{"product_id":"the-good-sister-isbn-9780525539391","title":"The Good Sister","description":"\u003cb\u003e“I loved every page, every character, every twist and turn.”—Lisa Jewell, \u003ci\u003eNew York Times \u003c\/i\u003ebestselling author of \u003ci\u003eDon’t Let Him In\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eFrom the author of the Reese Witherspoon Book Club Pick\u003ci\u003e Wrong Place, Wrong Time\u003c\/i\u003e and \u003ci\u003eFamous Last Words \u003c\/i\u003ecomes an electrifying thriller about two sisters whose unyielding bond is tested like never before when one is accused of the worst imaginable crime…\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMartha and Becky Blackwater are more than sisters--they're each other's lifelines. When Martha finds herself struggling to balance early motherhood and her growing business, Becky steps in to babysit her niece, Layla, without a second thought, bringing the two women closer than ever. But then the unthinkable happens, and Becky is charged with murder. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eNine months later, Becky is on trial and maintains her innocence--and so does Martha. Unable to shake the feeling that her sister couldn't possibly be guilty, Martha sets out to uncover exactly what happened that night, and how things could have gone so wrong. As the trial progresses, fault lines between the sisters begin to show--revealing cracks deep in their relationship and threatening the family each has worked so hard to build. With incredible empathy and resounding emotional heft, \u003ci\u003eThe Good Sister \u003c\/i\u003eis a powerhouse of a novel that will lead readers to question everything they know about motherhood, family, and the price of forgiveness.\u003cb\u003ePraise for \u003ci\u003eThe Good Sister\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003eA \u003ci\u003eBustle\u003c\/i\u003e “Perfect Vacation Read”\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“[A] riveting psychological thriller...Authentic courtroom scenes, intricate family dynamics, the conflicts of motherhood, and a shocking ending all add up to a winner.”\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003ePublishers Weekly\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“With fast-paced prose and several unexpected twists, [Gillian McAllister] skillfully weaves a web in which any of the characters might be the guilty party....A suspenseful courtroom drama full of poignant flashbacks and unique insights.”\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eKirkus Reviews\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“This deeply felt, emotional story will appeal to readers of Jodi Picoult, who frequently mixes legal intrigue and strong character development.”\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eBooklist\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“With \u003ci\u003eThe Good Sister\u003c\/i\u003e, Gillian McAllister explores the exclusionary power of intimacy. She captures that feeling of being in the circle of trust, outside of it. You come away with whiplash from empathizing with each character, even the judge. This is a deeply gratifying, taut courtroom drama and so much more. I don't know how Gillian did it, but I'm so happy she did.”\u003cb\u003e—Caroline Kepnes, author of \u003ci\u003eYou \u003c\/i\u003eand \u003ci\u003eProvidence\u003c\/i\u003e \u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“I’ve just raced through the impressive \u003ci\u003eThe Good Sister\u003c\/i\u003e. Loved this gripping and thought-provoking read!”\u003cb\u003e\u003cb\u003e—B.A. Paris, author of \u003c\/b\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003eBehind Closed Doors\u003c\/i\u003e \u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e \u003cbr\u003e“I read it in a breathless day and a half. Such a perfect balance of courtroom drama and family drama, so smooth and assured, it just flowed, seamlessly. I loved every page, every character, every twist and turn.”\u003cb\u003e—Lisa Jewell, author of \u003ci\u003eThen She Was Gone\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“I was totally swept up—and challenged—by this dark courtroom drama and am still wrestling with the brilliantly written dilemma at its heart.”\u003cb\u003e—Fiona Barton, author of \u003ci\u003eThe Child\u003c\/i\u003e and \u003ci\u003eThe Widow\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003ci\u003e“The Good Sister \u003c\/i\u003eis an ingeniously constructed courtroom drama with real flesh-and-blood characters and cliff-hanging suspense.”\u003cb\u003e—Louise Candlish, author of \u003ci\u003eOur House\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e“An emotionally charged story about two sisters torn apart by the death of a child, it explores the joys and challenges that come with motherhood with a twist I didn't see coming.”\u003cb\u003e—Hollie Overton, author of \u003ci\u003eBaby Doll\u003c\/i\u003e and \u003ci\u003eThe Walls\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “Heart-rending and brilliant. Such incredible storytelling.”