For Her Sister

By Lara Sleath

Eighteen-year-old Bresha blames herself for her younger sister's death. She knew that Arlene was gullible and fragile. Yet she still let her tone-deaf sister meet with Saul Sanderstorm, a record company mogul whose charisma is as big as his temper.

When Arlene is found floating in Camden Lock canal, the police call it suicide. But Bresha knows different. She knows that sleazy Saul is somehow to blame. And so does Arlene's ghost. Why else would she fog up mirrors and trace the letter S for Saul through the condensation on the glass? Now, Bresha has to find a way to prove that Saul's guilty.

When Bresha discovers that Saul is getting a kick out of mentally breaking singers, she wonders if this happened to Arlene. The truth has to be ugly and shocking. Because why else would Saul be prepared to do anything to conceal it?

Bresha faces a choice. Risk her life to unearth the facts. Or drop the case and be forever tormented by her sister's ghost.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Evernight Teen
• Release date: Oct 4, 2016
• ISBN: 9781772339727

Book preview

Chapter One

Go on, loser. What you waiting for?

Yeah, make it fly again.

Bresha stopped on the playground and turned her gaze across the expanse of tarmac. A group of girls stood clustered around something by the annex of the toilet block. They were huddled ten deep in a circle.

She frowned. Usually on lunch breaks, her schoolmates broke into tribes. The nerds stuck with the nerds, the cool kids flirted over the wall with the boys from the private school or coughed up smoke in the bushes. But not today. Something had united a cross-section of all of the crews, who stood transfixed, seemingly too scared to move in case they disturbed the thing they were watching.

Bresha hurried toward them, dodging empty crisp packets filled with water and clods of mud trekked in from the field. She reached the circle and tried to peer through the gaps between the bodies. But the girls were jammed too closely together for her to see anything. She went on tiptoe. All she saw were the backs of people’s heads.

Stroke it, Arlene, Penny Bright called. That might wake it.

The crowd tittered.

Arlene. Bresha’s stomach dropped. Oh no. What were they doing to her sister now?

She stuck out her elbows and pushed her way through the scrum of bodies, jostling and pummeling and digging into people’s ribs. She caught snatches of cheap body spray and the damp wool smell from their uniform jumpers.

She reached the front and froze. It felt like all of the breath had been forced out of her. Kneeling by the bank of industrial-sized wheelie bins was Arlene. She cradled a swallow. The bird lay on its side in her palm with a square of kitchen roll draped over it like a blanket, so that just its head stuck out. Its eye was glassy and Bresha sensed that it had been dead for some time. Probably someone had dug it out of the bin and had given it to Arlene as a joke, not that Arlene was finding it funny.

She stroked the bird’s head frantically as she tried to revive it. Snot bubbled from her nose and mingled with the tears that snaked from her eyes.

The same voice again, Penny Bright’s. Give it mouth-to-mouth.

To Bresha’s horror, Arlene lifted the bird up to her face. She pried open its beak, put her lips around the points, and breathed into the creature’s throat.

A storm of jeering and catcalls erupted from the watchers.

Freak, someone yelled.

"Look, she’s blowing a bird," another voice called.

Bresha ran up to Arlene, grabbed her by the armpits, and hauled her to her feet. Arlene was shaking.

It’s okay, it’s okay, Bresha whispered into the frizz of Arlene’s hair.

But as Bresha readied herself to pull Arlene through the group and out to safety, she realized that things were far from fine. Liz Morrison, Chantel, and a few other girls, who Bresha didn’t know, had their phones pointed at Arlene. Bresha’s throat went dry. She watched Chantel turn her phone sideways, tap the screen, and then pull her index fingers away from one another to activate the zoom.

In half a minute’s time, they would have uploaded the movie. Bresha imagined the comments beneath the video rolling in like waves with words far worse than loser. Bresha knew that even if the footage was lame, like of someone being pushed into a bush, it could score a thousand hits in an afternoon. But this footage wasn’t lame. It was juicy.

She lunged forward and tried to snatch the phone out of Chantel’s hand. Smirking, Chantel dodged to the left. Already it was too late, Bresha was sure of it. Ten seconds had passed. Now another twenty. Boom—Bresha bet that the film had gone viral.

