The Winter Sister(18)

It comforted me, then, to see Persephone become so dedicated to the gift our mother gave her. This simple act of wearing the starfish necklace seemed to me an acceptance of the fact that Mom loved us equally. It didn’t stop her from hypothesizing about my father, or suggesting that Mom’s Dark Days were probably some anniversary related to their relationship, but then again, once Persephone had made up her mind about something, nothing could stop her. Not even her sister’s pleas. Not even bruises.

“It’s gold,” I told Falley in the interview room. “And it has a starfish pendant.”

Falley opened a folder on the table and flipped through some papers. She paused as she read, and then closed the folder back up.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “Your sister wasn’t wearing a necklace when we found her.”

“Yes, she was,” I insisted. “She never took it off. Ever.”

Aunt Jill nodded. “That’s true,” she said. “I can’t remember the last time I saw her without it. Could you check again please?”

Falley reopened the folder as Parker stood up. “I can call over to Evidence,” he said. “Maybe it wasn’t catalogued with the rest of her personal effects. I’ll be right back.”

I pressed my fingertips into my knees. Despite its name, the phrase “personal effects” sounded completely impersonal. What about her red coat with the third button missing? What about her black boots that she’d worn until they were gray?

Falley gave us a quick, sympathetic smile, tucking her hair behind her ears again. “This necklace,” she said. “It was special to Persephone?”

“Yes,” I answered. “My mom gave it to her.”

“And she and your mom were close?”

“Um . . .”

I thought of the impatient tone that would creep into Mom’s voice whenever Persephone used to ask for a ride somewhere. (Seriously? I just got home from serving people all day long, and now you want me to serve you, too?) I thought of the day Persephone got her license, how she bounced around the house, holding it up like a trophy she’d won. But Mom refused to let her use her car. (If you think I’m letting a seventeen-year-old drive around wherever she pleases, you’re crazy. I’ll hide the keys if I have to.) Persephone ran to our room then, slammed the door behind her, and even from the hallway, I could hear her screaming into her pillow. Letting myself in, I watched with wide eyes as she punched her fists against her bed, as she unclenched her fingers to claw at the quilt, her legs kicking, her face becoming bloodred.

Even when they weren’t fighting, Persephone would talk about Mom like there was something wrong with her. “You know she drove your dad away, right?” she said to me one night just after we’d gone to bed. “I mean, that has to be it. I don’t remember him or anything, but I bet you a million dollars she loved him so much that she suffocated him. Like how she’s always doting over you. I don’t know how you stand it.” I shrugged in the dark but said nothing. I didn’t really know what she meant.

“I don’t know how to describe their relationship,” I said to Falley. “I mean, they weren’t, like, super close, but they also weren’t, like . . . I don’t know.” I looked at my hands, knotted my fingers together. “Sorry.”

“Oh, don’t be,” Falley said. “It’s a complicated question. I don’t know what I’d say, either, if someone asked me about me and my mother.” She laughed a little, and the sound was comforting. “But you’re sure she was wearing this necklace the night she drove off with Ben? You saw it on her before she left?”

I remembered her coat, sprinkled with snow as she ran back to Ben’s car. I remembered the jeans she’d put on earlier that night (“Ben likes these,” she’d said), but I couldn’t recall seeing the necklace. It was like asking me to remember if she’d been wearing socks, or if she’d brushed her teeth that morning. How do you remember a specific occurrence of something that happens every day?

“I guess, technically, I didn’t see it on her,” I said. “But she was wearing a coat. And anyway, I know she was wearing it. She was never not wearing it.”

The door opened with a loud click as Parker returned. We all looked at him expectantly, but he just shook his head, keeping his eyes focused on Falley. “She wasn’t wearing a necklace when her body was found,” he said, “and there was nothing like that recovered at the scene.”

“Then Ben must have it,” I blurted. “Maybe it fell off her when he was strangling her. Or maybe he kept it as, like, a trophy or memento or something. Isn’t that a thing murderers do?”

“Sylvie,” Aunt Jill said, placing her hand on my leg.

“I’m serious,” I said. “Don’t murderers do that?”

Parker rubbed his chin, seeming to think carefully about how to answer my question. Finally, he said, “Sometimes. But that’s more consistent with the behavior of a serial killer. And there’s no evidence to suggest that this was the work of someone like that.”

“Sylvie,” Falley said, before I had a chance to respond. “If your sister was, in fact, wearing a necklace that night, and it’s missing now, then we have to be open to the possibility that this was a robbery gone wrong.”