My Sister's Bones: A Novel of Suspense

By Nuala Ellwood

In the vein of Fiona Barton's The Widow and Renée Knight's Disclaimer, a psychological thriller about a war reporter who returns to her childhood home after her mother's death but becomes convinced that all is not well in the house next door—but is what she’s seeing real or a symptom of the trauma she suffered in Syria?

The One Person You Should Trust Is Lying to You…

Kate has spent fifteen years bringing global injustice home: as a decorated war reporter, she’s always in a place of conflict, writing about ordinary people in unimaginable situations. When her mother dies, Kate returns home from Syria for the funeral. But an incident with a young Syrian boy haunts her dreams, and when Kate sees a boy in the garden of the house next door—a house inhabited by an Iraqi refugee who claims her husband is away and she has no children—Kate becomes convinced that something is very wrong.

As she struggles to separate her memories of Syria from the quiet town in which she grew up—and also to reconcile her memories of a traumatic childhood with her sister’s insistence that all was not as Kate remembers—she begins to wonder what is actually true…and what is just in her mind.

In this gripping, timely debut, Nuala Ellwood brings us an unforgettable damaged character, a haunting , humanizing look at the Syrian conflict, and a deeply harrowing psychological thriller that readers won’t be able to put down.

 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Open Road Integrated Media
• Release date: Jul 11, 2017
• ISBN: 9780062661975

Nuala Ellwood

Nuala Ellwood is the daughter of an award-winning journalist. Inspired by her father’s and other journalists’ experiences with post-traumatic stress disorder, she gained Arts Council Funding for her research into the topic and ultimately made it the main theme of My Sister’s Bones, her debut psychological thriller.

Book preview

Prologue

She is safe now. Free from her demons. Her final resting place is still and tranquil, a little watery pocket of calm. She would have liked that, I think to myself, as I watch a pleasure boat sail in to the dock. She would have thought it appropriate.

It is hard to believe that after such a violent death she could ever find peace, but I hope she has.

My sister. My beautiful sister.

Go safely, I whisper. And as I scatter her ashes into the water I breathe a deep sigh. Perhaps this is the end.

The boat fills up with tourists and their excited voices fill the air as we stand here, three broken souls, saying our last good-byes. But as I watch her go I am struck once again by the thought that’s been haunting me ever since she died.

Of the two of us, how is it possible that I am the one who survived?

PART ONE

1

Herne Bay Police Station

Sunday, April 19, 2015

10:30 A.M.

Would you like me to repeat the question?"

The doctor is speaking, but it’s hard to hear her over the voices.

Kate? The doctor shifts in her seat.

Sorry, can you repeat that? I try to focus.

Shall I close the window? It’s quite noisy out there.

She goes to stand up, but I put my hand out to stop her. She flinches and I realize she may have mistaken my gesture for aggression.

No, I say as she sits back down awkwardly. It’s fine. I just thought I heard . . . nothing. It’s nothing.

I mustn’t tell her about the voices.

She nods her head and smiles a half smile. This is familiar territory. Auditory hallucinations; voices in the head. As a clinical psychologist, this will be heaven for her. She takes her notepad and points her pen at a fresh page.

Okay, she says, and a glint of silver grapples with the rays of the morning sun as her pen swipes across the paper. These things you can hear, Kate, can you describe them to me? Are they discernible voices?

I don’t know what you’re talking about, I reply.

You find them difficult to make out?

Look, I know what you’re doing here, I say tersely. But you won’t succeed because I’m not what you think I am.

What do I think you are?

A mad woman who hears voices, who sees things, imagines things. You think it’s all in my head.

But as I speak they’re back, fading in and out like a radio between frequencies. Shaw says something but I can’t hear for the screams. The old woman wailing; the young father running through the streets holding the blasted body of his baby girl in his arms. My old faithfuls, the ones that return to me whenever I am under stress.

I can’t help myself. I put my hands to my ears and hold them there. The voices dissolve into a low hum, like the sound you hear when you place a conch shell to your ear. I see my mother, her cheek pressed against mine. Listen, darling, can you hear it? That’s the ocean talking to you. And I believed her. I believed that the sea lay hidden inside the shell, though what I was hearing was really just the air bouncing off the curved cavity. I believed her because I needed to. She was my mother and she never lied.

Kate?

I see Shaw’s lips move. She’s saying my name. I stare at her for a moment and she stares back. Her eyes are a dirty green, the color of the winter sea inside my head. It’s getting louder now, the waves pounding on the rocks.

Kate, please. Shaw starts to get up. She’s going to get help.

I force myself to take my hands away from my ears and clasp them together. The peridot bracelet that Chris gave me on our eighth anniversary ripples down my arm and gathers in a spool at my wrist. I run my finger along the surface, rubbing the stones like the genie’s lamp. Make a wish, I think to myself. I remember the night Chris gave me the bracelet. We were in Venice. It was carnival time and as we weaved our way through the misty streets marveling at the elaborate costumes of the revelers he slipped something into my pocket. To the next eight years, he whispered, as I clasped the bracelet on to my wrist. I close my eyes. Please bring him back.

How’s your sleep been recently? asks Dr. Shaw. Any nightmares?

I shake my head and try to focus, but all I can think of is Chris and that trip to Venice. The smell of Venetian canal water lingers in the air.

It’s very pretty, says Shaw, gesturing to the bracelet.

Apparently the peridot stone protects against nightmares, I whisper.

And does it work?

I carry on rubbing the stone with my finger and thumb. It is strangely comforting.

Does the stone work, Kate?

She’s not going to let this go. I take a sip of water from the plastic beaker they gave me an hour ago. It is tepid and smells of chemicals, but anything is better than the stench of the canals.

I’ve had the odd bad dream, I reply, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand. Who wouldn’t? It’s been a rough few weeks.

As Shaw continues to write I stare at my feet and for a second I see body parts congealed in mud, like some macabre jigsaw puzzle. She asked me about nightmares but where do I start? Do I tell her how I’ve stood in shallow graves and felt my feet sinking into the earth, my toes drenched in body fluids? Do I tell her about those endless black nights when I have woken up begging for noise, for chatter, for anything but the incessant silence of the dead? No, because if I do I will only confirm her suspicions. I have to stay focused and stay one step ahead of her or it’s all over. I rub the peridot for protection as Shaw stops writing and looks up.

