The Winter Sister(5)

She pulled my sister’s senior portrait, taken earlier that school year, from its plastic sheath. In the photo, a painted bruise peeked out from Persephone’s neckline, a shadow to anyone who didn’t know, but to me, a focal point.

“So should I put the police station’s number on the flyers,” Jill asked, “or have people call us directly?”

Parker reached into his pocket and handed Jill a card in exchange for the picture. “Thank you,” he said. “You can put that info on the signs. Though I should warn you that, with things like this, we get a lot of false information. Ninety-five percent of the calls that come in are useless.”

“Well, that still leaves five percent,” Jill replied.

Ssshhhhk, ssshhhhk, ssshhhhk. In my mother’s room, paper kept ripping.

Clearing his throat, Parker rubbed his hand over the light brown stubble on his face. “Just a couple more things,” he said, shifting his gaze toward me. “Is it okay if I ask you some questions, Sylvie, before we go?”

I looked to my aunt.

“Go ahead, Sylvie,” she said. “It’s okay.”

I shrugged. “Yeah, that’s fine.”

Parker looked down at his notepad and clicked the top of his pen. “Your aunt reported that you saw your sister drive off with Ben Emory at about ten thirty the night before last. Is that correct?”

“Yes.”

“And how did she seem just before she left? Was she angry, for example? Sad? Excited to see her boyfriend?”

I imagined what the expression on her face must have been as she looked at me through the window Friday night, her breath making ghosts on the glass as she called my name. She must have looked angry, annoyed. She must have looked ready to kill me.

“I don’t know,” I told Parker. “I guess she was . . . neutral.”

He made a note on his pad. “Okay. Now, you also mentioned that she snuck out a lot to see him. Why is that?”

Everyone stared at me, the two detectives standing closest, my aunt and cousin on opposite ends of the room. So much seemed to hang on what I had to say, but how could a fourteen-year-old girl be expected to know what needed knowing?

“She’s not allowed to date,” I said. “Neither of us are. But I’m—I wouldn’t date yet anyway.”

“So your mother had no idea that your sister has been seeing Mr. Emory?”

“Well,” I started, “she didn’t know she was still seeing him.”

“Go on,” Parker prompted.

“My mom came home from the diner one night—she’s a waitress; I don’t know if that matters—and she found Persephone with Ben. They were just watching TV, I think, but it was the first time she’d ever brought a guy home, and my mom got upset. Persephone had broken the rule.”

From there, after Ben had slinked out the front door, the two of them erupted at each other, Mom yelling at Persephone for her “blatant disrespect” and Persephone screaming right back about Mom “treating us like babies.” At one point, Persephone knocked over a lamp with her wild gesticulations, and they both stared at it on the floor for a moment. Then Persephone tore off its flimsy shade and threw it across the room, where it whizzed by Mom’s face and toppled some picture frames.

“Since then,” I told Detective Parker, “Persephone’s always just snuck out to see him.”

“How well do you know him?” Falley jumped in.

“I barely know him at all. He graduated last year, so I’ve never even gone to the same school as him.”

“And Persephone’s a senior this year, correct?” Parker asked.

“Yes,” Jill and I said in unison.

Falley took a step toward me. “The reason I asked, Sylvie,” she said, “is because when we first got here, you seemed pretty sure that Ben had something to do with your sister being missing. Why is that?”

“I—what?”

“Has he ever hurt your sister before, or done anything that would put her at risk?”

“I . . .” I looked around the room. Four sets of eyes were latched onto me. “Like I said, I don’t really know him.”

“That wasn’t the question,” Parker said.

Why was I being interrogated? And where was the hot, bald light I’d seen on TV shows, the one that would shine on my face and sweat out all my secrets? At least then I wouldn’t have a choice if I betrayed Persephone. As it was, though, the living room was cool and gray. The faces of the detectives remained serious, but kind enough.

Aunt Jill came to put her arm around my shoulder protectively. I leaned into her, grateful for the save, but then she whispered in my ear, “It’s okay, Sylvie. Just tell the detectives whatever you know.”

We’re sisters, Sylvie, Persephone would always say. And that’s sacred. So I know your promise to keep this a secret isn’t just words. It means something to you. Just like you mean something to me, and just like I hope—I really, really hope—I mean something to you.

Of course you do, I’d say.

Then prove it.

“I don’t know if he ever hurt her.” I looked at Falley and Parker, at Aunt Jill. I even looked at Missy, who sat with her chin resting on the palm of her hand. They were all listening to me, somehow sure that I had the right answers. “He just has to know where she is. She was with him that night.”