\u003cb\u003e—Jill Mansell, author of \u003ci\u003eThis Could Change Everything \u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “I couldn’t put \u003ci\u003eThe Good Sister\u003c\/i\u003e down. An original, beautifully written and moving story about sisters that had me racing through the pages. That ending will stay with me for a long time. Perfect.”\u003cb\u003e—Claire Douglas, author of \u003ci\u003eLast Seen Alive\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “One of the most gripping and moving books I’ve ever read. Gillian McAllister tackles an unbearable situation with scalpel precision and incredible humanity. I read \u003ci\u003eThe Good Sister\u003c\/i\u003e at every opportunity and haven’t stopped thinking about it since. Unmissable.”\u003cb\u003e—Holly Seddon, author of \u003ci\u003eTry Not to Breathe\u003c\/i\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e“One of the best courtroom dramas I've ever read—keeps you guessing right up to the very end.”\u003cb\u003e—Cara Hunter, author of \u003ci\u003eIn the Dark \u003c\/i\u003eand \u003ci\u003eClose to Home\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e“Gripping and compelling but also nuanced and insightful and sad.”\u003cb\u003e\u003cb\u003e—Tamar Cohen, author of \u003ci\u003eThe Mistress's Revenge\u003c\/i\u003e, \u003ci\u003eThe War of the Wives\u003c\/i\u003e, and \u003ci\u003eThe Fallout \u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cb\u003eGillian McAllister\u003c\/b\u003e has been writing for as long as she can remember. She graduated with an English degree before working as a lawyer. She lives in Birmingham, England, where she now writes full-time. She is the author of the \u003ci\u003eNew York Times \u003c\/i\u003ebestseller \u003ci\u003eWrong Place Wrong Time \u003c\/i\u003eand the \u003ci\u003eSunday Times \u003c\/i\u003ebestsellers \u003ci\u003eEverything But the Truth, Anything You Do Say \u003c\/i\u003e(titled \u003ci\u003eThe Choice \u003c\/i\u003ein the US)\u003ci\u003e, No Further Questions \u003c\/i\u003e(titled \u003ci\u003eThe Good Sister \u003c\/i\u003ein the US\u003ci\u003e), The Evidence Against You, How to Disappear, \u003c\/i\u003eand\u003ci\u003e That Night.\u003c\/i\u003e She is also the creator and co-host of the popular \u003ci\u003eHonest Authors \u003c\/i\u003epodcast.\u003cp\u003e1\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eMartha\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eSomebody is lying in this courtroom. I don't know who, yet, but somebody is: the defense or the prosecution. They cannot both be telling the truth.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eThe legal jargon seems to swirl around me as I listen to expert after expert being examined, cross-examined, and then reexamined by the barristers. Most of the time, I'm following it. Most of the time, I understand what's happening.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eBut sometimes, like right now, I can't see how we ended up here.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eLast August, I gave birth to Layla in the middle of the night. It was dark outside and we were sequestered in a side room at the hospital, Scott sitting on the end of the bed. I don't remember when they finally handed her to me, but I remember her afterward: a warm weight in my arms, her hand curling surprisingly around my own.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eI'd texted my sister, Becky, and only Becky, between contractions, though I hardly remember what I said. When she came to visit, she brought the late summer nighttime chill in with her; I could feel her cold cheek against mine as she hugged me. \"You did it! Oh, you did it!\" she said, celebrating me, and not the baby. It was exactly what I needed at that moment.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eMy sister.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eThe woman who used to WhatsApp me first thing, every single day, without fail. The woman whose eyebrows I plucked on the eve of her wedding, both of us laughing as they became more and more uneven. The woman who painted my living room with me one Easter weekend. We didn't stop chatting for the entire four days.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eMy sister. My best friend, Becky.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eAnd now: Here we are.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eCot death, the defense says-unexplained.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eMurder, the prosecution says.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eI look across at my sister in the dock.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eThe woman accused of murdering my child.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e2\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eBecky\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eEleven months earlier\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eThursday, September 28\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eI can't resist them. My hands shake as I open my handbag and find the packet of cigarettes, their shiny, inviting inner foil unbroken and beautiful.