Knife Edge by Malorie Blackman

I haven't had any visitors since you were born, you see. Wasn't expecting any either. Don't need any. But here was my sister, standing over me, her face as solemn as a church engraving.
    'Hello, Sephy'
    'Hello, Minerva.' I put down my paper.
    Several seconds passed as we regarded each other.
    'How's your arm?' I asked at last.
    I guess I should let you know that your Aunt Minerva was shot in the arm when I was six months pregnant with you. Should I tell you who did it? I guess by the time I'm ready to give you this journal and you're old enough to understand what's in it, you'll be old enough to know – so here goes. Your Uncle Jude shot her. Jude is your dad's brother – and he hates my entire family, but especially me. Waiting in the hospital after my sister had been shot was awful. I didn't know whether she was going to lose the use of her arm, or lose her arm altogether – or her life. It's one of those memories you squash down and try and sit on to hide it away like one of those squishy, foamy cushions. But it just explodes and bounces you off it and refuses to stay hidden. When Minerva woke up, I begged her not to report Jude to the police. I asked her to say that an unknown, hooded intruder had burst his way into my flat and when I refused to give him any money, had shot Minerva before running away. Minerva didn't want to. She wanted Jude to pay for what he did. So did I.
    But I knew it wouldn't happen that way.
    I was being selfish – I admit it. But I was desperate not to drag up the whole business of the McGregors and the Hadleys again. I didn't want the press camped on my doorstep and hounding me everywhere I went for an interview. I didn't want photographers' flashbulbs stinging my eyes at all hours. I didn't want to reopen old wounds for Jude's mum or for myself. But mainly for myself. I was almost hysterically selfish. I begged and pleaded with Minerva until I wore her down and she promised me she'd do as I asked. But after that, our relationship shifted again – irrevocably, I think.
    Stay away from Jude, Callie. He'll stop at nothing and use anyone to get what he wants. And what he wants more than anything else is my heart on a platter and my head on a pike. I'm not the least bit scared of him. If it were just me and him then I'd stand before him and tell him to Bring It On. Do his worst. But that's not the way it'll happen. Whatever else Jude may be, he's not a fool. He wants me to suffer. And he knows the only way to do that is through you.
    'My arm's fine now.' Minerva flexed her fingers to show me. 'It aches occasionally when it rains but at least it still works.'
    'Minerva, I'm sorry about . . . what happened to you,' I said, for probably the thousandth time.
    'Could you please stop apologizing?' Minerva said wearily. 'And stop calling me Minerva.'
    'What am I supposed to call you then? You hate it when I call you Minnie.'
    'Minnie is fine.'
    'You've spent years telling me the exact opposite,' I reminded her.
    'Yeah, but Minnie is what my sister calls me,' said Minerva pointedly.
    I knew what she was saying, but she wasn't Minnie any more and probably never would be again. Plus it was hard to get past the fact that because of me, my own sister had been shot.
    'Can I sit down?' she asked at last.
    I waved at the visitor's chair next to my bed. Its upholstery had faded away to a sorrowful, stained, pale blue and the seat of the chair was lumpy and uneven. Minerva sat down, her bum sinking into it like a toddler sitting on an empty potty. Hoisting herself up, she sat at the edge of the chair where it was firmer.
    I waited for the snide comment or the whining complaint, but none came. Minerva looked around the ward. I did the same. A quick glance told me we had the attention of most of the people – visitors and patients alike. I suppose they were wondering why I hadn't had you in a private hospital, Callie, but the truth is I wanted to have you at the Mercy Community Hospital. It was important to me. I