The Lies I Told(60)

Morning sunlight streamed through my window, drawing me to the view. It was going to be a beautiful day. One that would be wasted if I stayed inside. Without thinking, I moved to my old camera bag, thought very briefly about swapping it for the new one Jack and Jo-Jo had given me. It was fancy, upscale, something I would’ve dreamed about owning once. I checked my equipment, made sure my batteries were charged, and shouldered the old, familiar bag. Locking the door, I heard Alan moving about. It was nice to have another human on the floor.

Down the stairs and out the front door to my car, I fired up the engine, grateful that the early-morning chill had softened.

The route was new for this car, but all too familiar to me. I headed south and wove through the suburban side of the city toward Riverside Drive. As I turned down the winding road, tension rippled through my body.

When I’d been shooting in December, I’d driven myself to the point of exhaustion, splitting my time between here and whatever function I was hired to shoot. The mountain of work had gobbled up any extra time I might’ve had to brood. Each night I had fallen into bed completely drained. Finally, when I’d shot this place from every angle, I turned my back on it. I’d hoped I’d expelled the demons. What I realized now was that they’d not gone anywhere. They’d simply gone silent.

I parked in the public parking space and grabbed my camera bag. Locking the car, I headed toward the shore’s edge. When I’d been here last, the trees had lost their leaves and the landscape was stark and barren.

Now there was some greenery budding and blossoming on the naked branches, signaling the land was returning to life. It struck me as unfair. My sister was dead, but the shoreline that had hidden her body was getting yet another renewal on life.

I raised my camera and snapped pictures.

When Richards had told my family about the discovery of Clare’s body, I’d excused myself and then sneaked out of the house and driven to the crime scene. When I’d arrived, the area was taped off, so I’d parked a half mile away and walked in. The riverfront land was roped off with yellow crime-scene tape, and a team of forensic technicians and uniformed officers were searching the brush and shoreline for evidence. I stood back, praying that whatever they found would somehow prove that they’d made a mistake. The body on the rocks was not Clare.

At the crime scene, I’d lingered in the cold, huddling in my jacket, when an officer had made a discovery. He’d found a black blouse with a deep-V neckline. My shirt.

I’d bought the shirt five days before Clare died. I’d taken my father’s credit card from his wallet and treated myself to a few post-Christmas treats. Dad didn’t like when he saw all the bags in my room, but as long as I wasn’t bothering him, that gave him time with Sandra.

The night of the New Year’s Eve party, I’d come into our room to find Clare looking at the top. Since she’d started dating Kurt, she’d been dressing more and more like me. I’d told her to go for it.

What if she’d not worn that blouse? What if she’d dressed as Clare and not me?

After Clare died, I was a mess and Dad could no longer ignore me. He needed to prove to himself and the world that his absentee parenting had not led to Clare’s death. The police and the neighbors were watching now, he’d said many times. I needed to be on my best behavior.

Brit had offered to drop out of college, but he wouldn’t hear of it. No sense pissing away both their lives because of Clare and me. His solution had been to ship me off to Catholic boarding school. The change of scenery didn’t help—demons do travel—and if there was trouble to be found, I located it. By summer break, I’d been expelled.

So it was just me and Mother Brit, who fell back into her role as the fussy surrogate parent. She drowned me with enough attention for two. I’d gotten pretty sick that summer, and again the doctors theorized it was grief. I’d suffered two major losses in three years, and it was no wonder my body was breaking down.

Frankly, I thought the experts were all correct. It made sense that I was shutting down. Grief was a powerful enemy that sucked not only energy but the will to live. I was ready to die and unwilling to fight death off anymore.

But by August, Brit was in DC interning for a congressperson. I was feeling better and smart enough to know if I pressed too hard, Dad would ship me off again. I begged to stay home. Swore I would be good. Dad reenrolled me in my old high school, and though I was still using, I kept it at manageable levels. As long as I kept trouble behind closed doors, I was free to do what I wished.

Our lives had been splintered by that New Year’s Eve party, too many innocent lies, and a damn black blouse I’d bought with a stolen credit card.

My phone rang, startling me from my thoughts. Detective Richards. The man had radar. “Hello.”

“Can you meet me at the coffee shop on Grace Street?” His voice was gruff with hints of annoyance.

“Why?”

“There’s something I want to tell you about your sister that I never did before.”

“What?”

“Not over the phone.”

“I can be there in a half hour.”

“See you then.”





34


RICHARDS

Friday, March 18, 2022

9:30 a.m.

When Marisa entered the coffee shop, I was relieved to see her eyes were bright, and there was a warm glow in her cheeks. She was a far cry from the thin, pale teenager with charcoal-smudged blue eyes. In my career, I’d seen few real happy endings, and I wanted to believe Marisa was going to be one of them. She deserved to be happy.