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eMy breathing has already slowed as I bring the cigarette to my mouth for the first drag in weeks. I blow the clouds of smoke out into the night air and look at the sky above Dalston. I close my eyes in relief as the smoke hits my lungs. Sweet. Jesus. Poisonous joy.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eThere are no stars, but the moon is slung low and sepia-toned. I stare at it for a few minutes as I smoke and try not to cry. I'm not very good at not crying-classic drama queen-so my cheeks are wet with tears within seconds.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eThe television people I dress sets for would like a Dalmatian-print chesterfield armchair, and they want it by 9:00 a.m. This is the fourth time this has happened this week: a last-minute request, to be sorted out by me, and only me.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eThis wasn't how it was supposed to end up. I was going to be an interior designer. My obsession started with Changing Rooms-God bless those leopard-print walls-but it endured beyond that. I dropped out of design school when I had Xander, my nine-year-old, and spent my twenties languishing on Pinterest, staring at copper lamps and furry throws. I thought set dressing would give me an in, but instead it's just a dead end, like everything. One day, I tell myself.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eMy manager, Sandra, pokes her head out of the side door of the studio I am standing next to. \"On it?\" she says. She is tall and slim and believes-very seriously, and very vociferously-in angels.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\"Well, yes,\" I say. \"But there aren't any. I've tried Craigslist, eBay, and Etsy.\"\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\"No chairs at all?\"\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\"No.\"\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eShe sighs, her thin hand tightening on the metal door-handle. As I take my last puff and exhale, the smoke blurs her. \"How's it going to look if we don't have that chair, Bex?\"\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eBex. I hate Bex. \"Bad,\" I say petulantly.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\"Have you exhausted every avenue?\"\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\"I thought so.\"\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\"Have another think,\" she says, then goes back inside. The door sticks, and she doesn't pull it to like you're supposed to. I inch it shut with the toe of my shoe. I look back up at the old paper moon, and find my sister Martha's number in my phone: She will know what to do.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\"Get a chair and some print, then,\" she says immediately. She has always been this way: clear-sighted and firm. \"It'll be easy,\" she adds nicely. This must be the tenth work problem in a row that I have called her about this week. Inflatable furniture, paddling pools, pug-printed duvet sets. Anything. Everything. She always helps, willingly and immediately.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\"What-and cover it?\" I say.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\"Yes.\" I can hear Layla crying in the background. Martha has her plate full, too, failing to take any maternity leave at all from her job-a charity that she set up herself-but here she is, answering my calls over a Dalmatian-print chair.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\"Never mind,\" I say. \"God. Don't worry about this stuff.\"\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\"It's fine, Beck,\" she says. \"Honestly.\"\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\"A chair and print,\" I repeat. \"I'll report back.\"\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eWe hang up, and I take to Google again. I ring four haberdasheries to see if they can help me, but they don't answer; they're closed.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eLuckily, there is extortionate Dalmatian-print fabric on eBay, sold for mad people. I send one of the sellers a desperate message, and she responds almost immediately, the app ringing in my hand as I light up my second cigarette. I can get it from Islington before eleven tonight. Great, I think sullenly.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eI get the Tube straight there, using the excellent new Tube WiFi to search for a chair on the way. There is an armchair in Balham on Gumtree. The seller's username is ILoveHarryStyles and I think: Well, don't we all? I arrange to get it at 11:30 p.m.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eThe fabric is easy. The woman-short, plump, with a Bristolian accent-hands it to me wordlessly outside the front door of her ground-floor flat. I thank her profusely, and pay her on the eBay app while she watches over my shoulder. She doesn't move as I put my Verified by Visa account details in-no doubt I will get robbed soon-and then I send a photograph of it to Martha, captioned: One down! She sends a string of applauding hands back, and my mood lifts.