The Lies I Told(69)

“What?”

Richards’s theory still felt so far-fetched, but I hoped saying it out loud to Brit would give it credibility. “It’s called Munchausen syndrome by proxy. In our case, poison a kid to get Daddy’s attention.”

“Did you get that idea from Richards, too?”

“Is it true?”

“How would I know?”

“Because we kept getting sick after Mom died. Did you continue the tradition?”

“Richards is filling your head with shit. None of that is true. I took you to doctors. They all agreed the stomach pains were stress!”

As much as I wanted to press, that didn’t matter right now. Clare’s death topped all our family’s demented emotional problems. “Did you know seventy percent of women are murdered by someone they know and that the incidence of a woman being killed rises when she’s pregnant?”

“That factoid from one of your internet searches or Richards?”

“Does it matter?” I asked.

She took several sips of wine. I smelled the fruity aroma and felt old cravings kicking in. I popped the seltzer, found the manufactured lemon flavor bland.

“It’ll always matter. Richards is filling your head with lies.”

“Why would he lie?”

She laughed. “Honey, he’s desperate to make an arrest in this case. Not solving Clare’s murder ruined his career. He’s lucky they let him ride a desk the last thirteen years.”

“I believe him.”

Brit shook her head. “I can’t do this right now. I’m supposed to meet David for drinks.”

“This is more important, don’t you think?”

“I can’t fix the past. But I can try to build a decent future. You should do the same.”

“You’re building a future with David?”

“Maybe. Why not? He’s good marriage material.”

He’d shown up out of nowhere at the hospital after my accident. Happenstance was possible, but not likely. “He doesn’t seem your type.”

“We all grow up, Marisa. The bad boys are all fun and games when we’re young, but you can’t make a life with them. You should try to find a normal guy instead of your latest addiction.”

“What’s that mean?”

“You’re swapping one addiction for another. Staying off the booze and drugs and now obsessing about Clare. You always take it too far.”

“I’m not obsessing. I want to find Clare’s killer. I thought you’d want the same.”

“Thirteen years! It’s been thirteen years. It’ll take a miracle to find her killer now.” When I readied a rebuttal, Brit held up her hand. “Save it. I’m too tired. And I’m not going to ruin this bit of happiness coming my way, so I can’t indulge you right now. We’ll talk in a few days. You know your way out.”

Brit set her half-full glass of wine on the counter and walked past me to the back staircase leading from the kitchen to the second floor.

The cold shoulder and smothering, heavy silences were her specialties. I should have been immune to both by now, but the isolation stung. We were the last of our family, but that still wasn’t enough.

My gaze settled on the glass of wine. Of course Brit would just leave it out at a time like this. It was a test. Brit liked her little tests.

I raised the glass, held it up to the light. She knew I’d look at it, swirl it in the glass, wonder how much I’d actually taste as I slugged it down. I sniffed the wine, inhaled the scent, and then lowered it back to the counter, ready to prove to Brit I was a different person.

I carried the bottle and wineglass to the sink, studied the vintage. Expensive. I poured the bottle down the sink. As I reached for the glass of wine, an irresistible urge overcame me. It wasn’t a craving or longing but a powerful force that devoured all my good intentions, common sense, and a year’s worth of sobriety mantras. As I readied to dump the glass’s contents down the drain, I stopped.

I raised it to my lips and gulped it down in two sips. “Fuck you, Brit.”





39


MARISA

Friday, March 18, 2022

7:45 p.m.

My mind was still buzzing from the wine and the anger boiling in my veins when I parked in my spot at my apartment building. I reached for the plastic bag filled with three bottles of grocery-store merlot.

Bottles clinking in the bag, I hurried up to my apartment, glanced toward Alan’s door, and was grateful there was no sign of life. Any contact with a familiar human might have derailed this headlong journey to destruction, and I didn’t want to be stopped. Inside my place, I closed and locked the door behind me before I removed each bottle from the bag and lined them up like soldiers ready for battle. My purse slid off my shoulder to the kitchen floor, and I reached in the cabinet for a glass. No fancy wineglasses to be found, only regular tumblers. Grabbing one, I twisted the top off and filled the glass nearly to the brim. I held it up to the light just as Brit had. Back in the day, I didn’t even bother with a glass. It was straight out of the bottle, emphasis on buzz, not taste.

Even as anger scorched through reason, I had enough presence of mind to pause as I raised the glass to my lips. “This is what I am. The family lush.”

Clare’s own self-destructive path had likely led to her death, and now as far as I was concerned, mine could lead me to the same dark ending.