Stop it, she screamed.

She led Arlene through the pack. The smartphones swiveled and followed her progress with their treacherous, unblinking eyes. Bresha pulled Arlene, still carrying the swallow, free of the circle and frogmarched her around the annex to the other side of the building, which was mercifully deserted.

By now, Arlene had stopped crying, but her skin was blotchy beneath her freckles.

Bresha drew a breath. "God, Arlene. You’ve got to stop falling for their stuff. That Penny Bright. I don’t know what her problem is, but man, she’s such a bitch. You’ve got…"

Bresha trailed off. She’d seen what Arlene had done.

Arlene had picked up a juice box. She pulled the straw out of the carton and threw the box back down onto the ground. Then she opened the bird’s beak and inserted the end of the straw into its throat.

It’s dead, Bresha felt like screaming. Just give it up, will you? How could Arlene be so gullible?

Arlene placed her mouth around the other end of the straw and breathed into it, her rib cage expanding beneath her sweater. The breath was long and slow. Another breath, the same as the first. Bresha watched, curious.

She’d never seen a swallow up close before. Even dead, it was beautiful. It had a ruff of white feathers that frothed around its chest. The feathers along its wings and back were an iridescent blue that changed shades as they caught the light, moving from the inky blue of the North Sea to the cornflower-blue of the summer’s sky when Bresha had first learned to cartwheel.

The bird’s wing twitched.

Bresha stared harder, not believing what she’d seen.

Its wing jerked.

Bresha closed her eyes and forced them to stay shut for several seconds before she opened them again. But no, she hadn’t imagined it. The swallow was moving. A ripple traveled from the top of its head to the back of its neck, where a second spasm continued to the base of its wings. The spasms moved in ripples, one after the other, each picking up where the last one had left off, until they’d gone right down to the tip of the tail.

Groggily, the swallow righted itself, as if it was coming out of a marathon sleep. It hopped across Arlene’s palm and curled its claws around her thumb like a perch. She shot it a quick grin. The bird did a quick feather fluff in response. Then it stuck its beak up toward the sky at the jauntiest of jaunty angles. It was as if it was giving Penny Bright, Liz Morrison and all of them, the finger.

Wings clattering, it took off into the sky.

****

Two days later, the focus had switched. It had changed from swallows to swans. Bresha and Arlene were in the music room with twenty other girls, practicing for a singing competition against Maynard’s School the following week. Bresha had only joined the choir to keep a watch on Arlene.

She stood with the older girls on a bench in the back row. They were sixth formers like her, all eighteen and about to finish school in June. Another line of girls stood on the floor in front. The younger pupils, like fifteen-year-old Arlene, sat on a bench at the front most line.

Because Bresha was higher than Arlene, she had an aerial view of Arlene’s head. It bobbed as she sang, causing her corkscrew curls to jiggle. Bresha sensed from all the head bobbing that Arlene was happy, which was a relief. Since the incident with the swallow, Arlene had deleted her Facebook account and had spent most of her breaks cocooned in the classroom.

White swans go sail-ling along. The choir launched into another round of the warm-up song.

Their voices bounced off of the smart board, which projected fun facts about Beethoven, and soared into the air, which smelled of the sandwiches they’d chowed down before the rehearsal.

White swans go sail-ling along, Bresha sang as she fidgeted on the bench.

Her gaze moved to Miss Summers, who was conducting from the front. Miss Summers’ eyes were bloodshot from hay fever. She held an imaginary baton and whisked it back and forth with vigorous flicks of her wrist.

Again, Miss Summers barked.

A shock of cold skittered up Bresha’s spine. Somehow, the mood had changed.

The girls sang louder, their voices competing to be heard. Bresha watched Miss Summers walk slowly along the rows with her head cocked, as she listened to each student in turn.

She held out a hand. Okay, let’s take a break.

The class burst into chatter.

Miss Summers walked down the aisle to the back row and peered past Kelsey to Bresha.

Bresha. She smiled at Bresha down her horsey nose. Can you help me fetch the metronome from the store cupboard?

