The Lies I Told(81)

“I’m holding you to that,” Alan said.

Her smile warmed another degree. “Knock on my door when you get in tonight.”

“I’ll be home late.”

“I don’t sleep much.”

Another hesitation, another sideways glance, and Alan headed down the stairs. Both Marisa and I waited until we heard the security door close.

“You got my message,” she said.

“I did.”

“Coffee?”

“Sure.” She turned into her apartment, and I followed, closing the door behind me.

I’d been to her father’s home multiple times, first for her mother and then later for Clare. I’d spent time in the twins’ bedroom, sitting on Clare’s neatly made bed and staring across to Marisa’s tangled sheets and comforter and scattered clothes on the floor.

The difference in the twins’ personalities was evident immediately. From levels of cleanliness to wall posters, to their choice of clothes, Clare and Marisa were opposites. Maybe the internal differences were a reaction to the physical similarities. Each girl needed to be her own person, and they’d expressed their differences any way they could.

This apartment was a far cry from the sixteen-year-old version of Marisa’s side of the bedroom. There were no frills, a couple of sweaters puddled on the floor, and the images on the walls were stark. As she moved toward the open galley kitchen and reached for two cups from open shelving, I was drawn to the series of black-and-white framed prints that ran along the wall. I recognized the location immediately. God knew I’d walked those shores enough times.

“I guess you think it’s odd of me to focus on that place.” She poured two cups.

“It clearly left an impression.” Accepting a mug, I sipped, found the flavor good, really good. One thing I wouldn’t miss about the work was the shit coffee.

She stood beside me, her cup cradled in her hands. She smelled of rose soap, which hit me as strange. She didn’t strike me as the flowery type. When the mother had died, I’d asked around about all three girls. Oddly, I’d always felt paternalistic toward Marisa, whose demeanor had appeared to be a coping mechanism. Unlike Marisa, Clare couldn’t release her rage but balled it up inside, and Brit, well, she was just plain sneaky.

As I turned from the photo, I caught the curve of Marisa’s breast in my peripheral vision. I was old, not dead. Creepy maybe, though she was no longer a kid but a thirty-year-old woman. “You said there was someone else.”

“David Welbourne.”

“Who’s that?”

“My sister Brit’s fiancé. He’s a money manager who works out of his home.”

“Are you drinking again?” I had a nose for alcoholics. Took one to know one. And I sensed she’d had a tussle with sobriety.

“Hear me out.” Her gaze didn’t waver. Either her worries were fueled by boozy paranoia, or she was batshit crazy.

“Are you drinking again?” It surprised me how much I was rooting for her sobriety.

She drew in a breath. “I had a slipup the other night. I drank a couple of bottles of wine. But I went to a meeting last night and today, I called my sponsor once, and I’ll hit another meeting tomorrow.”

I muttered, “Shit,” as I stared at her. No sense in asking how something like that had happened. Sometimes it just did. That was what made a lush so hard to love. But that didn’t temper my disappointment.

“Jo-Jo had Clare’s camera.”

“I thought we looked at all your cameras.”

“You looked at mine. Clare had a small one that was hers. Clare visited Jo-Jo hours before the party. She left her coat, and in the pocket was the camera.”

“And Jo-Jo didn’t tell me this why?”

“It was her private connection to Clare. She liked having a piece of Clare no one else did. The three of us were pretty tight at one point. Some called us the Three Musketeers.”

“She might also have let her killer go free.” The words tasted bitter as I ground them out.

“I know. And you can deal with her on that score later. For now, let’s deal with the bigger issue.” She had the focus of a dog with a bone.

“Which is?”

“You said the DNA of Clare’s baby did not match any of the males in her life. Around the time she got pregnant, I went to visit Brit at college and Clare stayed behind to attend an art show. I was supposed to go as well, but Brit talked me into staying in Charlottesville and shopping.”

“I remember something from the notes that I took at our interviews. Didn’t you get drunk while you were at your sister’s school and passed out?”

“That’s right.”

“Okay.”

“Clare used to like to take pictures. She always had this camera with her. I clicked through them and saw an image in mid-November of a guy who looked like David.”

“David? Did he live in the area about that time?”

“He was in college with Brit, which is an hour’s drive away. He said his family is from California, so he must have been visiting friends in the area over the Thanksgiving holiday.” She handed me the camera.

I clicked through the images. “You know that for a fact?”

“A theory.”

“Has David ever indicated that he saw Clare or you before her death?”