And would you say these bad dreams have got worse since you’ve returned to Herne Bay?

I put the beaker back on to the table and sit up in my chair. I have to stop letting my mind wander; I have to be alert, careful. Every word I say here can be used against me.

No, they haven’t got worse, I say, trying to keep my voice steady. They’ve just become real.

2

Sunday, April 12, 2015

One week earlier

I shiver as I step off the train and stand on the deserted platform. The sea air whips angrily around my face as I pull my bulky knapsack onto my back and make my way toward the exit. The station clock reads 11:59. I feel uneasy as I walk through the blistering silence. Have I made the right decision? I pause, and contemplate climbing back onto the train, but the engine has stopped and a guard in a fluorescent waistcoat is opening the doors to let the cleaners do their work. This is the last stop, the end of the line.

I pull my thin jacket tighter, chastising myself for leaving my heavier coat packed at the bottom of my bag. I’d forgotten how cold Herne Bay can get at night, even in April. My mother used to call it bone-chilling weather.

As I walk toward the steps I look around for any sign of life but there is nothing. I am the only person here. I hope he got my message. Of all the terrifying situations I have found myself in over the years, none has made me feel as uncomfortable as this. Herne Bay. Where darkness comes early and life is as predictable as the tides. It will take all the strength I have left to get through these next few days.

As I step into the half-lit ticket hall my phone vibrates in my pocket and I pause by the red glow of a vending machine to answer it.

Hello. Oh, that’s okay. I’ll be right there.

A light rain begins to fall as I step out of the station and spot the silver sedan parked in the empty taxi rank. I wave to the man sitting in the driver’s seat as I stride toward the car, my heavy knapsack digging into my collarbone. My brother-in-law waves back but doesn’t smile. He knows that my presence in Herne Bay will cause trouble. Still, I’m grateful that he came to collect me. He’s the only member of my family who still wants to speak to me.

Hi, Paul. I sigh as I open the door. Thanks for coming out at this hour, I really appreciate it.

No problem, he replies. Stick your bag on the back seat. There’s more room.

I want to stick myself on the back seat as well, and pretend I’m in London in some anonymous taxi, going home to my own bed. Still, the drive from the station to my mother’s house is a short one, I tell myself, as I toss my knapsack into the back and climb into the passenger seat. Clicking the seat belt, I lean back and close my eyes. I am home, whatever that means.

Are you sure you want to stay at your mother’s? asks Paul as we pull out of the parking lot. I mean, you’re more than welcome to bunk at ours for the week.

Thanks, Paul, I reply as familiar landmarks pass by the window. But I really don’t want to put you out.

You wouldn’t be putting us out, he says. It would be a pleasure.

Oh, come on, I say. I doubt it would be a pleasure for Sally. I can just imagine her face if I rock up at the door.

Fair enough, he says. What about a hotel then? There’s a new one opened up on the seafront, nice and plush, you’d like it.

Honestly, Mum’s house will be fine, I say firmly. I’m only here for a few days and, anyway, after everything that’s happened it’ll be good to spend some time there; give me the chance to take it all in.

Okay, he says. But the offer’s there if you change your mind.

Thanks, Paul.

He is silent for the rest of the journey and I look out as we drive through indistinct residential streets, the names of which blur in front of my eyes like ink dissolving in water. My stomach growls and I suddenly feel light-headed. This always happens when I come back here. It’s like I’m allergic to the place.

Do you mind if I open the window? I ask Paul, praying I don’t throw up over his immaculate dashboard.

Go ahead, he says, gesturing to the button by the door handle.

That’s better. I sigh as a flurry of cold air hits my face, though the pungent fishy scent doesn’t help.

I put my hand in my pocket and run my fingers along the reassuring smooth surface of my lucky pen. The pen—a beautiful silver fountain pen inscribed with my name—was a gift from Chris on our first anniversary. It has been everywhere with me—Syria, Afghanistan, Iraq. Whenever I touch it I know I’m safe.

It’s so quiet, I whisper, tucking the pen back into my pocket as the car crawls up the hill toward Smythley Road.

I’d forgotten the blanket of silence that descends on the town at night. As I look out I imagine the inhabitants of Smythley Road cocooned in their beds, like the characters in the Edgar Allan Poe stories I devoured as a child, lost in their little slices of death. It’s hard to believe that this had once been my home; this silent world.

Here we are, says Paul as he stops the car.

His voice makes me jump and I look up at the house we have parked outside. Number 46: a lifeless 1930s semi with graying pebbledash that had once been sparkling white. I still remember the telephone number—654345—and my childhood mantra: My name is Kate Rafter and I live at number 46 Smythley Road with my mummy and daddy and my sister, Sally. My eyes moisten but I blink the tears away, reminding myself that the first step is always the hardest.

As I open the door and step out onto the pavement my lungs contract, like the prelude to a bout of coughing, and I have to steady myself by placing my hands on the car hood.

It’s just a week, that’s all, I tell myself. A few days of sea air and signing Mum’s papers, then back to work, back to normal.

You okay?

Paul is standing behind me. He lifts the knapsack from my shoulder and guides me toward the house.

I’m fine, Paul, just tired.

Are you sure I can’t persuade you to book into a hotel?

No, I say as we walk up the drive. I just need a good night’s sleep, that’s all.

Well, you’ll get one here, I’m sure, he says breezily. It’s nice and peaceful. Don’t know how you manage it, jumping from one hellhole to the next. I’d be wrecked.

I smile ruefully. That’s all that matters to most people—getting a good night’s sleep. I imagine Paul in Homs or Aleppo, snoring his head off while all around him people fight to stay alive.

I stand on the doorstep staring at the door. It still feels inconceivable that my mother is not behind it, the smell of baking wafting in her wake. My mother was this house; it was the only world she knew.

I’ll leave you to it, says Paul, interrupting my thoughts. Here are the keys. Chubb’s for the front door, mortice for the back. Thermostat’s in the kitchen above the kettle if you’re cold. I’ll pop over in the morning to see if you’re okay.

