Second-Hand Daughter

By Catherine Mede

Sylvia Simpson is happily in love and about to celebrate her twenty-fifth wedding anniversary when tragedy strikes.

Her husband, Greg, is killed in a car crash.

With another woman in the vehicle.

His other wife.

Peyton Douglas is a teenager from a happy family until her parents are killed in a car crash.

And finds out her father has asked another woman to be her guardian.

His other wife.

Sylvia and Peyton are thrown together while both are dealing with their grief. Along with trying to get their heads around the fact that Greg had two very separate lives that neither knew about.

Now they have to navigate through the pain and come to rely on each other as their world is turned upside down and find a friendship with each other to help cope with what life throws at them.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Catherine Mede
• Release date: May 31, 2024
• ISBN: 9780473711863

Catherine Mede

Catherine Mede lives in a bustling coastal town of Motropolis, with a tall lanky son, a partner (Mr H) and a short haired domestic cat called Lunar.  When not writing, Catherine works full time as a gardener.  In her spare time, she likes to read, get creative with art and crafts and, of course, do the gardening. Although having developed a love for writing while at High School, it wasn't until she was in her thirties that she decided to get down and dirty with the words in her head. Catherine will dabble in any genre, as her backlist will attest.  When she was younger, she would write to escape reality.  Now she writes it to allow others to escape to a little piece of paradise in New Zealand.

Book preview

Chapter One

Peyton

The day of

I FROWNED AS DAD CONTINUED to lecture me. I’d already tuned out to what he was saying. I knew the gist of it: blah blah blah, you’re grounded, blah blah blah, until further notice, blah blah blah, because we love you.

I rolled my eyes.

Don’t roll your eyes at me, young lady. You think you’re eighteen, but you’re only fourteen. Stop acting like a child and grow up, Dad ranted.

I looked at his feet. Speak for yourself, I thought.

Yes, Dad, I said aloud, not looking at him.

All because I’d had some alcohol at a friend’s place. It had tasted nice and made me feel really good about myself, albeit a little spacey. Until I had too much and spent the night hugging the toilet. Mum and Dad found me clinging to the bowl like it was a long-lost pet. They’d peeled my fingers from it, cleaned me up and put me to bed.

Now, I had the headache from hell and my father was droning on. He wasn’t yelling. He wasn’t angry. At least, I didn’t think he was. He explained to me the dangers of alcohol at my age and...blah blah blah. I bet he’d had his first drink before he was eighteen.

Not that I was in a hurry to try it again. While it tasted good, it didn’t taste as nice coming back up, and it had made me feel so yuck today.

And now I’m grounded, not allowed out until further notice.

I studied Dad as he spoke. He was a young old, if forty-five was young. He had salt-and-pepper hair, which would have been a dark brown at one stage, cut short, though a little longer on top. Probably similar in colour to my own. We share the same hazel-coloured eyes. His forehead is lined, the creases deepening as his eyebrows dip over his eyes while he continued to lecture me. He sniffed, as if trying to keep back tears, but when I looked at him, he didn’t appear to be crying or emotional in any way, other than...well, betrayed. I guess he’s justified, but I’d already learned my lesson. I didn’t need him banging on about it. I stayed sitting on the bed, shuffling my feet in the awkward moment.

Mum and Dad were going out to the movies tonight.

And they weren’t taking me, like they normally do.

I had to stay at home.

As part of my punishment.

I tried to push the feelings of hurt and anger down. There was nothing worse than yelling at Dad and getting my punishment doubled. I knew better. I’d done it before, but after a couple of times, and Mum’s enforcement of the punishment when he wasn’t there, I learnt to restrain the urge to erupt into a fireball.

The room went silent. I glanced up under my eyebrows to notice Dad had stopped talking.

You understand?

Yes, I hissed, refusing to look at him.

Dad kissed my forehead and hugged me. I love you, princess.

He left my room, and I shoved all the items off my bedside cabinet. The lamp crashed to the floor, smashing the bulb. Bookmarks flew out of the books, and a mug shattered on the floor. As soon as I’d done it, I regretted it, but it was too late. I needed to let loose, though I probably should’ve done it on something inanimate like punching my pillow.

I heard the front door shut and their car start up.

