The Lies I Told(44)

“Why didn’t you ever tell me about the trust fund before last year?” I asked.

“Because you were high or drunk for most of the last decade. You couldn’t touch the money until you were thirty, so why open myself up to you pestering me about the money? I wish I had a nickel for all the hours of energy you sucked out of our family. Marisa broke a vase. Marisa wrecked the car. Marisa overfed the goldfish and killed them. Marisa overdosed . . . again. Every time there was harmony in the house, you found a way to spin everyone up. You weren’t ready to hear about the money.”

Brit wasn’t off base. I’d been high maintenance growing up. If I wasn’t sleeping, I was searching for something to help me burn off the excess energy buzzing in my body. It wasn’t until the last overdose brought me to the abyss that I stopped.

“I turned it around. I’m sober.”

Her gaze softened. “Yes, you did, and I told you about the trust. My little girl, my second-favorite twin, has found her footing, and it’s very gratifying.”

“Why do you say I’m your second-favorite twin?”

“I was being sarcastic.”

“Freudian slip.” It felt good to be on the other side of the analyst couch now. “You said the inside part out loud.”

“I loved Clare and you equally. Yes, as wicked as you could be, she was just as good. But she was so good, it could be trying. Goody Two-shoes wear thin quickly.” Brit shook her head. “You’re making me say things I don’t mean.”

“You thought Clare was perfect.”

“She wasn’t.” She sighed. “Now stop it.”

“What did I do?”

“Stirring the pot like you always do.”

Richards’s comments about my trust fund rattled in my mind as I set my cup down carefully on the counter. “Detective Richards says everyone lies to him. Even if they don’t need to, they do.”

“It’s human nature. People have all kinds of silly secrets they don’t want the world to know about, even if the world doesn’t care. Protecting those secrets, my dear, is how the best lawyers make their money.”

“You’re the secret keeper.”

Brit shrugged. “I never thought of it that way, but yes, that’s what I do. I listen to problems, offer solutions, and then lock the entire encounter into a box. That box only opens when my client and I are alone.”

“Who keeps your secrets?”

“Honey, I have none. I’m an open book.”

I chuckled. It didn’t take a detective to sniff out that lie.





24


HIM

THEN

Wednesday, November 21, 2008

6:00 p.m.

You agreed to another dinner. This time you were coming to my apartment. I suggested you might like to see some of the art I’d collected. Nothing nefarious like Come see my etchings, but it did sound a little creepy. I thought for a moment you’d reject me, but you said yes. I was still floating.

I’d cleaned the house twice. I wanted it to be perfect. You deserved perfect.

I had wine. A red like you’d ordered at O’Malley’s. Just a glass or two for you. No one likes a lush; still, it’s nice to loosen up.

As soft music played on the sound system, I studied some of the pictures I’d bought today. They were different types of photography and meant to impress you. I nudged the edge of the frame up a smidge, then coaxed it back down. Needed to be straight. The glass gleamed.

The doorbell rang, and I rolled my shoulders back, glanced toward a mirror hanging in the foyer. Clean, pulled together, but not so obsessive that it looked like I was weird. Which I was not.

Clearing my throat, I moved toward the door at a steady, even pace and then opened it. You looked up, pink faced from the cold, long red hair streaming around your shoulders. God, but I loved your hair. You were wearing a dark faux-fur-trimmed jacket, an olive-green turtleneck, jeans, and lace-up boots. You rocked the artsy vibe, and I was growing hard just looking at you.

You held up a bouquet of yellow daisies. Where you’d found them in the winter was beyond me, but I appreciated you for finding them.

“Flowers?” I asked.

“For you.”

“No one’s ever brought me flowers before.”

You grinned and held them out for me. “Then it’s about time.”

When I took them, my fingertips brushed your hand, and the skin-to-skin contact rippled electricity through me. You had a power over me. Clearing my throat, I held them up and inhaled. Of course, there was no scent. “Beautiful.”

“You said not to bring anything, but I hate to show up empty-handed.”

I stepped aside, extended my arm in invitation. As you passed, I caught the faint hint of a perfume I couldn’t identify. It was spicy, exotic.

You looked around, curious about the space, likely wondering what it said about me. Clean, organized, with a modern, sleek Scandinavian style. “This place is terrific.”

“It’s a work in progress.” Daisies clutched in my hand, I followed.

“How long have you been here?”

“A few months. I lived in Northern Virginia for a while but then decided it was time for a change. Back to Richmond and my roots.” None of that was true, but it sounded better than the truth.