Thanks, I reply, taking the keys and rubbing the sharp metal between finger and thumb. And give my regards to Sally, won’t you?

He flinches at the sound of her name.

She’s still my sister, I tell him. Despite everything.

I know, he says. And deep down she knows that too.

I hope so, I say, the cold air sending shivers down my back.

You get yourself in, says Paul, patting my arm. It’s freezing out here.

I follow him down the gravel drive and watch as his car disappears into the shadowy folds of the bay, putting off going into the house for a few more moments. Once I open the door it will all become real. My mother’s death will be confirmed. It is almost too painful to bear. But I have to do it, I tell myself, as I reluctantly make my way back to the house, or I will never move on. As I approach I see a light in the upstairs window of the house next door and I pause. It is a reassuring sight, a sign of life amid darkness and death, and I feel comforted as I put the key in the lock and open the door.

Inside, I fumble around trying to find the light switch, tripping over my knapsack as I run my palms across the glossy woodchip walls. When I eventually locate it the dim glow that ensues brings a knot to my stomach. I’d forgotten: my mother always abhorred bright lights. Light was not to be trusted. It revealed too much. And so my mother had installed low-wattage bulbs throughout the house and retreated to the shadows.

I walk down the hallway, thinking how the first eighteen years of my life had been spent in near-darkness, terrified of what lay hidden in the corners. I go from room to room, flicking switches, my heart sinking as each dull bulb splutters impotently to life.

I stop at the kitchen. It looks different. Paul and Sally have obviously set to work getting the house ready to sell. The dark red walls of my childhood have been painted magnolia and the lino replaced with an insipid beige carpet. But it’s all good, I tell myself as I step inside. However boring it may be, beige is what I need right now; its dull neutrality will keep me from hurtling down the hole of memory.

I walk into the pantry and see that Paul has stocked up ahead of my visit. There are new packs of coffee and tea, a fresh loaf of white bread, tins of soup and baked beans. Opening the fridge, I see full-fat milk, butter and eggs, and a packet of smoked bacon: things I haven’t eaten for years. Still, I’ll be grateful for them in the morning.

I see he’s also left a couple of bottles of white wine. I take one out and pour myself a large glass. I know I shouldn’t. After all, until the events of the last couple of months, I barely touched alcohol. I vowed never to turn out like my father and Sally. But since Aleppo, a drink seems to be the only thing that will settle my nerves.

That and my sleeping pills.

I pat my pocket and pull out a pack. I swallow two with the rest of the wine and make my way upstairs, praying that they will work fast.

But as I reach the landing I stop. My throat tightens, and I stand for a moment looking at the closed door of my mother’s bedroom. It’s still there. An ancient foot-shaped gash in the wood panel. I find I am trembling. It’s like being back there, thirty years of distance gone in a flash. Why on earth did she never replace it?

I will myself not to go in, to wait until morning when my brain will be ready, but it’s no use, my hands are already pushing at the door. I breathe in sharply. My father’s anger permeates the space and it feels like any moment now he is going to come charging at me, ask me what the hell I think I’m doing snooping around like this. But all is silent as I step into the gloom.

Nothing has changed. I stand, incredulous, looking at the collection of dusty furniture. The same mahogany chest of drawers; the same heavy velvet curtains; the same horrid brown wallpaper with spiky dandelions threaded through it. I see my mother’s head hitting the wall over and over again, my father’s hand holding her hair while he smashed her into the golden flowers. The room smells of damp fabric and cheap air freshener. Paul has obviously tried his best to spruce it up but my mother’s blood is all over this room. Even if the visible marks are gone I can still smell it in the air: a musty scent of fear.

I close the door and step out onto the landing. A framed picture of the Sacred Heart looms ominously in front of me. The bearded Jesus holds his hand out toward me, a blazing heart pulsating in his chest. I hated this picture as a child, couldn’t bear to look at it. For me it symbolized everything that was wrong with my family: blind faith in the face of violence and adversity; submission to a greater good. Blessed Jesus pray for us, I read aloud as I stand in front of the faded picture. Underneath those words in spindly blue handwriting my mother has written the names of her children—two living, one dead—her husband and, finally, always last, herself.

What good did you ever do us? I shout and my voice echoes through the empty house.

I glare at the beatific man in the frame. What kind of God takes a child’s life away? I read my little brother’s name again and wonder for a moment what it must have felt like to drown, to gasp and flounder and call out for a mother who never came. I think of another child who didn’t make it and I close my eyes, trying to keep the images at bay. Enough, I tell myself, and with a sweep of my hand turn the picture over to face the wall.

I am delirious with fatigue as I open the door to Sally’s old room. Someone—most likely Paul—has made the bed with freshly laundered sheets and there is a large fluffy towel neatly folded on the chest of drawers. The thought of a long hot bath is tempting, but I know it is not a good idea with strong sleeping pills in my system. Still, a shower might help.

I take the towel and make my way back across the landing to the bathroom. I turn on the light and am greeted by a sight so horrifying it makes my toes curl: my reflection in the full-length mirror. Here I am, looking all of my thirty-nine years and then some. My face is lined and puffy, my hair a thick ball of graying wire wool. I make a mental note as I turn on the shower to check in with Anton for a full head of highlights as soon as I get back to London.

The water burns my skin and as I scrub my face I smile at the futility of worrying about my appearance. What are a few gray hairs compared to the horrors of the last few weeks? My life has imploded and all I can think of is a cut and blow-dry.

But then I remember my lovely friend Bridget Hennessey, one of the most fearless journalists I have ever known and my mentor when I started out. She had just come back from reporting on the war in Kosovo when we met and had endured a mock execution at the hands of a rebel gang. For ten days she was held hostage with a sack tied over her head while the sound of gunshots rang out from the room next door. They told her they had killed her driver and cameraman and that she would be next. The psychological torture she endured would have sent most of us mad but she held herself together until she was released. I remember watching her in the newsroom as she calmly typed up the account of what had happened, her perfectly manicured fingernails tapping at the keyboard. I sat there with my unkempt hair and bitten fingernails and wondered how she could have gone through such a terrifying ordeal and still think it necessary to get her nails done.