They were leaving me behind!

Tears fell as I picked up the glass and ceramic shards and put them into the waste basket. I picked up my books and stacked them on the table, minus their bookmarks.

It was my own fault. I had no one else to blame but myself.

My phone blipped out texts for the next ten minutes, but I ignored it.

I wasn’t allowed out of the house...

Except my parents weren’t home.

They wouldn’t know.

The movie was a couple of hours long, then they would go out for pizza afterwards. I had plenty of time to go and catch up with one of my mates, at least. I picked up my phone and found the usual messages:

Peter: What’s happening?

Ngaire: Where’s the party chick?

Louise: Movie night with parents?

Louise: Hang out with me?

Char: Going to Tuckers, coming?

The list went on.

As much as I wanted to hang with my other friends, I responded to my bestie, Louise: Parents out, I’m coming around.

I didn’t wait for the reply. I’d be back before my parents would be, so I left my bedroom window open. Hopefully, they wouldn’t check on me when they came home. I grabbed my denim jacket and phone and went out the back door. I didn’t have a house key, so I thought I’d snib the lock so I could get back in.

Twenty minutes later, I was walking up to Louise’s front door and knocking. We hugged as I entered the house.

Louise was the complete opposite to me. Where I had long, dark hair, Louise’s was bright blond and short, cut into a bob style. We liked the fact that we were so different yet felt so comfortable together. Louise was the sister I wish I’d had.

I GLANCED AT MY WATCH. 21:45

Shit! I jumped off the bed and scrambled around for my shoes and jacket.

What? What’s wrong? Louise sat bolt upright on her bed. We’d been lying there, doing each other’s nails and talking, and time had slipped away on us.

I gotta go, Mum and Dad will be home soon, like any minute, soon. Shit, shitty shit shit shit.

Oh shit! Louise giggled. It was a nervous giggle, the kind she gets when she knows that something bad’s going to happen. I knew it wasn’t deliberate.

Love you long time. I kissed Louise’s cheek and ran down the hallway, shouting goodbye to Mr and Mrs Bray as I slammed the door behind me.

The streets were empty, apart from the occasional car that rumbled past as I ran home. None of them were my parents, fortunately. I doubled down, puffing as I came to my street. But I couldn’t rest. The road was quiet, lights were on in houses, and curtains were pulled against the cooling night air. I fast walked as I neared my house. There were no flickering lights of the television in the lounge, or illumination through the bedroom curtains, so my parents were either not home, or were home and in bed. I sneaked around to the back door and tried to open it, but it was locked. My heart thumped in my chest as I tried the handle again.

Shit, shit, shitty shit shit! Locked. Maybe my parents were home. Hopefully, my bedroom window was still open...

I paused as I heard a car pull into the street. It was travelling slowly but didn’t sound like my parents’ car. I wasn’t going to wait around to find out.

Glancing up to my bedroom window on the second storey, I looked around for an easy climbing point. It was the first time I’d had to climb up to my bedroom. I used to sit on the sill and look out when the full moon lit up the sky. But I’d never had to climb down — or up.

I moved the large rubbish bin a little closer to the wall and clambered onto it. It was high enough for me to reach the guttering. Hopefully, it would hold me and not peel off like in those comedic movies that I loved watching. My imagination got the better of me and I giggled as I reached up and tested the guttering. It wasn’t strong, but it should hold my weight, long enough for me to climb onto the roof. I jumped, rattling the can underneath my feet, but it steadied and I was able to pull myself up onto the sloping roof.

I paused, waiting to see if there was any movement or noise from inside the house.

It remained quiet.

Every sound seemed amplified in the cold night air as I carefully half crawled, half crept along to the window. My feet seemed to drag, my knees found every nail, but I managed to get to my bedroom. I pulled the window open, trying to get more room to slip in, when suddenly I was surrounded by light. I turned to see two torches shining on me from down in the yard.

May we ask what you are doing? a stern voice asked. It wasn’t Dad’s voice, but that of another male.

It’s alright, I live here. I couldn’t see for the light that shone in my eyes. I shaded them with my arm, but still couldn’t tell who it was.

Then why are you sneaking in through the window?

My mind whirled with possible explanations. The door was locked, and I forgot my key?

