Josie Metcalfe
SHE was going to die!
Sara’s eyes widened in disbelief as the car headed straight at her in the narrow side street. The headlights almost seemed to pin her in position and she knew in an instant that she would never be able to get out of its path in time.
Instinctively, she took a step back, her foot slipping as it tried to gain purchase on the uneven surface. Her hands flew protectively to her belly to cradle the new life nestling deep inside, a tiny corner of her brain acknowledging the fact that it was far too small to survive even if it were to be delivered by emergency Caesarean.
She heard the car’s engine roar suddenly, almost as though its driver had floored the accelerator in direct response to the defensive gesture.
Then, in that final second before the powerful vehicle made contact, it was as if time ceased to exist. She could see everything around her with the pin-sharp clarity of a high-definition photograph—the gleam of the recent rain on the ancient cobbled street; the skinny cat that had been hunting in the gutter for scraps, quickly darting into the safety of the shadows; the harsh glitter of artificial light on expensive automotive paintwork and chrome, and the reflection of her own face in the windscreen where the driver’s face should be … her reflection contorted in an expression of rage and … Even as she opened her mouth in a scream of denial the sound was cut off instantly as she was flung aside to land on the unforgiving granite.
She felt a sickening thud as her head struck the kerb with a glancing blow, then the world turned black and disappeared.
‘I got the job I was after,’ Sara volunteered diffidently into the lull when her vivacious sister finally stopped talking long enough to draw breath.
It was always this way when her shifts allowed her to join the family for a meal. Her mother listened avidly to every scrap of Zara’s gossip—about the exotic places she’d been, the fabulous clothes she’d modelled, and the A-list celebrities she’d rubbed shoulders with—obviously believing every word.
Sara had her doubts.
She’d known for many years that every one of her sister’s stories was carefully tailored to her audience, regardless of the truth. Even as she listened to yet another tale of her sister’s glamorous life her fingertips were taking a well-worn path, absently tracing the line of scarring at her temple that had become the only way she and her twin could be distinguished from each other as children.
The rest of the world had believed Zara’s tearful tale of a childish prank gone wrong. Sara knew better; she had always known that her twin resented the fact that they’d been born identical and that Zara was the younger. The very idea that the injury might have been deliberate was unthinkable and had sickened her, but it had only taken one glimpse