But that’s the whole point, Kate, my dear, she said when I asked her about it later. Real life can’t stop—it mustn’t stop, otherwise those bastards have won.

I step out of the shower and wrap myself in the large white towel. Warmth envelops my body and I close my eyes, imagining I’m in our favorite hotel in Venice and Chris is waiting for me in the bedroom. I can feel his rough, warm skin next to mine as I walk along the corridor; his fingers working their way inside me; the taste of mulled wine on his lips. But the bedroom is empty and cold and the feeling dissolves as I slip under the polyester sheets and close my eyes.

Moments later I am in a shop filled with dust. It swirls around the room, seeping into the cavities and crevices like poisonous gas. As I step farther inside, the dust thickens and I can’t see. My mouth is dry with fear but I must keep going.

This shop was once full of customers, full of life. Piles of travel brochures and black-market cigarettes lined its shelves and a small boy ran down the aisles telling his stories to anyone who would listen, but now all is silence as I walk through the mounds of rubble.

The ground is different here, slick and wet, and when I look down I see my boots are covered in dark red stains. I’m no longer walking on rubble but trudging through thick, glutinous blood.

I hear a camera click and its flash illuminates the room. The shock of the light makes me lose my footing and I fall, facedown, into the fluid. Looking up, I see a pile of stones, a small shrine amid an ocean of blood, and I crawl toward it, sensing what lies beneath. I feel his heartbeat vibrating beneath my hands and I begin to dig. I am a burrowing animal as I pull away the rubble, clawing at it with my fingernails. Spots of crimson dot the stones and I realize it is coming from my hands though I feel no pain. Then I see him, lying on his back, eyes wide open, arms raised upward, a baby looking for its mother.

I try not to look at his face as I bend down to pick him up. Behind me, the camera flashes and the boy is illuminated in a harsh white glare. I can’t see him; he is dissolving into the light. Stop it, I cry to the man with the camera, you can’t photograph this, and as my voice echoes against the shattered walls the ground shakes. The boy looks at me, pleadingly, and I try to grab hold of his hand but it slips through my fingers. He is dust and I watch as he returns to the earth. But in the final moments he calls out.

Help me!

It’s the last thing I hear as the camera’s flash blinds me and I blink myself awake.

I am lying crouched on the floor, scraping my nails against the carpet, and though I know that I’m safe, that it was just another nightmare, my mouth still tastes of dust. Hauling myself up from the floor, I see that the room is full of a cold, bluish light. I’d been so tired I’d forgotten to close the curtains.

I go to the window. The sky is clear and cloudless. Such a contrast to the polluted skies I see each night in London. I stand for a moment looking at the moon and the twinkling marine stars and I think of Syria. There, darkness came down fast. Like a guillotine, Chris used to say. And I feel myself disconnect. It seems as though all of that—Syria, London, Chris—is another life, and this life, this town on the edge of the sea, is the only one that exists. I’m no longer a fearless journalist, I’m a scared teenager crouching once more behind the curtains, scared of the nightmares that come when I close my eyes.

3

Herne Bay Police Station

10 hours detained

Perhaps we should go back a bit, says Dr. Shaw, to when you first arrived in Herne Bay. She looks down at the paper in front of her. I understand it had been some time since you were last here. What made you return?"

I sit and watch as Shaw crosses and uncrosses her legs, as she sips tea from a polystyrene beaker, wipes the dregs from her mouth, and places the cup on the floor beside her feet. The large, oval clock that hangs on the wall behind her head ticks rhythmically as we sit in silence, one pondering the question, the other awaiting its answer. An answer I am sure she already knows.

I will be forty years old in a couple of months and as I sit in this tiny, strip-lit room I see a cake with lemon icing and buttercream filling. I see my mother flitting about in a tiny kitchen, cracking eggs into a bowl that is as big as her head. And I see myself, four years old, balancing on the edge of the kitchen counter watching her every move. I want a cake the color of the sun, I had told her. And my mother grants my wish, for after everything we have suffered together she can’t bear to let me down. If I want a sunshine cake then she will make sure I get one.

I hear Shaw clear her throat and I look up, my mother’s face disappearing into the woodchip wall.

I fancied a bit of sea air, I reply.

Shaw leans forward and takes a cardboard file out of her bag.

We’ve spoken to Paul Cheverell, she says, taking a piece of paper from the file. He’s your brother-in-law, yes?

I nod my head. My chest tightens. What has Paul been telling them?

He told us that you came back because there’d been a family bereavement, she says, reading from her notes. It was your mother, I believe?

Yes.

I stare at the wall behind Shaw’s head, desperately trying to erase the image of my mother’s grave from my mind, but it’s all I can see.

Were you and your mother close?

I look back at Shaw and tell myself that the sooner I answer her questions the sooner I can get out of here. I shall pretend this is work, that I’m sitting in a meeting room, not a police cell, and the subject under discussion is someone else: an abstract mother; a person who doesn’t make cakes or call her daughter lovey or cry at Elizabeth Barrett Browning poems. If I imagine this other person and not my real mother, then I can get through this.

Yes, we were, I reply, smiling. Smile at the difficult ones, get them onboard.

You visited her often?

Not as much as I’d have liked.

Why was that?

"Well, my job means I’m not often in the UK for more than a few days at a time, and when I am here it’s nonstop."

I know how lame it sounds as the words come out but I can’t tell Shaw that I found it all so difficult; that the thought of seeing my beautiful mother in a nursing home, her mind gone, was too much to bear.

She was suffering from dementia?

Yes.

I try to hold on to the image of the abstract figure, the hypothetical mother, but it fractures and I see Mum bending over the kitchen table with a pile of

Reviews for My Sister's Bones

[kbranfield-837433 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

My Sister's Bones by Nuala Ellwood slowly builds into a suspense-laden mystery with very unexpected twists and turns.

War correspondent Kate Rafter's return to her childhood home following her mother's death contributes to her increasingly fragile mental state. Her recent experiences in Syria are horrific and the events leading up to her last assignment play a fairly large role in her declining emotional stability. Kate is suffering from extensive post traumatic stress disorder which makes her an increasingly unreliable narrator when she begins seeing and hearing things that cannot be corroborated by anyone else. Much of her story is revealed through her sessions with Dr. Shaw and no one is quite sure what to believe about Kate's recounting of extremely traumatic events that have recently occurred.