What is your name, young lady? asked a second voice, a female.

Again, I paused. I didn’t know who these people were, and I was starting to get worried, especially with all the questions. I inched closer to the window.

Douglas, I replied.

Peyton Douglas? the woman asked. I hesitated. How would she know my name? The first guy shone the torch on themselves, and I could see their uniforms.

Police uniforms.

Oh shit. My parents had called the cops on me!

Bloody typical. I rolled my eyes.

Hang on a minute. I clambered in through the bedroom window. I contemplated running out the front door, but they already knew who I was and where I lived. I rushed down the stairs and caught sight of the police patrol car in the driveway.

Unlocking the back door, I opened it, before flicking on the inside light.

I’m Peyton Douglas, I said. While I had a slight rebellious streak, I’d also been brought up respecting the law and facing consequences for actions. Although I wasn’t entirely sure what I’d done that warranted a visit from the police.

Except sneaking out of the house.

I’m Officer Lawton, and this is Officer Rayford. Is there anyone else home?

No, I’m waiting for my parents. They should be home soon.

Is there anyone else who lives here?

Just us three.

The two officers looked at each other.

Is there any family you could call, to come around?

What is this about? I don’t have any other family here.

Okay, you may need to sit down, Miss Douglas. The woman officer indicated.

I’m fine standing, thank you. What is this about? I looked between them as they shared a look. Officer Rayford shuffled from foot to foot. We’re very sorry to inform you that your parents have been killed in a car accident.

My heart stopped beating.

Chapter Two

Sylvia

The night of

It was nearly midnight when I became aware of pounding on the door. It woke me from a deep sleep where I’d been dreaming, once again, about holding a baby in my arms. I was looking down at its cute little face when I heard it. An insistent banging.

I looked at the clock as I stumbled out of bed, fumbled for my dressing gown and wandered down the hallway, muttering the entire way.

The banging on the door intensified.

I’m coming, I yelled, feeling my way to the light switch, then blinding myself with the sudden light.

This better be good, I mumbled as I turned on the outside light. I looked through the peephole, and my insides turned to ice.

Two police officers stood on the top step.

I unbolted the door and opened it. One officer had his hat in his hands, shuffling it around.

My face felt cold as the blood drained from it. My eyes stung.

Someone was dead.

No, please don’t tell me. Tears trickled down my face. I struggled to stay on my feet. One of the officers grabbed my arm and helped me into the lounge.

Sylvia Simpson? inquired the female officer as she settled me in the chair. I nodded, numbly.

Is there anyone else here? Anyone we can call? asked the woman. I shook my head, my ears ringing as I tried to work out what was going on.

The male officer took a deep breath. We regret to inform you that Greg Simpson is dead.

Greg is dead?

Greg is dead.

Greg is dead.

The words kept echoing through my head.

My high school sweetheart...

My beloved husband, the man I loved, the man who I spent the majority of my life with...

The man I was supposed to fly out to Rarotonga with in ten days’ time...

Visions of him raced through my mind. When he’d proposed on the beach. When we got married. Sitting at the fertility clinic office. Booking our holiday to Rarotonga. His broad face, smiling eyes, dark hair, boyish charm, outgoing nature...

My heart stopped beating. I couldn’t find anything to cling to. Everything dissolved around me. Nothing seemed real. Like it was a dream.

I struggled to breathe, like the air had been stolen from my lungs. My heart pounded, blood rushed in my ears.

The two officers were talking to me, one kneeling in front of me, but their voices were a blur of noise.

Greg is dead.

It silenced the officers, who looked at me, knowing I hadn’t heard a word they’d said.

Yes, Mrs Simpson, the female officer said.

What happened?

One looked at the other, and then back to me. Car accident.

I nodded, but not sure why I was nodding.

Do you know anyone by the name of Greg Douglas?

I shook my head. No, I haven’t heard of him. Was he in the car too?

Another look between the two officers.

The woman officer spoke. No, but there was a Lucy Douglas in the car.

The name meant nothing to me. I shook my head. I don’t know her either.

We have reason to believe that Mr Greg Douglas and Greg Simpson are the same person, and that Lucy Douglas was Mr Douglas’s wife.

