The Buy-In (Graham Brothers #1)(5)

Over my dead body.

I may not be her biological mother, but I am all mama bear when it comes to Jo.

“Rachel got married?” I ask.

“About six months ago, yes. Just before she entered rehab.” Ashlee pushes a folder across the desk to me. “The information I gathered so far is in here, and I’ve hired a discreet private investigator to get more details.”

I idly flip through the documents, which fill in the blanks of what Ashlee already said. Rachel checked into an upscale inpatient facility three days after her wedding. I guess rehab was her version of a honeymoon. Or maybe a wedding gift? I pause on a color photo of Rachel’s license.

The last time I saw my sister was before Jo was born, just before Rachel ran away the second time. She was gaunt to the point of being skeletal, the skin below her eyes blooming purple like twin orchids. She twitched constantly, and her eyes couldn’t stay focused on anything for longer than a few seconds.

The Rachel in this photograph is almost unrecognizable. No longer too thin, she instead looks like someone has attached her to a bike pump and inflated her unevenly. It’s not that she looks heavy, more that the weight she carries in her face doesn’t belong to her. Her hair is in a sensible bob, and she has pearls in her ears and around her neck. Four years my junior, Rachel looks at least ten years older than me.

I might not have recognized my sister at all if it weren’t for her eyes. The green color matches mine and Jo’s exactly, but the quality of them differs in a fundamental way. Flinty and sharp, they resemble some kind of gemstone cracked out of a rock in a deep, cold cave. I shiver at her smile, which looks calculating rather than happy. Or maybe I’m just projecting my memories of my sister into the photo.

“Why don’t you tell me a bit more about your situation,” Ashlee says.

I set the folder down on her desk, feeling the sudden need to sanitize my hands. Though Ashlee hasn’t been back in town for many years, that’s plenty of time to get all the dirt. Sheeters are very giving people when it comes to sharing secrets—unless it’s a family recipe. And those, they take to the grave. Everything else is up for grabs on Neighborly.

The Neighborly is the app you’d get if you crossed Facebook with Reddit and restricted the users’ geographical location to Sheet Cake. If it happens here, someone is talking about it on Neighborly within the half-hour. It’s horrible and genius and it’s totally addictive. Winnie, one of my two best friends, developed it. She’s still getting the bugs out before trying to sell the whole thing to be used in cities across the country.

I raise an eyebrow at Ashlee. “You probably know my story as well as I do.”

She smiles. “Small towns do have a way of keeping tabs, but I’d prefer to hear your version of events as well as anything pertinent to help your case.”

I lean back in my chair. “Then I might need a coffee after all.”

Ashlee opens a drawer and pulls out a bottle of whiskey. “Coffee with a kick?”

A shocked laugh bursts out of me. If it weren’t official before, I kind of love my lawyer. “I’ve got to pick up Jo in a bit, so I better stick to caffeine. But you might need that drink.”





Most of a coffee (me) and a whiskey (Ashlee) later, I finish my soap opera of a life story. “What do you think? Should we call Maury or Dr. Phil?” I brush my bangs out of my eyes and set my empty mug down on the desk.

“That’s definitely some drama. I’m sorry for what you’ve been through,” Ashlee says with a sad shake of her head.

The overview is that my sister started drinking and using drugs at thirteen, ran away at fourteen, came back, and left again at sixteen. She showed up on Mama’s porch two years later with an infant. Rachel disappeared again almost as fast. I skipped my college graduation, gave up my post-college dreams, and moved back home to help Mama raise Jo. Then Mama was diagnosed with early onset dementia, which left me in charge of my niece and my mother.

“You’re a writer, right?” When I nod, Ashlee gives me a kind smile. “Maybe you should think about a memoir.”

I’m not sure if she’s kidding or not, but the last thing I want to do is write my life story. Plus, I’m not that kind of writer. I had planned to be a travel writer, penning pieces focused around cultural geography and human interest. Thanks to a professor’s recommendation, I landed the kind of lucky job no one gets right out of college writing for a magazine. It was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, but even that was worth giving up for Jo.

Now, I’m a freelancer, writing illustrious pieces of Buzzfeed journalism such as “The Hottest Leading Men in ’80s Movies Ranked by Mustache” and “What Jurassic World Dinosaur You Are Based on Enneagram Type.” It would be quite the leap to go to long-form, book content.

Even if I wanted to write it, no one wants the story of a twenty-seven-year-old woman scraping by in a small town while raising her niece. There is no action or adventure and definitely no romance. My two best friends, Winnie and Val, who aren’t sidekicks so much as the other members of the Three Musketeers. As of right now, a happy ending is questionable.

What can I say? My pessimism ate my optimism for breakfast.

“I think I’d need to change the ending to sell it.” I tap a finger on my chin. “Come to think of it, maybe I’d change the middle and the beginning too.”