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eThe chair lives ten minutes from Balham Tube station, at 193a Ravenslea Road. I gather the roll of fabric as the Tube pulls in. On the way up the escalator, a man complains at me for blocking the way-calls me a \"silly bint\"-and I stand the roll of fabric on the stair in front of me and move out of his way. \"Don't bother to thank me,\" I say to his back as he strides upward. He turns to look at me.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\"I'm sorry,\" he says in a broad Essex accent. \"I was in a hurry.\"\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eI walk past him in the foyer as he calls for a taxi. He comes out after me, and I let the door slam on his arm on my way out. He shouts something, but I march onward. Jerk.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eA woman wearing an actual negligee answers the door in Balham. I blink as I take in the black fabric, the thin straps across her shoulders, then follow her in anyway. The chair is faded and green, standing in the corner of the room underneath a reading lamp. Behind it are leather-bound classics. It looks like the set of a Victorian murder novel. Well, at least I will die doing what I love. Oh, wait.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eI pay her fifty pounds for the chair, the rolled notes dry and papery in my fingers as I part with them. Her brown eyes linger over the fabric I'm holding, but I don't explain. She doesn't help me with the chair, and it thuds clumsily against my leg, squeaking along the wood, as I half lift, half drag it across her hallway and down the steps. She stands just inside her living room, arms wrapped around her body, silently watching me, then closes the door.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eI'm already out of breath, having moved both items only a few feet, and I stop and survey the dark street. Two men are walking on the other side of the road toward me, and I stare at them as they move past. I could ask for help. But this is London.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eI have a small rest instead, thinking about interior design school, and where I might be by now if I'd finished. I think about bloody perfect Martha, juggling being CEO of a charity, having a newborn, and dealing with her errant sister's search for Dalmatian-print fabric.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eAt least I have a seat. I perch on it for a few moments, watching the world go by: a madwoman in a green chair on the street in Balham.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eI hail a black cab and the chair sits next to me inside it like an obedient, silent animal. I donÕt look at it as I try to recall where I last stored my fabric stapler at the house.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eAs the taxi departs London at just after midnight, I text Martha and ask if she is up.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eOf course I am-providing a round-the-clock service to a constantly crying baby, she replies immediately.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eI call her and say, \"I can't do this anymore,\" as soon as she picks up. My voice sounds thick and self-pitying. I stare at the taxi driver. He's also working late. Think about it: He's got to drive you to Brighton, then drive back to London, Martha would admonish me. There is always somebody worse off, so she says. She is nice like this. I am not. I have always wanted to be more like her, though not enough to actually try, of course.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\"You can,\" Martha says. \"Staple-gun the fabric. It'll only take twenty minutes. Then bed.\"\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\"And up at six. For another insane request,\" I say.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\"Is Xander with Marc? After school?\"\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\"Yes. It won't be long. This job is only a week,\" I say.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eMartha makes her sympathy noise. A low mmhmmm. \"It's rubbish, Beck,\" she says. \"It's so rubbish.\" She means it. She must mean it. But I think of her life, caring for always-crying Layla, and juggling work, too, and wonder how she can mean it.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\"How's your To Do list looking, anyway?\" I say.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\"Oh-it's just impossible. The phone's ringing off the hook.\"\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eMartha set up a charity the previous year, and hasn't quite relinquished control. She never does.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\"Layla's crying all the time while I'm trying to bloody hire people.\"\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\"Oh, oh no,\" I say.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\"I interviewed two childminders but they were rubbish. One didn't know what baby-led weaning was.\"\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\"You should just get a nanny,\" I say. \"You need staff, not help.\"\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\"I don't even have time to hire anybody. That's how bad it is.