The Winter Sister(64)

“I’ll call you soon,” Jill wrote. “We’re going to Skype with Carl and show him his beautiful daughter!”

I let my phone slip from my grasp. Then I lay with my arms at my sides as if strapped to my bed with restraints. A few moments later, another text came in, and instead of Jill again, it was Lauren.

“Hey,” she’d written, “I looked up your sister’s murder and I think we should talk.”

I sucked in my breath, held it for a moment, and then slowly let it out. So now she knew—when Persephone died, how old I’d been, how much I’d kept from her about who I really was. I should have figured she’d do some research; Lauren wasn’t the type to wait for information.

Nausea roiled in my stomach, my hands suddenly clammy. I knew what she’d ask me now: Why didn’t you tell me? But the only way to defend my decision was with the indefensible, the details that all the articles hadn’t reported. And how could I explain the window, the lock, the taps on the glass that I’d heard that night but hadn’t answered? How could I expect her to know the truth and love me anyway?

I turned off my phone without responding. Rolling onto my side, I blinked a few times at Persephone’s bed, and studied the flaps of Tommy’s box, splayed open like begging hands. His name stared out at me in bold black letters, reminding me that I was not the only one who’d done my sister wrong. At the very least, he had watched her, left her notes, and then after she had died, he’d conned his way into taking her things. But what exactly had he wanted from her? And what had he done with her scarves, or the jeans she’d once drawn on, or her starfish necklace? My fingers twitched with the need to touch them all.

I stared at the space beneath Tommy’s name, where the address of his house was neatly written. Each word was clear and unmistakable, as if I’d always been intended to see it and know exactly where he lived.

Sitting up in bed, I swung my feet over the side and felt my pulse begin to pound. My heart was not a raisin—it was furiously pumping inside me—and I knew now it wasn’t Boston I needed to drive to; it was Tommy’s.





20




The sign announcing my arrival to Pewter Hinge, the trailer park where Tommy lived, called the place “a luxurious mobile home community,” and I wondered if I’d been wrong to picture Tommy’s trailer as little more than a dirty boxcar. I’d imagined dishes competing for space in the sink, a sheetless mattress kicked into the corner of the room. I’d imagined all of his spaces, even the road itself, to be dark and neglected, but the piles of shoveled snow beneath the sign were reflecting the afternoon sunlight, and I had to pull down my visor to keep from being blinded.

Just before I’d left the house that afternoon, I’d received another text from Lauren. “Come on, Sylvie,” she’d said. “Don’t ignore me. Let’s talk.” But I didn’t want to talk, I wanted to do, and now my phone sat in my cup holder with the ringer turned off as I navigated the rows of trailers, all with the same awning-covered doors and muted siding. As soon as I found Tommy’s, confirming the address with the piece of paper I’d gripped to a moist crinkle, I squeezed the steering wheel with both hands.

A navy BMW sat in front of his house. It was a scratched older model, but it looked wildly out of place. Parking behind it, I grabbed the package that Mom had made for Tommy and got out of the car. As I walked toward the front door, I measured my breaths, and when I climbed up the steps, I kept my teeth clenched together, my toes curled tight in my boots. An icy wind swirled around me as I knocked.

For a few moments after Tommy opened the door, I could only blink at him—the bulk of his body, broader than I remembered; the sandy hair that was already thinning; the goatee that seemed coarse as a broom. He looked nothing like the scrawny boy who once lived on my street. He blinked at me, too, taking in my face, the box in my arms, the entire length of my body, and then he laughed, loud and explosive as a car with a broken muffler.

“Jesus,” he said. “Special delivery?” He nodded toward the package.

“Um . . .” I looked at his eyes, a deep but murky brown. “You probably don’t remember me, but I used to—”

“I know who you are,” he said. “And I didn’t kill your sister.”

My mouth fell open, cold air rushing along my teeth. He was grinning at me, seeming to find pleasure in my surprise, the smile slinking farther up his cheeks as he continued to look me over.

“What?” I said. “I didn’t even . . .”

He took a step back and opened the door as wide as it would go, allowing me a glimpse into his living room. I squinted into the shadows, and when I saw what Tommy was gesturing toward, I stiffened.

There, standing in front of a chair, as if it were the most natural place in the world for him to be, was Ben.

“What are you doing here?” I hissed at him.

He looked a little embarrassed, rubbing the back of his neck and staring at the floor, but there was something else in his expression, too—annoyance, maybe? Frustration? I didn’t have time to untangle what I was seeing. He started toward me, and when he reached the door, he turned to Tommy.

“Mind if I step outside with her for a second?” he asked.

“Oh sure,” Tommy replied. “But hurry back, okay? I can tell this is gonna be fun.”