The Silent Sister by Diane Chamberlain
JANUARY 1990
PROLOGUE
Alexandria, Virginia
All day long, people stopped along the path that ran through the woods by the Potomac River. Bundled in their parkas and wool scarves, they stood close to one another for warmth and clutched the mittened hands of their children or the leashes of their dogs as they stared at the one splash of color in the winter-gray landscape. The yellow kayak sat in the middle of the river, surrounded by ice. The water had been rough the night before, buffeted by snowy winds, rising into swirling whitecaps as the temperature plummeted and the waves froze in jagged crests, trapping the kayak many yards from shore.
The walkers had seen the kayak on the morning news, but they still needed to see it in person. It marked the end of a saga that had gripped them for months. They’d looked forward to the trial that would never happen now, because the seventeen-year-old girl—the seventeen-year-old murderer, most were sure—now rested somewhere beneath that rocky expanse of ice.
She took the easy way out, some of them whispered to one another.
But what a terrible way to die, others said.
They looked at the rocky bank of the river and wondered if she’d put some of those rocks in her pockets to make herself sink. They wondered if she’d cried as she paddled the kayak into the water, knowing the end was near. She’d cried on TV, for certain. Faking it, some of them said now as they moved on down the path. It was too cold to stand in one spot for very long.
But there was one woman, bundled warm, gloved hands in her pockets, who stood at the side of the path for hours. She watched as the news chopper collected fresh aerial images, its blades a deafening dark blur against the gray sky. She watched as the police milled along the banks of the river, pointing in one direction and then the other as they considered how they’d retrieve the kayak from the ice … and how they would search for the girl’s body beneath it.
The woman looked at the police again. They stood with their hands on their hips now, as though they were giving up. This case was closed. She pulled her jacket more tightly around herself. Let them give up, she thought, pleased, as she watched a police officer shrug his shoulders in what looked like defeat. Let them wrest that kayak from the river and call it a day.
Although a yellow kayak stranded in ice proved nothing.
They were fools if they thought it did.
PART ONE
JUNE 2013
1.
Riley
I’d never expected to lose nearly everyone I loved by the time I was twenty-five.
I felt the grief rise again as I parked in front of the small, nondescript post office in Pollocksville. The three-hour drive from my apartment in Durham had seemed more like six as I made a mental list of all the things I needed to do once I reached New Bern, and that list segued into thinking of how alone I felt. But I didn’t have time to dwell on my sadness.
The first thing I had to do was stop at this post office, ten miles outside of New Bern. I’d get that out of the way and cross one thing off my list. Digging the flimsy white postcard from my purse, I went inside the building. I was the only customer, and my tennis shoes squeaked on the floor as I walked up to the counter where a clerk waited for me. With her dark skin and perfect cornrows, she reminded me of my friend Sherise, so I liked her instantly.
“How can I help you?” she asked.
I handed her the postcard. “I’m confused about this card,” I said. “My father died a month ago. I’ve been getting his mail at my address in Durham and this card came and—”
“We send these out when someone hasn’t paid their bill for their post office box,” she said, looking at the card. “It’s a warning. They don’t pay it in two months, we close the box and change the lock.”
“Well, I understand that, but see”—I turned the card over—“this isn’t my father’s name. I don’t know who Fred Marcus is. My father was Frank MacPherson, so I think this came to me by mistake. I don’t even think my father had a post office box. I don’t know why he would. Especially not in Pollocksville when he lives—lived—in New Bern.” It would take me a long time to learn to speak about my father in the past tense.
“Let me check.” She disappeared into the rear of the building and came back a moment later holding a thin purple envelope and a white index-type card. “This is the only thing in the box,” she said, handing the envelope to me. “Addressed to Fred Marcus. I checked the records and the box is assigned to that name at this street address.” She held the index card out to me. The signature did look like my father’s handwriting, but his handwriting was hardly unique. And besides, it wasn’t his name.
“That’s the right street address, but whoever this guy is, he must have written his address down wrong,” I said, slipping the purple envelope into my purse.
“You want me to close the box or you want to pay to keep it open?” the clerk asked.
“I don’t feel like it’s mine to close, but I’m not going to pay for it, so…” I shrugged.
“I’ll close it, then,” she said.
“All right.” I was glad she’d made the decision for me. I smiled. “I hope Fred Marcus doesn’t mind, whoever he is.” I turned toward the door.