\"\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\"I see.\"\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eWe don't say anything for a few seconds.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eUntil I say, \"I want to quit.\"\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eTo her credit, she doesn't sigh.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\"I don't even like dressing sets,\" I add.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\"Quit, if you want to,\" she says. \"Life's too short to staple dead Dalmatians to chairs forever.\"\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eWe laugh at that, for a long time, on the way home. The next day, she makes a proposition, and I hand my notice in on the spot.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003emonday\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eProsecution\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e3\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eMartha\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eMy hair has been falling out since it happened. Long, wet strands in the shower. I don't mind, really. There is more to life than hair.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eI stare out into the public gallery. Mum; Dad; my husband, Scott; my brother, Ethan.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eEthan, a lawyer, looks relaxed among the wigs and the robes. I remember when he used to shake with laughter at juvenile jokes around the dining-room table. Becky used to say he changed, that he let life and its mundane struggles overcome him.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\"You're like a grumpy old man,\" she once hissed at him. It was at the meet and greet at my and Scott's wedding, and Becky hung back, downing her prosecco. I didn't say anything to either of them, fussing instead with my gown. She was tipsy. Ethan was reserved, preferring one on ones instead. It was a microcosm of our family dynamic, my wedding. I don't remember it fondly. Becky had accused me of being a bridezilla the night before. \"She's just organized,\" Mum had said kindly.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eSince Becky was charged, Ethan has been stoic: uncompromisingly uninvolved, refusing to speculate, to answer questions on procedure. \"Not my area of law,\" he has said, interrupting us mid-question.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eScott catches my eye and nods, just once, his eyebrows raised ever so slightly, an encouraging expression on his face. \"You can do it,\" he said to me last night, the night before the first day of the trial. \"You can, you can. We can.\"\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eBecky is led into the courtroom.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eI swallow. I haven't seen her for months and months. She has become thin. Her ribs are a birdcage, her hands oversize compared to her arms. I want to reach out and hold those bony shoulders of hers. She was always tall, and broad, which she hated but I loved; I thought she seemed somehow full of life. But today she is diminished.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eShe has the same walk. I shouldn't be pleased to see it, but I am. You expect people will change utterly since the night of, but they don't. It has been nine and a half months since it happened, and nine months since we last saw each other. We were prohibited from speaking from the moment she was charged. We became opposing witnesses. Me for the prosecution and she for the defense. Two sisters, carved in two by the justice system.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eBut here it is, months on: her beautiful walk, in the flesh, as if no time has passed at all. You can't change a walk like that. She has always bounded, like an overly friendly Labrador, and she is no different today, standing at the door to the dock, somehow, in an extroverted manner. Loud, without being so.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eBecky always worked hard at being cool. It was important to her. The right sort of bands and nail varnish and movies-\"No, Marth, the rips must be across the knees,\" she said last year when I tried on a pair of incorrectly torn jeans-and always the thick layer of liquid eyeliner, the pink blusher. But her walk gave her away; her eager walk that I once loved so much. Still do, I suppose.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eI am sworn in and take the secular oath. My voice is clear and loud in the courtroom, which surprises me. I was a geography teacher for years, though. I was used to performing through winter colds and extreme end-of-term fatigue. I pretend the public gallery is a classroom of bright-eyed children, for a moment, and it helps.\u003c\/p\u003e","brand":"G.P. Putnam's Sons","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":46304506052837,"sku":"NP9780525539391","price":19.0,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9780525539391.jpg?v=1767739596","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/products\/the-good-sister-isbn-9780525539391","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}