The Lies I Told(28)

“Thanks for having me.” I handed her the flowers, which seemed to lose a little of their glow.

Brit looked past me to the car now parked behind hers. “You got a car?”

“On Saturday.”

“That’s great.”

Inside, I slipped off my ankle boots and followed my sister down the long hallway toward a kitchen. Along the way were small paintings that she had collected on trips to Ireland, Italy, and Greece. The only image that linked to our past was a picture of Brit, Clare, and me. Brit was about five and MC was two. Yellow dresses, white bows, and smiles. Picture perfect. I’d thrown up on the dress after the session.

In the kitchen, David stood at the AGA stove, stirring a pot of tomato sauce. A large bowl of freshly drained pasta swirled in a blue, wide-mouthed bowl to his right, and he wore one of Brit’s KISS THE COOK aprons. For a couple who’d met two months ago, the relationship was moving fast.

“Marisa,” David said, smiling. He was an attractive man. If I were a casting director, I wouldn’t have paired him with Brit, unless I was looking for a sharp contrast. My sister wasn’t classically beautiful, but all hard angles and very striking.

“Smells terrific.” I smiled but didn’t lean in for even a quick hug. We didn’t know each other that well.

“My classic Italian grandmother taught me how to make the gravy,” David said.

I sipped my water, remembering the beer I’d had at Alan’s apartment yesterday. I’d handled it just fine. I’d not gone on a bender as all the AA counselors warned, and I’d thought about it only five or six times since. I wasn’t really craving one.

David ladled the sauce onto the pasta, stirring the rich chunky tomato blend into the noodles before topping it all with basil chiffonade.

“I bet you haven’t eaten today,” Brit said.

“Coffee,” I admitted. “Breakfast and lunch of champions.”

“I thought that was birthday cake?” David asked as he set the pasta bowl on the table next to a loaf of fresh bread and a salad.

“It was delicious.” In truth, I’d only moved it around on my plate at the party, and this morning had tossed the leftovers. Celebrating still felt a little like a betrayal. “Goes great with coffee.”

“She didn’t eat a bite,” Brit said. “I can always tell when she’s fibbing.”

“Why would you say that?” I asked.

“Please, I’ve known you all your life. I know when you’re telling the truth.”

The room grew smaller. Somewhere in the house a grandfather clock ticked. We all sat at the table, Brit at one end, David at the other, and me in the middle. I dished pasta and bread onto my place, convinced the skids of my graceful exit could be greased with a healthy portion of carbs.

“I sold a picture to a client today.”

“Really? Which one?” Brit asked.

“One of the river pieces that I showed in January. The client was Paul Jones. He said you suggested me.”

“Paul, yes,” she said, eyes brightening. “Commercial real estate and destined to own half the city. We’ve done a few deals together. He lives near our old place.”

“He was in my studio for professional headshots,” I said. “He saw my pictures on the wall.”

“Is that safe?” David asked, turning his attention to me. “I mean, letting strange clients into your home can be dangerous, can’t it?”

“Brit recommended him,” I said.

“Serial killers can be successful,” David said. “They go to college, walk among us.”

Brit laughed. “I’m certain Paul is not a serial killer, honey.”

David swirled pasta on a fork. “Probably not. But given what happened to Clare . . .”

The room stilled and neither Brit nor I breathed.

“Sorry about that.” David coated the words with enough charm to ease my sister’s frown. If this exchange had been between Brit and me, we’d be fighting, and I’d be counting seconds to my exit. But David, who’d likely gotten an earful about me from Brit, skated by unscathed.

Brit set her fork down, reached for a wineglass filled with sparkling water. She had to be calculating the minutes until I left and she could crack open a red. Brit loved her reds. So had Clare, for that matter.

I plucked a slice of buttered garlic bread from the platter and tore off a bite-size piece. “I went to see Detective Richards.”

Brit picked up her fork and looked at David as if praying for strength. “And?”

“Nothing,” I said.

“Who’s Detective Richards?” David asked.

“He investigated our sister’s murder,” Brit said.

I’d heard that word so many times now that it felt more like a bramble brushing my skin than a knife slicing flesh. “There’s nothing new to report. And he’s retiring in a couple of weeks.”

“He’s always been good about following up every few years,” Brit said.

“Clare died thirteen years ago, right?” David said.

“That’s right, babe,” Brit said.

“I asked for his case files, but he said he couldn’t do it,” I said.

“Why?” David asked.

“Formal police records can’t be handed out, I suppose, especially in an open case,” I said.