Kate's narration comes to an abrupt and shocking end and the perspective then switches to that of her younger sister, Sally, who is a raging alcoholic. Their relationship is badly fractured but Kate make a valiant effort to get through to her sister on her visit home. Sally consumes copious amounts of wine and spends her days in a drunken stupor as she laments the rift with her daughter, Hannah, whom she has not seen in several years. Her husband, Paul Cheverell is incredibly patient with her but their marriage is definitely breathing its last gasp. After a surprise visitor appears on her doorstep, Sally finally sobers up long enough to remember a desperate request from Kate. Will she then uncover the truth about whether or not Kate's experiences at their childhood home are real or imagined?

A dark, twisted and incredibly atmospheric tale, My Sister's Bones is an intriguing mystery that is initially somewhat slow-paced but dramatically hurtles to a twist-filled and shocking conclusion. Nuala Ellwood's extensive research and subsequent portrayal of the devastating effects of PTSD are hard-hitting and incredibly realistic. Kate is a sympathetic character whose intentions to expose the damages of war are noble and eventually take a horrific toll on her psyche.It is impossible to predict what direction the storyline is going until the absolutely jaw-dropping plot twist. From that point, the novel moves at a breakneck speed in the aftermath of stunning revelations. An outstanding debut that I highly recommend to fans of the genre.

[bookdivasreads · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

It took me several attempts to get into this story and I'm still not quite sure why. I enjoyed the premise, the storytelling, the characters, the settings, and the writing but my initial attempts to read this resulted in my setting it aside after one or two chapters. After setting the book aside for almost a year, I picked it back up and read through to the end. Although the story didn't wow me, it was definitely an intriguing story and one I'd recommend to readers of psychological suspense-thrillers.

[sassybrit · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

This review is from: My Sister's Bones (Hardcover) Customer review from the Amazon Vine Programme

I am reviewing the book My Sister's Bones by Nuala Ellwood. Here are my thoughts:

^^ The story line has a similar Gone Girl/Girl on the Train theme, but with that added punch of characters dealing with the psychological fallout of the trauma of reporting in dangerous conflict zones around the world, highlighting the chaos of war and the bravery of all those involved.

^^ The book starts with Kate being questioned by the police, for a cri me that we only understand as we read through the book. It alternates this with gradually revealing the events of a week earlier leading up to the reason why Kate is being questioned, making me eager to race through the book for answers. In fact, I read "My Sister's Bones" in under two days and thoroughly enjoyed it.
^^ Written in first the person point of view initially and then splits into three parts; the first being the main character, Kate, then her sister Sally, and finally the gripping conclusion is handed back to Kate again as all is revealed.

^^ I found splitting the book up in this way (like a three plot structure) was great idea as it provided the ability to really get inside the minds of each character, allowing Sally to provide a few answers brought up from Kate's side of the story, and vice versa.

^^ This has to be one of my favourite reads this year, and I will look out for more work from author, Nuala Ellwood.

Overall: A gripp ing book with everything I love in a story; fully rounded characters facing realistic challenges, an engrossing back story, and a surprising twist at the end that I did not see coming.

[citizenjoyce · Rating: 2 out of 5 stars]

Real Housewives meets Days of Our Lives. There's just so much victimization and women self-hating that can be included in a book before it becomes nauseating. Ellwood puts that much in then adds a dollop or two more to make sure we get the point. Women are easily fooled and have no ability to control their desire to self-destruct. I won't be reading anything else by her.

[amysan_1 · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

I was surprised at how much I enjoyed most of this dark, psychological thriller. I felt that it had more substance than your typical thriller. Then I got to the end and felt very let down by the way this was tied up. Overall, it was a good read and I look forward to reading more from this author.

[hotcha-2 · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

I truly liked this story as I rapidly read along. I was sympathetic to Kate's struggle with the Syrian war memories as I can not imagine all the horrors of man's inhumanity toward war she had seen. When a little Syrian boy next door haunts her dreams, and then one night she saw him in the garden below her window, she called 911 but when the police showed up he was gone. I liked that Kate could not the incident go but was determined to find the truth of if she was crazy or not. What is true and what is not?

[justablondemoment · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

Well written book. Fast read for me as I got really caught up in what was going to happen. The further I got into the book I knew there was going to be a twist in the plot but it wasn't a huge shock there were subtle things leading up to it. Going to look for more by this author and would recommend this one.

[23points · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

This is a great book for fans of the thriller genre! Exceptionally layered story with fleshed out characters and locations. I really liked how Ellwood played with the unreliable narrator trope.Received for free through Early Reviewer Program.

[susan.macura · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

The main character is a reporter who spends a great deal of time covering war in places like Syria, resulting in PTSD and other psychological wounds. She returns to her hometown and discovers that all is not how it should be with her various family members. There are some interesting twists and insights making this an enjoyable read.

[twink_2 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

Nuala Ellwood's debut novel is My Sister's Bones.Kate Rafter returns home for the first time in many, many years for her mother's funeral. She and her sister Sally had a traumatic upbringing - Kate made her own escape and Sally escaped into a liquor bottle. They have never really reconciled their differences and not much seems to have changed now, even with their mother's death.Ellwood puts her own spin on the 'unreliable narrator' that very often populates psychological suspense novels. Her lead character, Kate, is a seasoned war reporter suffering from PTSD - post traumatic stress disorder. She has seen many horrific events over the course of her fifteen year career. Those memories are intruding on her present, making her question her own actions, thoughts and what she is even seeing. For you see, Kate is sure there is a little boy in the house next door. He's out late at night and Kate is concerned about him. But when she confronts the neighbour, she is told there are no children in the house......I enjoyed the uncertainty of what was going on with Kate, trying to guess what was real and what was her hallucinations. I started out firmly on Kate's side, but found some of her decisions a bit off putting as the story progressed. There is no gray area around Sally - she is definitely a bitter, broken woman - but one I found hard to sympathize with. She is given a voice with part two being her narrative. Sally's husband Paul I found decidedly smarmy (I love this descriptor!) and couldn't understand why Kate would spend so much time with him.I was pulled into the story and certainly wanted to know where Ellwood would take her tale. The last few chapters are quite busy, with actions and answers rapidly appearing. I had my suspicions along the way and was somewhat right in my guesses. But, I have to say that I found the final twist and resolution somewhat tawdry. There were some plot actions at this point that I found a bit far fetched and questioned the veracity of them actually happening.Ellwood's inclusion of PTSD, the horrors of war torn countries and the people trapped in those situations, brings a sobering dose of reality to this fictional tale. Ellwood's research and depiction of the aforementioned is very well done - and thought provoking.

