The Lies I Told(4)

“I’m also the birthday girl.”

“Ah!” Mike said, smiling. “Happy birthday.”

Brit, like our mother, loved birthdays when we were kids and marked each with a big party. How many times had she destroyed our mother’s kitchen baking cakes for her planned parties? How many paper hats and chains had she made as a kid?

A round table surrounded by six chairs dominated the small room. Each place setting had a decorative birthday hat that appeared to be inspired by The Wizard of Oz and represented one of the story’s main characters: Dorothy, Glinda the Good Witch, the Cowardly Lion, the Scarecrow, the Tin Man, and the Wizard.

“Do you feel any older?” Mike joked as he positioned a glass at each of the six place settings.

It was a birthday party for a six-year-old. Typical Brit. She never articulated it with words, but she missed the days when Mommy and Clare were alive, and the Stocktons could pass for normal.

My mouth twitched as I imagined Brit scouring Pinterest and Etsy pages. “This year I’m feeling my age.”

His gaze skittered over my body quickly. “You’ve cut your hair since you were here last.”

My long red hair had been a casualty of the head injury and surgery, and I still missed the weight on my shoulders and the ease of a quick ponytail. Without my signature mane, I didn’t get noticed as much, but in my pre-sobriety days, I’d grabbed a lifetime’s worth of attention, and the way I saw it, the new style served a greater karmic purpose.

Glasses rattled, and I caught myself conjuring a replay of my greatest mistakes. Clearing my throat, I drew in a deep breath. I hung my coat on a peg as Mike pulled out a chair facing the door. I sat in front of the Dorothy hat, which was centered on the plate, doing my best to feel special but already dreading Brit’s plans. Any sign of a clown or a male stripper, and I was outa there.

Moistening my lips, I searched the menu, noticing it had changed. Subtle modifications. Prices, a few additional appetizers, and more desserts. I studied the pasta offerings, wondering what I’d liked best. Hard to say, these days. My taste buds had been MIA since the accident, another lingering souvenir of the head trauma. Maybe I’d stick with the crunchy fries.

Brit stepped into the small room, wearing a leather jacket and a navy jumper that flared above her ankles, skimmed her narrow waist, and rose to a halter top that hugged full breasts. Straight dyed blond hair skimmed her shoulders, highlighting an angled face, red lips, and bold smoky eyes.

The effect was very attractive. In fact, as I rose, I noticed my sister had lost a couple of pounds. Perhaps rumors of the new boyfriend were legit. Brit held a square box wrapped in silver paper and adorned with an ice-blue bow. No clowns yet, thank God.

My sister looked a little frustrated, which had been her signature expression since she was a kid. Put upon. Doing the best, given the limited resources.

“I was supposed to be here first,” Brit said.

After moving around the table, I hugged her and drew in the familiar scent of Chanel perfume and hair spray. “You look terrific. Losing weight?”

Brit stifled a grin. “Think so?”

“I know so.”

“Thanks. That’s the best news I’ve heard all day.”

Brit captured a short red strand of my hair between manicured fingers. “Very stylish. Very edgy.”

“That’s me, edgy.”

“Are you sleeping well?” Brit asked. “You look tired.”

“I’m great.” I refused to sound annoyed. Brit had self-identified as a mother hen since our mother died. I shouldn’t have blamed her. She didn’t want the role. “What’s in the box?”

She grinned. “That’s for later, when everyone gets here.”

“Everyone. I see the six hats. Wizard of Oz?”

“It was your favorite movie when you were little.”

Was it? But I’d watched millions of movies when I was a kid. I still did. “Okay.”

“You promised me free rein over the party. No questions asked.”

“You’re right.” I grinned. “But I wouldn’t say no to a hint.”

A teasing smile proved she loved keeping secrets. “I won’t give you one.”

“Please.” A little begging always put her in a good mood.

“Not one.” Brit took off her jacket. “Don’t look like you’re facing a firing squad, M. It’ll be fun.”

“You’re right.” Attitude was everything.

“Wait no longer.” A familiar deep voice resonated behind me, and when I turned, I found a smile.

I was a little surprised Brit had invited him. “Kurt Markman.”

He’d dated our sister, Clare, in high school. They’d been crazy about each other; had volatile, exciting arguments; and maybe broken a law or two. When Clare’s body was found, the cops and press focused a great deal of attention on Kurt initially. He had been Clare’s boyfriend, and when the medical examiner swabbed Clare’s cervix, they found his DNA. No vaginal bruising, no marks on her body beyond the discoloration on her neck. Witnesses noted Kurt and Clare had had a heated fight at the New Year’s Eve party where she’d last been seen. Some said she’d stormed off. Others said he’d left her. Armed with scattered bits of truth, many media commentators had run stories—beginning with “that in all likelihood” or “a source suggested”—that Kurt had tracked Clare down and killed her.