She chuckled softly. ‘Remember when you pinched some of Mum’s make-up and did us both? We were like bloody clowns.’