Bresha’s stomach see-sawed. The metronome was tiny and light. It didn’t need two people to fetch it. What had she done? She tried to think of a time when she’d been late for practice or had been caught mucking around. But she couldn’t come up with anything. Miss Summers had nothing on her. Surely?

She climbed down from the bench and with heavy footsteps, she began to trail behind Miss Summers past the rows of girls, who turned and watched with obvious curiosity.

Miss Summers led Bresha into the hall, where she stopped and pushed her glasses up to the red marks on the bridge of her nose.

It’s your sister, she said.

A sudden heat burned through Bresha. Of course it was Arlene. It was always Arlene.

Bresha groaned. What has she done this time?

Nothing, Miss Summers said. Not as such. As you know, St. Hilda’s is an inclusive school. We like to give our girls the chance to explore a range of activities without the penalty of feeling judged. That’s why I never hold auditions for the choir because I want to involve everyone. But —her beady eyes dimmed— I’m afraid that Arlene’s not reaching the notes. It’s not that she isn’t trying. No one could be keener than Arlene.

They both smiled.

Your sister, Miss Summers continued, suffers from a condition that is known as being tone deaf. Normally, this wouldn’t be a problem. But I think, well, I think that for the competition it’s best that she mimes.

Bresha’s eyebrows shot up. Mime. No way. It’ll kill her.

Miss Summers wrung her hands. If she sings, we’ll lose and that won’t be fair to the other girls. They’ve given up so many of their lunch breaks to practice and we wouldn’t want them to blame Arlene. That would be unfortunate, especially after the… She stopped.

Bresha wondered which bullying incident she was thinking about.

No, Miss Summers went on. Arlene has to mime. I could speak to her, but it’s better coming from you. She listens to you.

Oh, so I’m the executioner, Bresha thought.

Do I have to tell her right now? she asked.

Miss Summers shot Bresha a pitying look. Soon. Maybe after the rehearsal.

They returned to the music room and the singing started up again. Only this time, Bresha didn’t join in. She stood and listened. Now she understood what Miss Summers meant. Arlene’s voice was several pitches below everyone else’s. When the song rose, Arlene’s voice rose as well but too high into a squawk. Bresha saw Kelsey nudge Candice and nod at Arlene. The two of them exchanged a glance.

A buzzer shrilled in the hall. The girls grabbed their lunch bags and began to surge toward the door. Bresha found herself caught in the crowd. She was propelled into the corridor, where a flash flood of students, who’d left the playground, was flowing toward them from the other way. Bresha spotted Arlene ahead. She was walking alone like she always did, singing softly to herself.

Bresha dodged around people to get to her. Even before she’d reached Arlene, Arlene had already stopped and turned around to greet her, as if driven by a sixth sense. It was often like that between them.

Hey, you, Bresha said.

Arlene raised her face up to Bresha like a daisy tilting its face toward the sun. Even in the ugly school uniform, her beauty was dizzying. She wasn’t pretty in the way that the hot girls like Amy Matthews were. Rather, she had an odd kind of beauty—oversized mouth and eyes, framed by impossibly long eyelashes, all set in a heart-shaped face.

Bresha was blond-haired and blue-eyed like Arlene. People could tell that they were sisters. But her features were smaller and more cautious.

I was thinking about the swans, Arlene said. They must get bored with all that sailing.

They could canoe, Bresha said.

Or water ski.

The girls giggled.

The competition’s going to be great, Arlene said. I just wish that Mum and Dad were here to watch. Sometimes when I’m singing, it feels like I’m flying. Do you ever get that, Bree? That flying feeling? Like you could soar over the clouds? That’s why I want to be a professional singer. I want to—

Miss Summers talked to me about your voice.

Arlene gave a squeal. What did she say? Tell me. Tell me. Does she think I can become a professional? I asked Veronika and she said she likes my voice. You like my voice too, don’t you, Bree? Maybe I should start going for auditions.

Bresha swallowed. It’s just … well, she wants you to … you see, the thing is…

Arlene seemed to hold her breath as she waited for Bresha’s news. Her face grew pinker, the freckles fading against the sudden background of colour.

You can still be in the competition, Bresha plowed on. But, well, she wants you to mime.

