All My Secrets

  Also by Sophie McKenzie

  Teen Novels

  Girl, Missing

  Sister, Missing

  Missing Me

  Blood Ties

  Blood Ransom

  Split Second

  Every Second Counts

  THE MEDUSA PROJECT

  The Set-Up

  The Hostage

  The Rescue

  Hunted

  Double-Cross

  Hit Squad

  LUKE AND EVE SERIES

  Six Steps to a Girl

  Three’s a Crowd

  The One and Only

  FLYNN SERIES

  Falling Fast

  Burning Bright

  Casting Shadows

  Defy the Stars

  Crime Fiction

  Close My Eyes

  Trust in Me

  First published in Great Britain in 2015 by Simon and Schuster UK Ltd

  A CBS COMPANY

  Copyright © 2015 Rosefire Ltd

  This book is copyright under the Berne Convention.

  No reproduction without permission.

  All rights reserved.

  The right of Sophie McKenzie to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.

  Simon & Schuster UK Ltd

  1st Floor, 222 Gray’s Inn Road

  London WC1X 8HB

  Simon & Schuster Australia, Sydney

  Simon & Schuster India, New Delhi

  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  PB ISBN: 978-1-47112-221-7

  eBook ISBN: 978-1-47112-222-4

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual people living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Typeset by Hewer Text UK Ltd, Edinburgh

  Printed and bound by CPI Group (UK) Ltd, Croydon, CR0 4YY

  www.simonandschuster.co.uk

  www.simonandschuster.com.au

  For Louisa Goodman

  Contents

  Irina Galloway

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Lightsea

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-one

  Twenty-two

  Twenty-three

  Twenty-four

  Twenty-five

  Twenty-six

  Twenty-seven

  Twenty-eight

  Twenty-nine

  Thirty

  Broken Dawn

  Thirty-one

  Thirty-two

  Thirty-three

  Thirty-four

  Thirty-five

  Thirty-six

  Thirty-seven

  Thirty-eight

  Thirty-nine

  Irina Galloway

  One

  If I hadn’t answered the doorbell that afternoon, would I ever have known the truth? Or would Dad have found a way to carry on hiding it from me? After all, if Mr Treeves had turned up just a few days earlier, I’d still have been at school enduring a long, long week of GCSE exams. But that’s what my life turned on: a riddle wrapped in a coincidence, bound tightly by a lie.

  And covered up with a massive secret . . .

  So, the exams are all done and it’s the middle of the afternoon, but I’m still in PJ bottoms and one of Mum’s old sweatshirts, lolling on the sofa and thinking about making some hot chocolate. The window is open and a warm breeze is drifting through when the doorbell rings. Actually, it chimes, an annoying sound that Mum for some reason thinks is classy because it was featured on some stupid home makeover programme. She’s always redecorating the living room. And their bedroom. And the twins’ room. Dad puts up with it all in his solid, steady way. But he’ll get totally on my case if I don’t answer the door just because I feel lazy.

  Even so, I wait a sec to see if he’ll come. Some hope. He’s in his office, at the top of the house, and he knows full well that I’m down here. The chimes sound again.

  ‘Evie!’ Dad yells from upstairs.

  I sigh and haul myself up from the sofa. Dad and I are the only ones at home right now as Mum’s gone to pick up Jade and Jess from school. As I plod to the front door, I catch sight of myself in the hall mirror. I’ve been growing my hair for nearly a year and it’s now past my shoulders. It’s dark and shiny. Which is good. But the ends are really split, as Mum never tires of pointing out. ‘Like rats’ tails,’ she always says. Still, I prefer it long and uncut and it’s my hair.

  I don’t even think about being in my PJs until I’m actually opening the door. Then I feel a bit self-conscious because a man is standing outside in a suit. He’s short – no taller than I am – and dapper with slicked back hair and a tightly knotted blue tie.

  He stares at me for a second. ‘Evelina Brown?’ he asks. He has a soft Scottish accent.

  I nod, a self-conscious knot twisting in my stomach. The man is looking at me in this weird way, like he knows me. Which I’m certain he doesn’t.

