The Lies I Told(37)

“Not at first,” he said. “According to her, Clare was full-on you that night.”

There’d been one picture of Clare that Richards had shown me from that night. Clare was grinning, leaning into Kurt. The dark eye shadow and wild hair always fooled everyone. Once I’d asked for the picture back, but Richards never gave it to me.

Jack twisted the rag between his hands, both covered in tattoos. “Why the questions?”

“Clare’s case is running out of time.”

“And when the case goes cold, what’ll you do?”

“I’m going to walk away and accept that some problems can’t be fixed.”

“Sounds like an AA spiel,” he said.

“Maybe I need to listen more.” That was a lie. I’d never accept that Clare’s killer hadn’t been found.

He tossed the rag in a bucket. “I worry about you.”

“Don’t. I’m fine.”

“I feel responsible for Clare,” he said.

“Why?”

“If I’d realized the Oxy was so powerful, you wouldn’t have passed out. You could’ve left and made it to the party on time.”

“Why’d you make a move on me?”

He shrugged. “I was eighteen. Thinking with the little head, not the big one. Maybe I wanted to hurt Brit.”

The cold glass chilled my fingers. Jack had seemed clear eyed and determined when he’d pulled my shirt off. But no one had forced the drugs on me. “A thousand little fuckups that night. If one had been different, Clare might be alive.”

“Never blame yourself,” he said. “Never.”





20


MARISA

Tuesday, March 15, 2022

4:00 a.m.

When I climbed the stairs to my apartment floor, I noticed immediately that my front door was ajar. I paused, looked toward Alan’s. It was closed, and no light leaked from under the door as it did when he was home.

Had I forgotten to throw the lock? I’d never done it before, but since the car accident, I’d lost time, and locating my keys, purse, or cameras always took a little longer.

I fished in my purse for my cell phone and pushed open the door. The apartment was dark and still. Inside, the ice maker in the refrigerator hummed and the radiator hissed. Clutching my phone, I flipped on the light, but feathers of tension rippled up my neck, warning me to be wary even as my mind reasoned I’d simply made a mistake. I’d forgotten a twist of a key. That was the likely answer. And to call the cops over an open door felt like overkill.

I scanned my apartment. Everything was just as I’d left it. The dishes in the sink, the two coffee cups by my large-screen computer, Richards’s copied files on the floor by my desk.

I turned on a halogen lamp, which shot light onto the exposed pipes and ducts on the ceiling, and I moved toward my bedroom, still gripping my phone. Mouth dry, heart pumping, my brain said again I was overreacting. Jesus, Marisa, do you have to get so spun up? You’ve always been like this. Overreact should be your middle name.

Clare had been my balance when we were kids. Whenever I was frustrated and wanted to break something or cut off a doll’s hair, Clare talked me out of it. When Dad gave us the Jeep, I pressed the speed limit past one hundred miles an hour until Clare’s screams finally reached me. And when I drove down I-295 drunk, Clare was there to swap IDs.

After Clare’s death, I’d been even more out of control. I was an engine with no governor. And then two years ago, I’d overdosed. That had been my wake-up call.

Even now I could remember sitting in that dark alley behind J.J.’s Pub. My eyes had drifted closed, and I’d slid to the ground against the hard, wet brick. My heartbeat had slowed, my breathing was shallower than a teacup, and my hands and feet chilled. In that moment, I knew I’d screwed up. Everyone had said I had a death wish after Clare died, but I hadn’t. I’d simply wanted to numb the pain, which was so intense it took my breath away. All I wanted was to feel normal, to keep putting one foot in front of the other.

I’d expected that as Death grew closer, I’d see Clare or my mother. But I hadn’t. No bright light. No angels. It had been utter darkness. More loneliness, if that was possible.

Jack had found me. He’d been out dumping the trash, and I must have moaned or done something to catch his attention. He’d cupped my face in his hands and pried open my eyelids with his thumbs.

“What the fuck have you done?” he whispered. “I’m not doing this again.”

“I miss Clare,” I muttered.

“You and I are too much alike. Loyal to a fault.”

He’d called the rescue squad, Narcan was jabbed into my system, and I was dragged back from the brink.

For a couple of months after the overdose, I’d been more measured, but not sober by any stretch. I didn’t inflict the self-made errors that had derailed me too many times. Still got buzzed from time to time, but nothing outrageous. And then I’d cleaned up for good last year.

I fumbled for my bedroom light switch, flipped it on, and sent more light spilling over the nightstand and the untouched prescription bottles from the doctor, my reading glasses, a battery-powered alarm clock, and a small pair of Clare’s gold hoop earrings I’d jerked from my ears the night of our birthday.