Mime? Arlene whispered, her eyes pooling with tears.

Because your voice is too good, Bresha said quickly. That’s right. That’s what it is. Miss Summers thinks you’re making everyone else sound bad.

Arlene beamed.

You can’t tell anyone about this conversation, Bresha continued. Not Miss Summers. Not the other people in the choir. They might get jealous.

Jealous, hmm. Arlene nodded with solemn, kitten eyes.

Without warning, she wrapped her arms around Bresha’s neck in a hug. They felt like chains, those arms that were dragging Bresha down. Even still, Bresha hugged back Arlene hard.

From somewhere farther down the corridor, beneath the tramp of footsteps and the hubbub of voices, someone snickered.

Chapter Two

Bresha sat on the smooth lake of her duvet with her back propped against her pillow and her tablet spreading warmth across her lap. She was on a study day from school and was cramming for her A Levels next month. She needed three Bs to get into the London School of Printing, which had the best journalism school in England, or so everyone said. She’d wanted to be a journalist for as long as she could remember and had ideas, which she guessed were far-fetched, about bringing people to justice by unearthing the truth.

Around her, the house was gloriously silent. Arlene was still at school and Veronika, the latest nanny, who’d lasted a whole year at the Armstrong household, had gone to the Russian grocery shop. Bresha could still smell the coffee that Veronika had brewed a few hours ago. Its bitter scent rose up the stairs and clung to Bresha’s purple curtains and walls.

Her parents weren’t home, of course. Her dad was the conductor of the Central London Symphony Orchestra and her mum worked as the promoter. They traveled so much that long ago, Bresha had stopped keeping track of where they were. And when they weren’t abroad, they were giving interviews or attending galas populated by men in linen suits and women with unnaturally smooth foreheads

Downstairs the letterbox rattled. Bresha’s eyes leaped to the time display on her tablet. Wow, 4:15 already. Arlene must be home from school. Bresha readied herself for the clomp of footsteps up the stairs and for Arlene to come crashing into her room to tell her about her day.

But there weren’t any footsteps, just a few slight creaks. Then, silence. Bresha frowned. She climbed off of her bed, brushed the wrinkles from the duvet and stepped onto the landing. Arlene’s door was shut. Arlene never closed her door. Slowly, carefully, and silently, Bresha pushed it open.

She had the same thought that she always had when she looked into Arlene’s room, that Arlene had been visited by a particularly mischievous and active poltergeist. The chest-of-drawers stood open. Clothes spilled from every drawer and trailed across the floor, which was ankle-deep in felt tip pens, half-eaten biscuits, tubes of glue, spools of thread, bottles of nail varnish, and vials of glitter.

Arlene sat on the bed amongst more magpie treasure. Her nose was buried in a bag.

Seventeen, eighteen. She counted the contents.

Hi, Bresha said.

Arlene gave a start and jerked up her head.

What’s in the bag? Bresha asked.

Arlene flushed. Nothing.

"Oh, come on. It can’t be full of nothing."

Arlene blushed harder. I meant nothing you’d like.

Try me.

I said you wouldn’t like it, Bree.

Let me see, Bresha said.

Arlene snatched up the bag and held it close to her chest.

Bresha picked her way across the carpet. She leaned in and tickled Arlene’s armpit like she used to do when they were kids. A giggle tore through Arlene’s lips. She clamped her arms tighter against the sides of her body. Bresha pushed her fingers into her armpit and tickled again with more purpose. Arlene laughed and loosened her hold on the bag. It was only for a second, but that was enough and Bresha managed to grab the bag away from her.

Bresha peeked inside. Her eyes widened. She hadn’t known what she’d expected to find. Although if she’d had to guess, it would have been something kooky—a collection of crystals perhaps, or some shriveled conkers left over from autumn in a range of shades of brown.

Inside were about fifty CDs. They had no covers and their cases were blank apart from a name that had been printed lovingly across them in permanent marker: Arlene Armstrong.

What are they? Bresha asked although her suspicions rose.

My demo CDs. Arlene beamed. "After you told me about what Miss Summers had said about my great voice, I started thinking. You know Jane in my year? Well, her older brother’s got a recording studio in his bedroom. That’s where I was