  ‘I’m Mr Treeves, solicitor with Stirling, McIntyre and Cox. Er . . . may I come in and talk to you for a minute?’ he asks.

  Now he’s seriously freaking me out.

  ‘Talk to me?’ I ask.

  The man nods. ‘I have important news . . . I’ve been looking for you for a while . . . that is, my firm has.’ He clears his throat. ‘Of course, perhaps if you want a . . . an adult present?’

  Jeez, am I in some kind of trouble? I rack my brains, trying to think if there’s anything I could possibly have done that would mean a lawyer calling round. Nope.

  ‘Dad!’ I call. ‘Come here!’

  There’s an awkward moment while Mr Treeves and I wait on either side of the front door, then Dad pads downstairs, barefoot in his jeans, rubbing his forehead like he always does when he’s distracted.

  ‘Do you need me to sign for some—?’ He stops as he catches sight of Mr Treeves. He smiles. ‘You’re not delivering a parcel, are you? How can I help?’

  Mr Treeves visibly relaxes. Dad tends to make people feel comfortable like that. All my friends love him. What they don’t see is how strict he can be about going out and staying in touch and coming home at what he calls ‘a decent hour’.

  ‘I need to speak to your daughter, Mr . . . Mr Brown, is it?’

  ‘Yes, er, OK. What’s this about?’ Dad asks, looking bemused.

  Mr Treeves wrinkles his nose. ‘It’s a legal matter.’ He hesitates, clearly not wanting to say more until he’s properly inside.

  ‘Very well.’ Dad glances at me, eyebrows raised. I shrug. I have no more idea what’s going on than he does. ‘Let’s go into the living room.’

  A few seconds later, we’re all sitting down: Dad and me on the sofa, Mr Treeves perched anxiously on the edge of an armchair.

  ‘Please don’t be concerned; this is good news,’ Mr Treeves says, fishing some papers out of his briefcase. He looks up at me. ‘You’ve been left some money in a trust fund, Evelina.’

  ‘It’s Evie,’ I say automatically. ‘What’s a trust fund?’

  ‘A way of investing money.’ Mr Treeves hesitates. ‘In this case, a considerable amount. You inherit it when you’re sixteen at the end of August. As I say, we’ve been trying to track you down for a while now.’


  I can’t take it in. I’ve been left money? Who on earth from? I look at Dad He’s frowning.

  ‘I . . . we . . . didn’t know anything about this,’ he says.

  ‘I realise that.’ Mr Treeves gulps. ‘Well, that’s why I’ve come in person, to explain it . . . to you both.’

  ‘Explain what?’ I ask. ‘Who’s left me this . . . this trust fund? And what’s “a considerable amount”?’

  ‘Ten million pounds.’

  I gasp. Is he serious? I look at Dad again. His jaw is hanging open. He’s clearly as stunned as I am.

  ‘Ten million pounds?’ I echo.

  At that moment the front door opens and the hall fills with Jade and Jess’s shrieks.

  ‘She promised she would let me have a go, Mum!’ Jade is whining.

  ‘But it’s mine!’ Jess, as usual, sounds utterly outraged.

  ‘Girls, please.’ Mum sounds weary.

  A second later, my eight-year-old twin sisters, Jade and Jess, have barrelled their way into the living room. They’re brought up short as they spot Mr Treeves, then dart away, out of sight. Mum puts her head around the door as they push past her.

  ‘Oh, hello.’ She glances at Dad, clearly expecting him to perform an introduction. But Dad is still sitting stock-still, mouth gaping.

  ‘I’m sorry, I’ve brought some rather surprising news for Evelina,’ Mr Treeves says, standing up.

  ‘Evie?’ Mum turns to me, her eyes all curiosity.

  It’s the last moment that I trust her. Or Dad.

  I stand up beside Mr Treeves. ‘Somebody’s left me ten million pounds in a . . . a trust fund or something.’ I turn to Mr Treeves, ignoring the widening of Mum’s eyes. ‘Who is it?’

  Mr Treeves clears his throat.

  ‘You’ve been left the money by an Irina Galloway.’

