Here We Lie by Sophie McKenzie Read Free Book Online

all that responsibility on an eighteen-year-old. I blame the friends of our parents who, seeing as we had no aunts and uncles, could have stepped in
and offered themselves. But maybe looking after us was what Rose needed at the time. It was certainly what Martin and I wanted. Rose became a mother to me while Martin became – if not quite a
father – then certainly my staunchest ally. Despite my being so young when I was orphaned, I feel now that I was sheltered from the worst of the trauma, that Rose suffered most, that in
looking after me and, to a lesser extent, Martin, she was inevitably cut off from her own friends and opportunities. The two-year deferment of university turned into three, then five. In the end,
she never went. Her entire twenties were devoted to my life and my chances. Perhaps the most remarkable thing is that I have never once heard her complain about any of it. She missed out on jobs
and, despite being stunningly attractive, long-term boyfriends. No young man, it turned out, wanted to date a woman with a truculent teen in the house. Once I’d left home to go to teacher
training college Rose carried on as before. I assumed that she would go to uni at last, but she didn’t, saying to this day that she is happy in her job as manager of a local cookware shop. I
also assumed she would find a man. After all, she wasn’t yet thirty when I moved away. But Rose has never had anyone really significant in her life. I’ve met the few boyfriends she has
gone out with and have no idea why none of them ever stuck. Rose has only ever given me edited versions of her relationships, no real details, nothing like the way I imagine sisters normally share
information.
    Right now we are leaning against each other. Rose sits in silence, twisting the hem of her top around her fingers. Jed is still in with the police. I’m just thinking that I should get up
and go and check on Lish, when I’m called into the kitchen.
    Inspecteur Chabrol is sitting at the table, his arms folded. A younger man in a black T-shirt sitting beside him smiles at me and says, in perfect English:
    ‘Thank you for joining us, Emily, hopefully this won’t take too long. I’m Charles Meunière, the translator.’
    ‘Hello.’ I sit down opposite Chabrol. His small, dark eyes study me intently.
    Outside the kitchen door Jed and Gary are talking on the patio. Jed turns and sees me sitting here. He takes a step towards the house but Gary puts a hand on his arm and he stops.
    Chabrol speaks, a stream of rapid, intense French. Charles Meunière translates and in seconds I am forced to focus on the events of last night. It is clear that the inspector already
knows Dee Dee wasn’t on any medication or suffering from any illnesses. He asks me if I think it is possible she was taking recreational drugs of any kind.
    ‘No,’ I say emphatically. ‘She was young for her age and anyway,
no
, there’s no way Dee Dee would have taken
any
drugs . . .’ I stop, suddenly
remembering the headache powders. My stomach lurches into my throat.
    ‘
Qu’est-ce que c’est
?’ Chabrol asks. He turns to Meunière, who places his hands on the table between us.
    ‘What is it, Emily?’
    I gulp. ‘Some painkillers, she took them just before she went to bed, at least I assume she did.’ I pause, trying to remember the exact sequence of events. ‘She said she had a
headache, so I gave the sachet to her, then I left. But . . . but I took the same thing earlier on in the evening and I was fine.’ I stop, my mind leaping and whirling at the thought that the
ExAche powders could have had anything to do with Dee Dee’s death.
    Meunière translates and Chabrol leans forward. He asks me exactly when I left the sachet with Dee Dee. I tell him, then he asks me to explain everything I did that evening. I go over it
again, describing how we ate our meal on the boat and how Dee Dee picked at her fish, then later said that she’d lost her phone. It’s like