The Lies I Told(19)

Now that I was more clear eyed, I was more practical, less emotional about the money. Long story short, it made life easier and gave me the freedom to figure out what had happened to Clare.

When I picked out a black SUV and told the salesperson I wanted it, I especially enjoyed watching his skeptical look transform when he verified my bank funds. A raised brow. A second look at me as he sat straighter. I didn’t think I’d ever get tired of that expression.

I was in and out of the dealership and sitting behind the wheel of my new SUV in under an hour. It felt so different from my Jeep, the one I’d shared with Clare as teenagers and then totaled.

I gripped the wheel, and my heartbeat kicked harder when I started the engine. I’d been driving since I was fifteen and never once had been afraid.

Not once.

And now, I was.

“Don’t be a baby,” Clare whispered.

I put the car in drive and pulled out of the lot.





10


MARISA

Saturday, March 12, 2022

4:45 p.m.

The tangerine sun glowed bright over the James River as it hovered above the tree-lined horizon. I stood on the bank, watching the water lap gently against the rocks of the muddy shore. The wind wafted over the trees, fingering the edges of my hair.

Clare’s body had been found in this spot four days after she’d gone missing. It had been a jogger, running along the road as the sun was rising, who’d spotted the splash of red floating on the water. But he’d kept running. Then something had prompted the young man to turn around and look closer. He’d told Richards he hadn’t realized he was looking at a body until he was within feet of it. Clare had been lying facedown, her red hair splayed on the water.

I’d never see her again. Shit. I’d made so many foolish choices that night.

“Why’re you late?” Clare said. “Where are you?”

“I’m still at Jack’s.” I held the phone to my ear as my head swirled. My body felt like it was melting into the scavenged couch on Jack’s front porch.

Jack had dropped out of high school, left his parents’ house with no plans of college, trade school, or a job, and now shared a small house with a group of guys in Ashland, an old railroad town twenty minutes north of Richmond. His life was one continuous frat party. The charm that had drawn Brit to him last year was wearing thin, and she was currently not speaking to him. I liked the idea of my older sister on the outs while I had the inside track.

“He has nothing you need,” Clare said.

“Last day of the year, and then I’ll turn over a new leaf.”

“You can’t keep doing this, Marisa.”

“I’m not. Tomorrow, I’m on the straight and narrow. I want to celebrate the New Year right.”

“I have something to show you. You need to come home.”

“What? Tell me.”

“Not over the phone.” Music and laughter blended in the background. “Show-and-tell is more effective.”

“I don’t like the sound of that.” Lights from the front porch glowed brighter.

“Then hurry up and get here.”

My head grew fuzzier after the call, and I never made it to the party. By the time I stumbled home the next day, she was missing.

A fresh gust of wind brought me back to today and the shores of the James River, flowing with currents of loneliness and loss. “What did you want to tell me, Clare?”

My last call from Clare had been at 10:02 p.m. How many times had I stared at her name in my call log? I still had a screenshot of it in my photos.

Shaking off the melancholy, I returned to my car and sat behind the wheel, surrounded by the new-car smell that soon would mingle with everyday life—fast food, perfume, sweat after a long day’s shoot. A therapist had once told me that the feelings surrounding Clare’s death were a little like the smell of a new car: The acuteness would slowly fade and be replaced by a scent that would weave into my life. It would always be there, but it would fade into the background.

I inhaled, wanting to remember this aroma, knowing it would fade in time; however, Clare’s loss had sharpened over the years and could still cut through flesh into bone.

“Shit.” Driving away from the river, I wound through the neighborhoods up the hill. When I reached a familiar side street, Crowder Lane, I took a left. That last night, Clare had fought with Kurt, stepped outside into the darkness, and vanished.

I didn’t drive by my family’s old home but went the additional five blocks to the old Mediterranean-style stucco house that had belonged to Jo-Jo’s parents. It hadn’t changed much in thirteen years. The yard was neatly manicured, and there was a Mercedes parked in the driveway and a collection of boxed delivery packages on the covered front porch. Back when Jo-Jo’s family lived there, there’d been several bikes leaning against the side of the house, a trampoline out back, and a basketball hoop at the end of the driveway.

Jo-Jo’s parents traveled a great deal for work. Both were often gone during the week and not home until late Friday night. New Year’s Eve 2008 they’d been skiing. The size of the house, absence of the parents, New Year’s, booze, unsupervised kids—it had been the perfect storm.

When I’d pushed through the front door of my father’s home on New Year’s Day, a pale Brit was waiting for me.