  Across the room, Mum slaps her hand over her mouth. Dad lets out a low moan.

  I turn to Mr Treeves. ‘Who on earth is Irina Galloway?’

  ‘No!’ Dad jumps up. ‘Stop!’

  ‘Please.’ Mum’s normally rosy cheeks are as pale as paper. ‘Please don’t say any more.’

  Mr Treeves fidgets from foot to foot. He looks desperately uncomfortable.

  ‘What’s going on?’ I demand. ‘Who is Irina Galloway? How do you know her? Why has she left me all this money?’

  ‘She has to know.’ Mr Treeves is talking to Mum and Dad now. ‘If you don’t tell her, I’m afraid I must.’

  ‘No.’ Mum is clinging to the door. Tears well in her eyes.

  ‘Tell me what?’ Fear and dread rise inside me.

  Dad shakes his head. ‘We can’t,’ he mutters, ‘Not like this. We can’t.’

  I turn to Mr Treeves. ‘Tell me,’ I insist.

  Mr Treeves draws himself up. ‘I realise now, having talked to you. Evie, that this will come as a shock,’ he says, a little shake in his voice. ‘But Irina Galloway is . . . was . . . your mother.’

  Two

  There’s a terrible silence. Mr Treeves shuffles from side to side, but I’m frozen to the spot. I sense Mum looking at me from the doorway. Dad sinks back down onto the sofa, his head in his hands.

  ‘How?’ The word squeezes out of me. I turn to my parents. Dad is staring down at the ground, but Mum meets my gaze.

  Except, if Mr Treeves is right, she isn’t my mother at all.

  There is terror in her eyes.

  ‘I don’t understand,’ I stammer.

  Mr Treeves steps forward. He hands me a piece of paper.

  ‘This is your birth certificate,’ he says.

  I look down, my eyes skittering over the words. Under ‘father’ it gives Dad’s details, but there, under ‘mother’, is the name ‘Irina Galloway’.

  ‘This is just a piece of paper,’ I say. I look at my parents. ‘Mum? Dad?’

  Dad stands up slowly. He seems to have aged about twenty years since he first sat down. I’ve never seen him so close to tears.

  ‘It’s true, Evie,’ he says, his voice cracking. ‘Irina Galloway was your birth mother.’

  My jaw drops. I feel like I’ve been thrown out of a plane and I’m spinning, plummeting through the air.

  Everything known and fixed is gone.

  I sit down hard on the sofa. Mum rushes over and puts her arm around my shoulders. I shake it off, a thread of anger weaving through my shock.

  ‘I don’t understand,’ I say again.

  Mum and Dad stay silent. A beat passes. Then Mr Treeves holds out a folder.

  ‘This contains details of the trust fund,’ he says. ‘As I said, we’ve been trying to track you down for a while. The fund has been well invested for fifteen years and, well, I’ve told you about the money. It will be released to you on your sixteenth birthday at the end of August.’

  ‘Sixteen?’ Dad frowns.

  ‘Yes, that’s younger than in England, I know,’ Mr Treeves says. ‘That’s because the trust and the will were drawn up under Scottish law.’

  I stare at him. ‘My mother was Scottish?’

  He nods. ‘I think the best thing right now is for me to leave you with your, er, family. My card is in the folder. I don’t have any direct knowledge of Irina Galloway myself, but you can call for more information about the trust fund whenever you wish.’

  He hurries out, clearly desperate to get away from the tense atmosphere in the room. I can’t blame him. Suddenly it’s just me and Mum and Dad.

  Outside in the hall, Jade and Jess are squealing with excitement over something.

  Mum squeezes my arm. ‘Oh, Evie, I’m so sorry it’s come out like this.’

  I turn to her. ‘ Tell me . . . everything.’

  Mum glances at Dad. He nods. I’m vaguely aware that his hands are shaking. I feel numb.

  ‘The first thing to say is that Mum is your mother first, last . . . in every way.’

  I hold up the birth certificate. ‘Not first,’ I say.

  ‘OK.’ Dad rubs his forehead. ‘Irina and I had a relationship before I met Mum.’

