The Lies I Told(88)

“Great.”

Stepping inside, I gripped my purse strap. Tension rippled over my muscles and breath tightened in my throat. As I moved down the hallway, no sense of déjà vu set off any alarm bells.

“How did you know where I lived?” he asked as he closed the door with a firm click.

“Brit told me. I mentioned I’d like to talk to you about the pictures.”

“Right. She should know. She’s been here enough.” He walked past me and crossed the open-concept room that adjoined a kitchen outfitted with a large island. “You look great today,” he said.

“Well, when I have dinner with Brit, it’s always wise to bring my A game. Trying to be a good sister.”

“You’re a good sister, Marisa. And I know Brit loves you very much. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve caught her fretting over you.”

“I’m a work in progress.”

“Making fine growth. Can I get you coffee?”

“Sure. That would be great.” I’d had a gallon today, but that wasn’t the point.

My gaze wandered the room. Neat, midcentury modern with a long, low couch in front of a fireplace surrounded by marble. Above the mantel was a black-and-white photograph of the Sierra Nevada during a fire that wrapped gray smoke around the jagged peaks. It was a stunning piece.

“Like it?” He set up the coffee maker and hit “Brew.”

“Very nice,” I said. “Where did you get it?”

“I was traveling out west. Saw it in a gallery and couldn’t pass it up. Some images come chock-full of emotion. But you understand that, don’t you?”

“I do.” Silence was broken only by the gurgling coffee maker.

“I’d love to see your work. Brit says it’s very good.”

I arched a brow. “Brit said that?”

“She speaks highly of you.”

That I doubted. Worrying questions and comments were Brit’s way of reminding herself and me that I’d failed many times. She was a better person when I was screwing up. “Nice to know.”

He ran long fingers through thick bangs that made him look younger than his thirty-five years. He was an attractive man. Perhaps his face was a bit full for my tastes, but his brown eyes had a way of looking at me without making me feel stalked or targeted. Still, they missed little.

“You take cream and sugar, right? Not the calorie counter like Brit.”

“Correct.”

I moved toward the kitchen, watching him pull two navy-blue mugs from a new set of walnut cabinets. He poured coffee in each and from the refrigerator removed a carton of creamer. My brand. He set it on the counter beside the cups and a small sugar bowl. “I know this must be bittersweet for Brit and you. I mean, not having Clare.”

Every time he said Clare’s name, it felt off, as if he were trespassing. “Not a day goes by that I don’t think of her.”

He frowned. “Her death is very painful for Brit.”

I didn’t want to dwell on Clare’s ending. I was more interested in the days leading up to her death. “You know she liked to take pictures, too?”

“Really? Brit didn’t mention that.”

“She wasn’t as into it as me, but she liked it. Who knows if she would have stuck with it, but I remember her always snapping pictures with her point-and-shoot camera. Dad gave us matching ones for our last birthday together.”

“Do you have any of her pictures?” David asked.

“She never got any developed. All her important pictures were on her camera.”

“What happened to the camera? Do you have it?”

“I think my father threw it out with all her things.”

His expression looked pained. “He threw her belongings away?”

“While I was at boarding school. He thought the memories would upset me.” What had deeply troubled me was coming home to the too-clean room. Her sketchbooks, clothes, books, and makeup had vanished. The twin beds were gone, and in their place sat a double. Room for one.

“That’s a shame for you.”

“Yes.”

He pushed the creamer and sugar bowl toward me. “I’ll let you dress it,” he said as he raised his cup to his lips.

I splashed a generous amount of creamer in my cup and then followed with two heaping teaspoons of sugar. My spoon clinked against the inside of the mug as I stirred. He watched me as I raised the cup to my lips. I hesitated, pretended it was too hot. “Need to let it cool off.”

“Your sister likes it hot.” He actually blushed. “The coffee, I mean.”

“Just her style.” I set the mug on the counter.

He cradled his cup, took a sip. “Where do you envision taking our engagement pictures? I went on your website, and your portfolio is impressive. Pictures are unique, unforgettable.”

“Thank you. Do you and Brit have a favorite place?”

He set his cup down next to mine. His DNA now rimmed the mug’s lip, but was it enough? How much would Richards need?

“You’ll have to ask Brit. I want her to be happy with the pictures. I’m afraid I disappointed her with the engagement ring.” Below the utter calmness churned something.

“Why do you say that?”

“She doesn’t hide her emotions well.” He sipped his coffee again. “From me anyway.”