[gpangel_1 · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

My Sister’s Bones by Nuala Ellwood is a 2017 William Morrow Paperbacks publication. Bleak, atmospheric, somber-Psychological thrillers are not all created equal. They can come in all shapes, sizes and forms and still solidly fall within the specifications applied to this genre, but with various degrees of success. While this book adheres to the standard requirements, the author turns the genre on its ear by producing a multi-layered literary piece told from the first -person perspectives of two sisters, both of whom are dealing with immense loss, psychological demons, and emotional scars, but unable to find comfort in each other. Kate is a journalist who has spent the past several years covering the atrocities in Syria. After her mother’s death, she returns home to put her affairs in order. It soon becomes obvious that being back in her childhood home is bringing back torturous memories, on top of being haunted by the images of war, topped off by her sister, Sally’s, alcoholism. The stress manifests itself with vivid nightmares and hallucinations.Sally’s alcohol issues multiplied after her teenage daughter, Hannah disappears. Now, after the death of her mother, she crawled inside the bottle, not even bothering to hide it or fight it. The only sane person in this shadowy land of illusion is Sally’s husband, Paul. He takes care of both sisters and they work their way through childhood abuses, PTSD, and their broken relationship with each other.The imagery is Aleppo is haunting, reminding us that journalists are out there in the crossfire, and can suffer the same ill effects of war as soldiers, and even lose their lives on occasion. What happens to Kate in Syria easily explains her PTSD, and how she ends up in the shape she does. The subject matter is heart wrenching, harsh, and cruel- so if scenes of psychological and physical abuse, or the depictions of war- be aware of these possible triggers- most of which occur in the first half of the book. Sally holds deep resentments toward Kate, who she believes was her mother’s favorite child, and while Kate wishes to help her, Sally resist to the point where Kate feels helpless and hopeless, especially under the circumstances. While all this is very interesting and is an absorbing character study, there are some odd occurrences thrown in that makes us question our narrator. The author planted seeds of doubt, making me wonder just what is real and what is deceptive. I was very caught up in the story, but the deeper I tread, the more I began to wonder where on earth all this was leading. Wasn’t this supposed to be a thriller? As a matter of fact, yes, it is, and I’m glad I was patient, because when the twist came, it hit me hard, right in the gut, and I could have kicked myself for not seeing it sooner. Once the bottom drops out, it’s a harrowing, white knuckled fight that held me enthralled and made me a little jumpy, while totally screwing with my head. At the end of the day, I was mentally exhausted and stunned emotionally by this moody, melancholy, but exceptional novel. I am impressed with the author’s style, the way she layered the events so I was kept off guard, using a powerful prose to slowly entice me into her web.This is a novel with much more going for it than most standard thrillers. This book examines thorny issues, made me think, forced me to work at solving the puzzle, and packed an emotional wallop that left me shell shocked. While the story is very dark, and rarely offers a moment of reprieve, the ending did show much improvement and even a ray of hope for those who live to tell the tale. This is one of the very best psychological thrillers I’ve read this year. So, if you are a fan of this genre, I highly recommend it!!

[sj2b · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

My Sister's Bones is a dark and disturbing novel set in the present day chaotic, violent Hell-hole of war torn Aleppo, and the scenic predictable, mundane coastline of Britain's Herne Bay in Kent.Kate Rafter has returned home prematurely from her latest assignment as a female foreign war correspondent after the recent death of her mother, and thrust back into the fractured relationship with her resentful alcoholic sister Sally.In the opening scene we meet Kate as she is being detained and questioned by, who appears to be, a police psychologist after displaying some very erratic behaviour and making accusations about a neighbour. She is being tormented by voices, visions and flashbacks and it is apparent that Kate is suffering from PTSD after several assignments reporting and witnessing violence, and the unrelenting devastation of war.It is during these flashbacks, and heartbreaking revelations of a childhood tragedy, parental violence, and abuse that we find out eventually how much is real or imagined as she struggles to, keep hidden but at the same time, face the demons coming at her from all angles.  It is also a fascinating examination of how memories are formed, of how reliable they may be after years have passed, and of how individuals remember events very differently, and how using different coping mechanisms for survival have affected them.  I loved the author's in-depth perceptiveness and understanding of the human condition and of how life's experiences can mould a persons character and personality.However, as much as I loved 'My Sisters Bones' I didn't feel the domestic crime element of the mysterious neighbour added value or substance to the storyline, even so Nuala Ellwood has written a superior, powerful thought provoking mystery thriller that, for me, only just fell short of a 5 star rating.Highly recommended for fans of twisty-turny, creepy psychological thrillers with unreliable female protagonists, and untrustworthy supporting characters such as in, 'The Girl On The Train', 'Gone Girl', and 'The Widow'.I am very excited about this author's debut and looking forward to reading her next novel.

[mrsmommybooknerd7 · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

This book knocked my socks off. It was one of those thrillers that leaves the reader wanting more. It was crafty, brillinat and mezmorizing. I found myself fully engaged and I also could not believe that I reads it in one day! It was that hard to put down because it was paced so well. I feel like this is what makes me so excited to read debut authors...they have fresh, new stories and are just starting out! This is a perfect raed for the summer...

