The Silent Sister(28)

The search for MacPherson’s body continues.

I stared at the article, trying to comprehend it. “I always thought she killed herself because she was overwhelmed by how stressful her career had become and because she was worrying about getting into Juilliard, and…” My voice trailed off. I looked across the room at Jeannie, holding up the article I’d just read. “This is for real?”

Jeannie nodded. “I’m afraid so. I knew her quite well, Riley, and she was such a nice girl—studious and always with an eye toward her future. Your mother homeschooled her, as I’m sure you know, but she had friends even though she wasn’t in a regular school. Other violin students, that sort of thing. She had a few rough patches…” She looked into the distance as if remembering some hardship of Lisa’s. “But what kid doesn’t?” she asked.

“Do you think she killed him because of the letter to Juilliard?” I asked.

“No, of course not! I believe that, for whatever reason, she got hold of your father’s gun. Maybe to show him? I don’t know. And she—”

“To show him? That doesn’t make sense. Was it just lying around? It sounds like she was angry and intentionally shot him.” My exalted image of my sister was rapidly deteriorating. I felt as if I was losing her all over again.

“Frank blamed himself,” Jeannie said. “He always has. His service revolver was locked up in the den, but Lisa knew where it was. This was up in your Virginia house. Maybe Lisa just threatened Steve with the gun. Maybe she had lost her mind a little bit over that letter and she was asking him to make it right. That’s what I’ve always pictured. She threatened him and maybe there was a scuffle and it went off. I don’t know. No one will ever know. All I know was that it was heartbreaking. Your mother never really recovered from all she went through.”

“I’m in shock,” I said honestly. “Is this why Daddy retired early from the Marshals Service?”

“Well, he was technically too young to retire, but it’s why he left, yes. He and your mother wanted to move someplace where they could start over completely fresh for you and Danny.”

“But Danny would have been six years old when Lisa died. He would have had some idea of what was going on, wouldn’t he? He would have known why she really killed herself.”

Jeannie looked old all of a sudden, her blue eyes tired. “You’re right,” she said slowly, “and I think they did your brother a huge disservice.” She rubbed her temples. “I hate to criticize them, because I know they were surviving the best they could and they probably weren’t thinking straight at the time. But they made up their minds that you and Danny should grow up not knowing about the murder, and so if Danny asked questions about things he’d heard, or things other kids said, your mother and father would tell him those kids didn’t know what they were talking about. And like I said, they moved down here right away and did a pretty good job of starting fresh. The shooting and Lisa’s suicide were national news, but somehow the kids down here didn’t get the message, and to the best of my knowledge they left Danny alone about it. So he ultimately bought into the whole ‘she killed herself because she was depressed’ idea, same as you.” She pressed her palms together in her lap. “And if he remembered things other children said, your parents would say he must be misremembering. I think that was a little cruel to him. It must have made him feel crazy sometimes. I think that’s what led to him being so … disturbed. He had a lot of problems when they moved here.”

“He was always getting into trouble at school,” I said, remembering what my brother was like by the time he reached his teens. “He’d get into fights and wouldn’t do his homework. And he argued with Mom and Daddy nearly every night.” I remembered the fights. I’d cower in my room while my parents and Danny went at it, shouting and arguing about his grades and his foul language and the kids he hung out with. I’d been eleven years old, and I’d missed the big brother who’d doted on me and had always seemed like my protector. I’d put the pillow over my head to block out the noise.

“His school recommended that he see a counselor,” Jeannie said, “but your parents wouldn’t hear of it. They were afraid he’d say something about … the shooting and that Lisa killed herself, and then it would get out in New Bern and defeat the purpose of moving.”

That really got to me. “How terrible for him,” I said. “He needed help and they kept it from him.” The thought of my brother’s confusion tore me up. No wonder his feelings toward our parents were so bitter. I couldn’t blame him. As far as I knew, they never did get him help. How could they trust him to hold tight to the family lies?

I wasn’t sure who in my family I hurt worse for. The brother I’d adored, being told one thing while knowing another. My father, whose guilt over the gun must have haunted him his entire life. Or my mother, who lost her oldest child. And then there was my sister, the ethereal creature I’d seen on the tapes, struggling to live with the guilt of having taken a life. I dropped my head against the back of the chair and shut my eyes. “I wish I didn’t know any of this,” I said.

But now that I did know it, I had to know it all.

* * *

I sent Jeannie home, then sat up in bed reading every word of every article, including one that described the scene at our house when the police arrived: “Mr. Davis was found on the blood-soaked living room floor, MacPherson kneeling over him, a .357 Magnum in her hand. Davis had been shot in the temple and the eye and was pronounced dead at the scene.”