Clouds of steam coated the windows of Charlotte's small en-suite bathroom as she stepped out of the hot shower. After spending hours traipsing through the wet and cold, the shower felt like a refreshing sauna. She reached forward and wrapped a warm fluffy towel around her slender body. It didn't take her long to dry herself and throw on some dry clothes. This time she decided to skip the makeup.

Running her fingers through the lengths of her dark tresses, Charlotte scraped her hair back into the top of her head and secured it in place with an elastic hair band. She had to prioritise, and at the moment, drying her hair wasn't the most important.

Charlotte stepped out of her bedroom and determined to find out the truth about Bethany, she hurried down the stairs as quickly as she could. No way could it wait any longer. As she moved from the bottom step, she expected to see Araminta sitting waiting for her, as she said she would. A pair of stiletto-heeled boots lay near the bottom of the stairs, their heels caked in nearly an inch of mud that went halfway up the material. But Araminta was nowhere to be seen.

Although the family had lived at Castle Stone for nearly a month now, it felt as if they had only been there for less than a week. With everything that had gone on since they moved, Charlotte still had problems finding her way around. She wished more than anything that she didn't keep getting lost inside her own home. She thought for a moment and struggled to think where Araminta could be.

Araminta wanted to show Charlotte the paperwork to prove Bethany wasn't a Greyson by blood. Information like that, passports, birth certificates, and school reports, were all kept in Dad's office, and the more she thought about it, Dad's office was the third door on the right from the entrance hall.

Her pace quickened, and she headed further down the corridor. The third door on the right was open slightly, a light flickered from inside, and a shape was visible. Charlotte placed her hand on the door handle and was just about to open it when a voice called her name.

"Charlotte?" Dad called, "Charlotte? Are you here?"

Charlotte stopped dead in her tracks, her heart started to pound inside her chest. Sweat coated the palms of her hand and glued her damp hair to her forehead. 

"Dad," she said, her voice slightly louder than her usual tone, "what are you doing?"

"I live here, Charlotte." Dad paused for a moment.

Charlotte could sense that he was listening for something. Maybe he knew that Araminta hid in his study. She wiped her sweaty hands down the front of her tight skinny jeans as he walked closer. Dad stood right outside the door.

"Excuse me."

Charlotte stayed in front of the door as if her trainers were glued to the old faded carpet. A deep feeling of dread welled in the pit of her stomach. No way was she prepared for the drama that would occur if Dad knew who hid behind the door.

"Charlotte please, I need to get something from my study. Now will you move?"

The hinges of the old oak door groaned loudly. Araminta stood in the doorway.

Like a highly changed bull, Dad huffed and rolled his eyes.

"What the..? I thought I'd told you to leave?"

Charlotte turned to see her. No longer was the elderly lady's hair so wild as it was earlier, her white ringlets hung loosely and fell just under her ears. Weighty golden earrings pulled at her lobes that stretched like over-chewed sweets. With a swift movement of her hand, Araminta flicked a stray curl away from her eyes.

"Oh my darling son," she gushed, "You do look awful. How's Sally? How was the burial?"

"For goodness sake, Mother!" Dad sighed, "My wife and I have just buried our teenage daughter. Whether or not I look awful isn't something I give a fuck about right now. Can you please just go? I really can not deal with you at a time like this."

"On one condition. Let me take you all out for dinner tonight, to say goodbye to Bethany properly."

"Really? What part of I've just buried my daughter, don't you understand?" Dad snarled through gritted teeth "After today you want to take us out for dinner? Is there no part of you that thinks this is highly inappropriate?"

A deep stubbornness gene lurked in the Greyson family, being passed down through the generations. Charlotte often found herself wondering where it came from and planned one day to find out. Part of her wondered if it came from Araminta's side, the Mackenzie Smythe's. Bethany didn't have a shred of stubbornness in her. It was just another fact that separated the poor dead girl from the rest of the Greyson family.

The minute hand on the ancient grandfather clock that stood proudly in the entrance hall, ticked loudly like it had for hundreds of years. Charlotte kept her eyes on the minute hand, as she timed how long it would take her father to agree to the meal, or not.

Araminta could afford to shower her family with copious amounts of pure luxury. The most expensive food at the most famous restaurants that were occasionally frequented by the rich and the famous. She once glorified in telling her grandchildren in one of her many letters, that she'd caught a glimpse of the King, eating a baked potato with cheese and beans whilst sitting at a nearby table. She described how a stray baked bean fell from his fork onto the jacket of his grey checked suit. He always wore a grey checked suit, but a King eating a baked potato was something Charlotte didn't quite believe.

Three minutes passed, and still, Dad hadn't given his answer. Charlotte's stomach rumbled. The idea of eating a meal at a luxury restaurant was something she knew she had to do. She looked up at her taller father, her eyes were as wide as that of a pleading puppy, desperate for a treat or two.

"Daaad!" She whimpered, "Please..."

Charlotte could see Dad's brain working overtime as he weighed up the pros and cons of letting her grandmother take the whole family out to dinner. For all any of them knew, Araminta could be gone the next day, back to the barge where she'd spent so much time away from the tight possum of the family.

Charlotte kept her fingers crossed behind her back.

"No." Dad bluntly replied, "No way is that a good idea. To be honest with you it's weird. And, we're hosting a wake in Bethany's honour. Just a few drinks, nothing too fancy."

