The Lies I Told(38)

I moved toward the closet, gripped the doorknob, drew in a breath, and yanked it open. Inside were the few clothes I’d bothered to put on hangers, a collection of ankle boots in varying shades of black, and a suitcase I’d not used in years. Next I moved to my darkroom, opened the door, and found only the print I’d developed the day before swaying from the clothesline.

“No one’s here,” I whispered. “You’re alone.” Just as it should be.

Back in the living room, I slowly closed my apartment’s front door and slid the dead bolt into place. The unsettled feeling chased me to the kitchen, where I slowly lowered my purse onto the counter. I slid my phone into my back pocket and collected Richards’s notes from the floor around my desk. I’d already read them twice but was certain I’d missed something. Was this what Richards did with his cases? Did he stare at the files, endlessly revisiting them, even praying over them for the small detail that danced out of reach, like a 1990s sitcom name?

A can of seltzer in hand, I sat on my couch, staring out at the river and the Richmond skyline. I took one sip, found the taste too plain, and set it down. My head dropped back against the couch as I stared at the ceiling. Adrenaline finally crashing, I slowly closed my eyes, surprised my mind was so easily slipping to that euphoric place between awake and asleep. Thinking I should reread Richards’s notes, I fought to stay alert, but the soft lure of sleep, now stronger than the notes, guided me toward an edge. One more step, and I fell face forward into sleep.

It wasn’t a soft landing like you’d expect. When I hit, my body struck a hard, rocky surface with jagged edges. Moaning, I rolled on my back and stared into the upstairs hallway of my parents’ house.

An unidentifiable whisper mingled with the wind as I moved down the long hallway. When I reached Brit’s open door, I saw a woman’s figure standing by Brit’s bed, hovering over her as she nudged my sister’s lips open and coaxed her to drink. “This will make you feel better.”

When the woman stood and turned, I realized it was Mommy. Her expression was a mixture of surprise and annoyance. And then her features softened, and she smiled. “What’re you doing out of bed, pumpkin?”

“I couldn’t sleep.”

“Poor baby. Let me tuck you back in bed.”

“Is Brit sick?”

“Not anymore,” Mommy said. “I made her better. Now let’s get you back to bed, little miss. Daddy’s home, and I’d like to spend a little grown-up time with him.”

“Can I see Daddy?” It had been weeks since he’d been home.

“In the morning. Tonight, it’s just the two of us.”

“Is Daddy mad at us?” I asked.

Mommy smoothed a red strand off my forehead. “Why would you say that?”

“He’s always gone.”

“He works hard,” Mommy said. “And I think he’ll be spending more time at home from now on.”

I looked back over my shoulder and saw Brit roll on her side and curl into a ball like a contented cat. She did look better. And if Mommy said so, then it must be true.

I startled awake to a doorknob turning. I stood up, half expecting to see my own front door open. But it was closed, still secure as I’d left it. The time on my phone read 6:03 a.m. I’d been asleep for a couple of hours.

Quietly, I moved to the door and stared out the peephole as Alan, wrestling a briefcase and a take-out bag, opened his door. He kicked it closed behind him, and somewhere inside a light clicked on and trickled out under the door.

I should have been comforted that I wasn’t alone. But as I stepped back, I folded my arms over my chest and looked around my apartment, struggling with the sense that someone was watching me.





21


BRIT

Tuesday, March 15, 2022

1:45 a.m.

As I stared out my bedroom window toward the trees lining the property, my thoughts drifted to Marisa, as they often did. The birthday party and the dinner with David had been two odd, disconnected events, but they’d been my way of reaching out to her. I wanted her in my life, but no matter how much I included my sister, our lives never really meshed. Even before Clare died, even before Mommy left us, each time I reached out to my sister, I ended up grabbing nothing but air. Marisa remained out of reach, her true thoughts buried under porcelain features teetering between annoyed and amused.

She’d been like that since she was a baby. Impossible to read. Impossible to satisfy. “An insatiable, excitable child,” Mommy had once said. No pleasing her. I’d never understood Mommy’s impatience with Marisa until it was my turn to look after her. Clare had been easy enough. A pliable little thing. But Marisa had been headstrong, a bull in a china shop, though I’d found a way to manage her in the end.

“What’re you doing?” David asked. “It’s cold.”

I smoothed my hands over my arms. I’d barely noticed the chill. “Is it?”

Footsteps padded behind me, and he wrapped his arms around my waist and pulled me toward him. The silk of my robe molded against his naked flesh.

“You’re worried,” he whispered.

A half smile tipped my lips. “That’s what I do.”

“About your sister.”

“Is there any other reason to worry?”

“She’s doing fine. She did well at the party and the dinner. What’s bothering you?” He rested his chin on my shoulder, and the stubble of his beard rubbed my cheek. We’d been together only a short time, which put us still in the thrilling part of our relationship, but I hoped that never changed. It would, of course. Everything did. But I could dream.