[myrnagottlieb · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

I received a free uncorrected proof of My Sister’s Bones by Nuala Ellwood from Library Thing in exchange for an honest review. What a wild ride! A psychological thriller interweaving a woman’s traumatic childhood, her dysfunctional family relations, and her traumatic experiences as an award-winning journalist covering the human consequences of war. Kate grew up in Herne Bay, a quiet town in Kent. Her father was a violent man who drank and regularly beat her mother; when Kate intervened she was beaten herself. Her younger sister Sally, in Kate’s mind, was a bystander who chose not to see what was going on. When she was old enough to leave home, Kate escaped to London and for 15 years worked as a prize-winning war correspondent in high risk areas where she wrote of the suffering of innocent civilians. Her last assignment was harrowing- she became emotionally involved with a small Syrian boy, who was blown up by a bomb. Kate blames herself for not saving him. She has nightmares, hears voices, and becomes addicted to sleeping pills and powerful anti-psychotic drugs. She won’t admit she is suffering from PTSD and needs treatment. The story opens with Kate returned home to Herne Bay for her mother’s funeral. She is being questioned by a police psychologist. A complaint has been lodged, and the police must determine whether Kate is a danger to herself and others and needs to be committed. As the story unfolds, we jump back and forth in time- back to Kate’s childhood and dysfunctional family, her traumatic experience in Syria, a devastating experience with her married lover; and a mystery- a possible crime in the present. All this is told from the point of view of a woman under the influence of alcohol and powerful drugs- we don’t know what is real, what is imaginary; she doesn’t know either.The twisty road to the powerful and emotional conclusion of the novel when the strands of Kate’s life and that of her sister Sally come together, earns this novel a four-star rating. Highly recommended.

[bagambo_1 · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

OMG! What an addictive and captivating story! I absolutely LOVED My Sister's Bones. It was chock full of twists and turns that let me on the edge of my seat. Could not put this book down for anything!! A definite must-read for fans of suspense-thrillers!!

[wildrequiem · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

MY SISTER'S BONES is a gloomy, dark psychological thriller set in both Herne Bay in the UK and Aleppo, Syria. The author does a brilliant job writing a politically relevant story; it's incredibly well-researched. The story itself, however, is not political. At heart, it's a run of the mill psychological thriller that solidly incorporates Syria, the ramifications of domestic violence, and mental illnesses.Kate has been covering the Syrian conflict as a field journalist in Aleppo, and comes back to her hometown of Herne Bay suffering from PTSD. Her mother has just passed away and her sister is an alcoholic. While staying at her mother's old house and battling her own psychological demons, she notices that something is off about the house next door -- but could it just be her PTSD-induced hallucinations and paranoia?

[dgmlrhodes · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

This was an excellent thriller with lots of unexpected twists and turns. There are two sisters coming from the same background. Sally becomes an alcoholic and Kate has a career as a journalist. When their mother passes, Kate returns to put some of her family affairs in order. Kate has seen many horrible things in her career as a journalist in Syria. As she begins suspecting/seeing things she and others begin to question her sanity. Her sister seems to be past hope as her daughter has disappeared and Sally continues to drink herself into oblivion. There are many unexpected events that bring their paths together and make this a wonderful read. Reader received a complimentary copy from Library Thing Early reviewers.

[kathl33n-1 · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

Wow did this one pack a wallop! It's been a very long time since a book made me gasp out loud and this one did. This is really a very compelling page turner. I was so surprised to learn this was a debut book for the author. Hopefully she has many more to come. Thanks to Goodreads and the publisher for providing me with an advanced copy for an honest review.

[erikschreppel · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

My Sister's Bones by Nuala Ellwood was a wonderful book. The subject matter is difficult, several times I cried. But it was tightly written, had very compelling characters, and an ending I was not prepared for. Her descriptions of PTSD were spot on, and she deftly navigated the unreliable narrator plot device. I wonderful novel and I strongly recommend it.

[tymfos · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

Kate, a journalist who specializes in international "hot spots," returns from assignment in Syria to deal with her late mother's estate. (She missed the funeral.) But the horrors of war have taken their toll -- especially the death of a young boy in Aleppo of whom she had become quite fond. Now she keeps thinking she sees a dark-haired boy in her garden. Is he real? A hallucination, like so many others she is experiencing? Is the cry for help she hears real, or just one of the voices she hears in her head? The story starts out alternating between scenes set in a police station interrogation by a psychiatrist, and chapters detailing the week's events which led up to Kate's encounter with the police. This device works well; it's easy to immediately tell which scenes are which by the chapter headings.This was a good, suspenseful book. I wouldn't have guessed that it was the author's debut novel. It was well-written and compelling. I stayed up into the wee hours reading, until I just had to go get some sleep, and picked it up again immediately after work to finish. (I haven't done that in a while.) In the end, I thought it got a wee bit sensational, and I think perhaps the author tried to take on too many things in one book. But overall, a very good read.I received a free copy of this book in exchange for an unbiased review.

[jjnaaucoin · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

This book came to me as an early review, and I am happy it did. The characters were all unlikeable, making you understand many of their vices that were apparent from the beginning. At first I didn't understand what was going on and it bothered me a bit...however, I kind of had to go with it...glad I did. A lot of times in a book, I find myself wanting a deeper character and I kind of in my head start making a deeper character only to find out that is who they are in the end. This book had that, I figured the majority out but the tale was a good read. I loved the way the author wrote the story and I LOVE an English read! I gave this book a 4 star, I liked it a lot, it isn't a suspense filled read but a book I found myself sticking with everyday, dragging it along in my handbag for a boring soccer practice or a long wait, I don't know how else to describe this book....it was my comfort item for awhile....and I love having that book I know I can escape to but when it's gone I know my characters are going to be okay. I loved the wrap up but the characters alone where just normal people with messed up stuff in their lives. I suppose that is just what I like. I am going to miss Kate and her self medication every night, but I won't grieve for these characters....which I love because it makes it so much easier to fall into another book.

[melaniehope · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

This was a suspense novel that had me on the edge of my seat. It is about two sisters, Kate and Sally that are both damaged and dependent on alcohol and drugs. Kate is a cutting edge war reporter that has seen too much and is suffering from PTSD. Sally is taking after her father by drinking herself into oblivion. When Kate believes something sinister is going on in the house next door to her, no one believes her and she begins to wonder if she really is losing it mentally. The book begins with Kate being interrogated at a police station, so right away you are turning pages to find out what could possibly have happened that was so bad for Kate to be arrested.The second part of the book shifts to Sally's perspective. Tense, well written and a real page turner. This is highly recommended. I received a complimentary copy as part of the Librarything Early Reviewers.