A mix of feelings fluttered around Charlotte's stomach as she left her father and grandma arguing. She decided to head back up to her room, maybe see if Clem was up for a bit of a chat. The cousins hadn't spoken much since Bethany passed away, and Charlotte felt as if they were due a catch-up.

She took the stairs back up to her room as if she weighed the world on her young shoulders. Charlotte felt herself thinking back to the friends she'd left behind when she moved. Not one of them had dealt with the loss of a sibling, some hadn't even lost a grandparent. The feeling of envy slowly began to creep up on her, and she considered phoning one of them for a chat. Even with the television still not working and the internet slower than a drunken snail, the landline phone still worked.

As she came to the top of the stairs, her pace slowed as she passed Bethany's room. Charlotte came to a halt and pushed open the door. The smell of her sister's sweet perfume flooded through her nostrils as she entered. Everything stayed the same. It felt like she'd just gone to stay overnight with a friend or nipped to the shop in the village for a packet of smoky bacon crisps and a bar of chocolate. Photographs of Bethany sat on the mantelpiece, mainly of her sister with friends and family. Several posters of celebrities were stuck to the wallpaper with blue tack. Charlotte couldn't help but notice that a couple were stuck with sellotape.

For a moment she found herself about to tell her that Mum would go mad if it messed up the wallpaper in her room. But no. Bethany was gone. Mum wouldn't be angry. 

Bethany's bed hadn't been made since the day she died. Its pretty feminine covers were crumpled and the duvet slid closer to the floor. Charlotte sat down, and for the first time in ages allowed her mind to wonder. She struggled to understand why no one bothered to tell her that Bethany was adopted, that they weren't biological sisters. Charlotte wished more than anything that she was able to have that awkward conversation with her. The one when they could have a huge heart-to-heart chat and Charlotte could reassure her that biology meant nothing. That they were still the three Greyson girls and nothing or no one could break them apart.

She found herself staring at a drawer in Bethany's room. It was the one where she kept her most treasured possessions, like her diary and the funny little things she'd collected over the years. If there was proof of Bethany's adoption then the chances were that's where it was.

She stood for a moment and looked around the soulless space as she wondered where any proof could be. Her eyes locked on the drawer and she walked towards it. As she stood in front, she reached her hand forward. But something inside forced her to stop. It wasn't right. Why did she want to know? Was curiosity about her sister's background a good enough excuse to rummage through the dead girl's belongings? Charlotte thought it was, but was it? She wrapped her fingers around the knob of the first drawer and pulled it open.

With her family busy downstairs she quickly began to rummage around inside. It didn't take her long to realise that there wasn't anything interesting in there apart from a load of knickers and bras. Charlotte sighed and closed the drawer before turning her attention to another. She spent the next fifteen or maybe twenty minutes going through the drawers but to no avail.

Come on! Where is it?

She took a seat at Bethany's desk and thought back to before the move when they shared a bedroom.

While Charlotte's side of the cramped room was always covered in everything and anything, Bethany tried to keep her belongings tidy. Clothes covered the floor of their room and broken makeup trod into the carpet, but none of that belonged to Bethany. She kept all her things where she knew she could find them. Makeup in her makeup bag that lived on her shelf, handbags piled on top of the wardrobe instead of hanging from the headboard or laying on the floor waiting to trip someone up who dared to enter. Bethany even tidied under her bed, which Charlotte always thought was odd. There was a heavy green box that lived under there, its pretty pink flowers even glowed in the dark.

The box!

It had to be. Where else would a teenager keep a load of precious and important items that they didn't want their little sister rummaging through? Charlotte remembered that when she was very little she went through an art phase, which meant scribbling on everything and anything she could get her little hands on. She vaguely recalled colouring Bethany's spelling homework pink and covering it in sparkly glitter glue. 

The thick the carpet felt soft under her bones as Charlotte knelt. She reached behind and pulled the phone out of the back pocket. The light from her phone illuminated the bed with a soft glow as she shone it around the darkness. That's when she saw it, a dark green box, no bigger than an a4 size, shoved right under Bethany's double bed. The tips of her fingers brushed against it as she strained her body as struggled to reach it. But no matter how much she tried, there was no way she could get to the box.

She pulled herself off the floor and sat back on the bed. Where she tried to think of a way to get to the box. Instead of trying again that minute, Charlotte had other ideas and soon found herself with Bethany's diary in her hand.  

Charlotte felt as if a little devil, their horns red and clothes even redder, perched upon her shoulder. Their encouraging words dripped into her ear, as the Angel on her other shoulder told it to be quiet. Charlotte was a good sister, a trustworthy sister, and one that would never in a million years read her dead sister's diary. Or was she?

It felt like a magnetic pull, forcing her to do something she wouldn't normally do. The cover of the diary spoke as if it was calling her, wanting her to open it.

Open me... open me...

Her hand touched the denim cover, her fingers against its clasp. She only had to press two buttons at the side of the brass clasp and the diary would be open, and the secrets of Bethany Greyson there to be read.

Charlotte took a deep breath, and, with her eyes tightly closed, she pressed the buttons together until she heard a click. She opened her eyes and could see the words in her sister's handwriting, written on the inside page.

Property of B. Greyson.