The Lies I Told(31)

“All I’ve heard about identical twins is that they tend to stick together. Were you and Clare close?” I asked.

“Sure. Of course. She was my twin. We shared everything.”

“Did you two have a falling-out? I have a couple of sisters, and I know how they can fight.”

“We weren’t fighting.”

“And you were out for a drive.”

“Yes.”

“And Clare, did she like to drive?”

“No,” Marisa said.

“What’s going on here?” Mr. Stockton interjected. “Do you have news on my daughter Clare?”

“I do.” I closed my notebook and studied each member of the Stockton family closely. “The remains of a young woman matching Clare’s description were found in the river a few hours ago.”

Frank Stockton rubbed the back of his neck with his hand. Brit teared up immediately. Marisa stood stock straight, emotionless.

“You don’t look shocked, Marisa,” I said.

“I don’t know what to say,” Marisa said. “Are you sure you didn’t make a mistake? Cops aren’t perfect.”

“No mistake,” I said.

Brit began to weep.

Mr. Stockton turned from me, cleared his throat, and braced his shoulders as if readying to pick up a heavy weight. “How?”

“We haven’t determined that yet,” I said. “I’ll know more once I talk to the medical examiner.” I refocused my attention on Marisa. “You still insist you were driving?”

“Yes.” There seemed barely enough air in her lungs to push the word out.

“Can you prove it?” I asked.

“I have a gas receipt,” Marisa said. “I think it’s still in my purse.”

“I’ll want that receipt.”

“Sure.”

“Whose car were you driving?” I pressed.

“My Jeep. Clare and I share—shared it.”

Mr. Stockton’s frown deepened, but he didn’t press about the infraction.

“Did you have permission to drive the car?” I asked.

“I can drive it anytime I want, but I’m supposed to stay within fifteen miles of the house,” Marisa said. “Where did you find Clare?”

“Were you driving in circles, then?”

“No! I broke the rules, okay? Where did you find my sister?”

“We found Clare’s body near the Huguenot Bridge,” I said. “We haven’t determined the time of death.”

“She’s been there for four days?” Marisa asked.

“I don’t know yet.”

“What does that mean?” she asked.

“The medical examiner hadn’t determined time of death.”

Brit let out an anguished cry, pressing her hand to her belly. When Mr. Stockton faced us, his eyes glistened with tears, just as they had when his wife died. He shook his head, as if by denying this information enough times, he could make it go away. It wouldn’t. Marisa stood stiff, defiant.

“Do you know where your sister was on New Year’s Eve, Brit?” I asked.

“I knew she was going to a party. I was supposed to go, but I got sick. I was here in bed all night.”

“The party was at our friend Jo-Jo’s.” Marisa recited the address.

“You said a boyfriend picked her up?” I asked.

“Kurt Markman. They’d been dating about six months,” Brit said. “I saw them drive off.”

I asked for and received Kurt’s contact number from Marisa.

“Marisa, where did you go after your drive?” I asked.

Already, I’d pegged her as the family troublemaker. If a vase was broken, find Marisa. If a teacher left a message, it was about Marisa. If money was missing . . . The drill was the same every time.

“I ended up parking at the truck stop in Ashland and falling asleep,” she said. “I didn’t make it home until early the next day.”

“You slept at a truck stop?” Mr. Stockton asked.

“Yes,” Marisa said.

“What time did you arrive home?” I pressed.

“About six.”

“When the ball dropped, you were sleeping in a truck stop?” I pushed.

“What does that have to do with anything?” Marisa challenged.

“Answer the question,” her father ordered.

“Yes! I’d had a few drinks,” Marisa said.

“How many is a few?” I asked.

“Too many,” she said.

She might have been drinking, but she was still holding back. A lie by omission was still a lie.

Her father, to his credit, stepped between Marisa and me. “I don’t like the tone you’re taking with my daughter.”

“I don’t enjoy asking the hard questions,” I said. “But I’m building a timeline here so I can figure out what happened to Clare.”

“I’m calling my attorney,” Mr. Stockton said. “If you have any more questions, go through him.”

“Why’re you asking me all the questions?” Marisa asked.

I studied her face for a long beat. “I’ll be asking everyone lots more.”