Broken: Part 3 of 3: A traumatised girl. Her troubled brother. Their shocking secret.. Rosie Lewis
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Certain details in this story, including names, places and dates, have been changed to protect the family’s privacy.
HarperElement
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First published by HarperElement 2017
FIRST EDITION
© Rosie Lewis 2017
Cover layout design © HarperCollinsPublishers
Cover photograph (posed by model) © Images by Tracy/Alamy Stock Photo
A catalogue record of this book is available from the British Library
Rosie Lewis asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work
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Source ISBN: 9780008242800
Ebook Edition © December 2017 ISBN: 9780008242855
Version: 2017-11-14
Contents
Helpless (e-short)
Trapped
A Small Boy’s Cry (e-short)
Two More Sleeps (e-short)
Betrayed
Unexpected (e-short)
Torn
Taken
Archie looked a fright the next morning; his eyes puffy, cheeks flushed. In manic tidying mode from the minute he came downstairs, he began piling up the breakfast bowls and sweeping the spoons away before any of us had even eaten. ‘Archie, love,’ I said, laughing, ‘give us a chance. I’ve only just put those there.’
He grinned and set them out again, but there was a distant quality to his smile. Physically, he was with us, but it seemed that his mind was somewhere else. Hearing about the children’s disappointment, Emily and Jamie had agreed to come with us to the splash park the previous day. Archie had been cheered by the news and seemed to enjoy charging down the slides after Jamie, but even that failed to erase the dull sadness in his eyes. I got the sense that he was struggling to contain himself as he walked around the table. He straightened the placemats and centralised the bowls with the studied caution of someone who was about ready to explode.
It was Sunday 15 February and though the children had only been living with us for just over six weeks, I felt I already had Bobbi sussed. Her favourite game was animal hospital, although as a rule of thumb, any game that incorporated bandages and plasters tickled her interest, as well as those Megan closely guarded as her own. She loved painting and colouring but refused to have anything to do with mouldable dough, which she described as ‘disgusting’. I was also getting to know some of her triggers. I could tell when she was tired – her manic spins fading to drunken, endearing lollops – and when she was upping the ante for no other reason than because she needed a hug.
Archie, though, was still a mystery. I knew the image he liked to project well enough, and conversing with him was easy, but part of him was still more or less closed off. ‘Who’s going to be there today, Rosie?’ he asked as he rearranged the cutlery so that it was perpendicular to the mats.
It wasn’t the first time he’d asked and I could hear the reluctance in his voice. My friend Naomi had called the previous night and tearfully invited us to meet her at a stately home owned by the National Trust. I had first met Naomi on an Understanding Attachment course a year earlier, soon after she had adopted a sibling group of three.