Huh? My brain was swimming, trying to make sense of what they were saying. Greg Simpson, my Greg Simpson, was also Greg Douglas.

Greg was married to another woman? I had to ask.

Yes, Mrs Simpson. It took a while to find you because it appeared that he was married to two different women.

Then reality hit with a blinding clarity.

Pardon? I turned to the officer as I started wringing my hands. But I’m his wife.

The female officer put her hand on my shoulder.

We’re trying to work out what’s going on ourselves. We found two wallets in the car, with a driver’s license in each. A black wallet with Greg Simpson’s ID in it. 

I sighed. It was the wallet I’d bought for him last Christmas.

The second wallet, a bright green nylon one, contained a license for Greg Douglas. It had your husband’s photo too.

I looked between them, my brain struggling to understand what they were saying. My confusion must have been obvious. Once we have things clarified, we’ll let you know what’s going on, the female officer said.

This, other lady... I couldn’t remember her name.

Lucy? one of the officers offered.

Did she survive?

No.

What happened?

Mr Douglas— She shook her head. Sorry, Mr Simpson was driving. He swerved for some reason, ran off the road and hit a tree. Both were killed instantly.

I nodded dumbly. My husband was dead. But not only was he dead, another woman was in the car with him and she was dead too. And she was his wife. But she can’t be, I muttered out loud.

Are you sure you don’t want us to contact someone for you?

I couldn’t face telling his parents he was dead, let alone that he was married to someone else. Did they know? I didn’t think that they did.

Can you notify his parents? I asked the officers. They looked at each other and nodded.

Perhaps one of them can come over to you.

No. I’ll call my mum shortly.

The officer stood, releasing my shoulder. She looked hesitant and glanced over at the male officer.

We’ll need to talk to you further. We’ll be in contact in the morning.

I tried to rise, but the female officer placed a hand on my knee. Stay, we can let ourselves out.

The male officer turned before they closed the door. Because of the circumstances, we’ll need you, or someone in his family, to identify the body.

I looked up at him, but couldn’t quite focus on him. When do you need to do that?

Later today, if that’s okay. Someone can come and collect you.

I nodded. Whether in agreement or acknowledging the information, I didn’t know. I just wanted them gone.

Thank you. The female officer shot me a sympathetic look as they closed the door.

I heard the click and tried to go over the conversation in my brain, which was malfunctioning.

I reached into my pocket for my cell phone, but it wasn’t there. I struggled to my feet and staggered down the hallway to the bedroom; it was on the bedside cabinet, charging. I sat on the bed, dialling his number.

I knew it was one in the morning, but he’d still answer and tell me it was a big misunderstanding. 

The phone rang.

And rang.

And went to voicemail.

He probably had his phone on silent.

Greg, call me as soon as you get this message. My voice sounded pitchy and high even to me.

I ended the call and looked at my phone.

There were a few notifications including a goodnight text from Greg. I opened it up. I’d gone to bed and fallen asleep before I’d read it.

Goodnight, my warrior princess. Sleep well, see you in two days. Love you to the moon x x x

I shuffled back to the lounge. I felt out of place, unsure of what to do, how to feel. I paced for a bit, but that didn’t help. I sat, but that didn’t help either. Tears poured down my cheeks again, and a searing pain hit my chest. A piercing noise filled my head, and I slid off the couch, crumpling into a heap on the floor, curling up into a ball. I cried all over again, clutching the cell phone to my chest, trying to fill the void that had suddenly developed there.

SOMETIME LATER, I CAME out of my stupor. I sat numbly on the floor, just staring into space, my brain feeling like a roundabout that wouldn’t stop and would short-circuit any moment, while trying to process what was going on, trying to decipher the jumble of information I’d received. I don’t know how much time had passed. Only that light started to peek through the curtains of the lounge. Using the sleeve of my dressing gown to wipe my face, I moved back to sit on the couch.

I looked at the phone; it was ten to seven. 

Still no response from Greg.

His alarm went off every morning at six-thirty. He should have contacted me by now.

I wiped my blocked nose on the sleeve of my dressing gown. Sniffing, I took a deep breath, trying to calm my shaking body, and dialled my parents’ number on my cell phone.

A groggy voice answered. He-hello?

Mum. I started to cry.

Are you alright, Syl?