[srazz-1 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

Wow. This book was an emotional roller coaster from start to finish! I was not expecting it to be that poignant, but Nuala Ellwood is a very talented writer. I found myself wondering how I would fare in Kate's place and the answer, honestly, is not half as well as this amazing, strong woman. The twists and turns in this book kept me questioning almost the entire time, which is a plus as I feel a lot of psychological thrillers these days follow the same formula. I will admit to liking Kate much more than her sister Sally, but perhaps that is what the author intended and if so, then it worked on me.I will definitely be recommending this book to anyone looking for a book that has psychological suspense, and I look forward to reading more books by this author. Thanks to Library Thing for allowing me to read and review this book.

[leighpod · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

Less is more. That is the thought that recurs as one reads the new psychological suspense thriller from Nuala Ellwood, MY SISTER’S BONES. There is no doubt that Nuala Ellwood is a talented writer. She has been inspired by her award-winning journalist father’s and other’s experiences to research PTSD, which forms a central theme of her novel.The main character Kate returns from Syria because of the death of her mother to the small town and the home where she grew up. Kate’s childhood was riddled with fear and loathing due to her abusive alcoholic father though her relationship with her mother was always a warm and loving place of support and strength. For a time, so was her relationship with her younger sister Sally until that suddenly changed after the death of their baby brother David who drowned on a sunny day while Kate was swimming with him in the sea.This moment forms another theme around which the novel swirls, and another point around which Kate’s PTSD unravels.Kate’s character is strong and despite descriptions of her outbursts of violence, she remains likeable. You root for her. She is brave; she contains depth and goodness. But Kate has a secret, and soon it is revealed that there are others who hold a secret about her. What is it? We can guess. Most will. Will we be right?Kate’s brother and his death merge with the death of a young Syrian boy who haunts her. Could she have saved him? Indeed Syria and the death of the boy is the crux of Kate’s PTSD.When she returns home, she continually hears a boy crying, screaming. She sees him at night in her mother’s garden. She becomes obsessed that she must rescue him.Now it is not only Kate who wonders what is true. It is us as we are drawn into this journey. After an incident that lands Kate in a 40 hour interrogation to see if she is mentally fit, Kate returns to Syria, and the book shifts suddenly to Sally, the younger sister.The shift is abrupt as the narration remains in the first person. Startling.But what is more startling is the weakness of the character drawn.When Kate visits Sally whom she rarely sees, she describes her as a hopeless debilitated drunk, one whose smell is so bad it permeates the room and can barely be overcome. Not a civil word passes between these two. Sally reveals nothing but hatred for her mother and a sort of hero worship of their father. It is one thing to have siblings growing up in the same household and each hold different memories, but this household was so extreme, it is nearly impossible to fathom Sally’s point of view, and this discrepancy is never satisfactorily explained. Sally is an unbearable drunkard. Why does her husband put up with her? Their relationship lacks all credibility.Sally as a young teen bears a child. She can barely cope; she leaves the child in a beer garden as she stumbles off to the bar. Eventually, a young teenager, Hannah disappears—leaving with a group of friends never to return.As the last quarter or so of the book churns, we find out what’s happened to Hannah, the mystery of the phantom boy is revealed, and the reason husband Paul put up with Sally all those years drops like a bomb.And thus, the bottom falls out.Less is more, and more is incredulity.Which is such a shame because Kate and her story is enough. Dive deep and take us on that journey. Why was she so angry, even as a child? Because of the abuse trauma she experienced towards herself and her mother? Sally says in her turn as narrator that she was always afraid of Kate. Why did she have no sympathy or empathy what-so-ever? Indeed, Sally emotionally embraced and protected the abuser. This is a pattern of abusive households, but it is merely glanced by here. Why did Sally speak so lovingly in her mind of Kate when Kate was gone? Sally as narrator did not present at all as a debilitated drunk. If she could be so eloquent and speak so wisely, why could she not tear down the barrier that loomed so huge and so devastatingly between these sisters? Finally, the title. I must say, the title had me building an entire scenario that was proven totally false. Was that the purpose? I know it is often the publisher who chooses the title. In this case, I found it lacking and without meaning or symbolism to this story.The book is a page turner and it is full of suspense. It is beautifully written and it will haunt you. I will definitely look forward to more from Ms. Ellwood.

[jeanie1_1 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

This is a good psychological thriller. The story revolves around a dysfunctional family and perceptions of reality. There is good character development and a pretty believable storyline. I thought the "reveal" was a bit out of left field but, other than that, it was a good read

[jennyonfire · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

This book gives a great description of PTSD and how it can affect people. In this book we follow Kate, unsure if she is a victim of PTSD as she is a war reporter or if she is actually seeing what she seems to be. Because of the fact that we don't know whether it's PTSD or real Kate is an unreliable narrator. My Sister's Bones displays the family dynamics of a dysfunctional family surrounded by violence and alcohol. I would definitely categorize this book as a psychological thriller and you won't know what's actually going on until the end.

[nicx27 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

After a short prologue we are thrown straight into the action in My Sister's Bones. Journalist, Kate Rafter, has returned from Syria and is struggling to cope after what she saw whilst reporting on the events there. She has been detained at the police station due to some disturbing behaviour, her sister, Sally, is a long-term alcoholic and their mother has died, so Kate has returned to Herne Bay, the place where she suffered at the hands of her violent father.Kate is definitely what I would call an unreliable narrator. I never knew, for a large part of this book, whether I could trust what she was telling me or not. The blurb is quite sparse and I was never entirely sure where the story was going. All of a sudden, around the half way point, there was an unexpected turn of events and the story went in a different direction. As the end approached I had an idea about what was going to happen but even that went much further that I could have imagined.This is a really great psychological thriller, and one which I thought was a bit different to some of the others out there. The pace never slowed and there are plenty of twists and turns which kept me interested all the way through. I was so engrossed at one point that I nearly missed my stop on the tram. This is an extremely accomplished debut novel. I'm looking forward to seeing what Nuala Ellwood does next as I think she's a skilled writer and obviously very good at plotting a compelling novel.