  ‘You were born,’ Mum says, ‘but . . . but Irina . . . she wasn’t well . . .’

  Dad coughs. ‘Janet,’ he says, a warning note in his voice. Mum stops talking.

  ‘The point is that Irina died in a hit-and-run accident shortly before your first birthday,’ Dad goes on. ‘I was on my own with you for a bit, then Mum came along and . . .’

  ‘. . . and I loved you as if you were my own right from the start.’

  I nod, letting what Dad said sink in. ‘So my real mum died when I was a baby?’

  Beside me, Mum winces.

  ‘Mum is your real mum,’ Dad insists. ‘Irina only knew you for the first few months of—’

  Anger seers through me again. ‘Don’t tell me what’s real and not real,’ I snap. ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’

  Dad and Mum exchange helpless glances.

  ‘We thought it was for the best,’ Mum says shakily. ‘A few months passed and we moved here where we didn’t know anyone, and of course everyone assumed you were mine and . . .’

  ‘There was never a good time to tell you,’ Dad urges. ‘We didn’t want to upset you.’

  ‘Well, you’ve upset me now.’ I stand up. ‘You should have found the time. You’ve been lying to me all my life and—’

  But I can’t finish the sentence. A huge sob rises inside me like a claw clutching at my insides. Out in the hall, Jade and Jess’s excited squeals have turned into some kind of argument. Normally, Mum would be straight there, sorting them out, but now I’m not sure she even hears them. She’s weeping, hunched over on the sofa.

  ‘What about Jade and Jess?’ I ask, teeth clenched. ‘Are they even my sisters?’

  ‘Of course they are,’ Dad says.

  ‘Yes.’ Mum nods eagerly. ‘They’re mine and Dad’s.’

  It suddenly sinks in. ‘Yours and Dad’s,’ I echo. ‘But I’m not yours.’

  ‘Of course you are, Evie. This doesn’t change anything,’ Dad argues.

 
I glance down at the folder in my hand. What did Mr Treeves say? That I would inherit ten-million-pounds on my sixteenth birthday.

  ‘No Dad,’ I say. ‘This changes everything.’

  The next twenty-four hours are the worst of my life. Mum doesn’t stop crying and Dad is torn between comforting her and dealing with me. He refuses to answer any of my questions about Irina: from how he met her and what their relationship was like, to what she looked like and where the original money invested in the trust fund came from. He says that none of this matters, that Irina was never a proper mother to me, not like Mum has been, that she’s just a set of genes and, now, this legacy of millions of pounds.

  He’s not even happy for me about the money. He’s been on to a lawyer about setting up a new trust fund that he and Mum will control until I’m twenty-five.

  No way am I agreeing to that.

  As time passes, his refusal to talk about anything other than the fact that it’s crazy for me to have access to too much money too young makes the whole thing a zillion times worse. My early shock gives way to pure, coruscating rage that he and Mum clearly want to carry on as if the entire revelation hasn’t happened. Mum sobs the whole time the twins are at school, insisting how much she loves me and how little my having a different birth mother matters, while, at the same time, begging me not to tell my sisters.

  ‘So you want me to lie to them too?’ I can’t believe it. ‘If it doesn’t matter, why can’t I tell everyone?’

  But the truth is I don’t want to talk to people either. How can I tell anyone that my parents have been lying to me all my life? In the first heat of my fury, I go to call my best friends, Mina and Carrie. I want to tell them I’ve been deceived and betrayed – and that I’m about to be very rich. Vague ideas about how we could spend some of my inheritance flit through my head: we could go on a fancy holiday and buy millions of clothes, maybe even follow a band on tour around the world . . . But as soon as we’re talking I realise I’m too embarrassed to explain either the money or the lies. At least not until I’ve found out more.

  But neither Mum nor Dad are prepared to talk to me about Irina Galloway so I lock my bedroom door and search for information on the internet. I’m imagining it won’t be easy to find anything, but to my surprise there are loads of hits. I examine them more closely. The Irina I’ve discovered was a dancer from Edinburgh and the youngest person ever in the UK to become a prima ballerina.