The Winter Sister(94)

“I’ve spoken to my partner,” he said.

“Detective Falley?” I asked dimly.

“Uh, no. She—”

“Doesn’t work here anymore,” I finished for him. “Right. Sorry. I forgot.”

“It’s okay,” he said, waving away my apology. “Detective Hartwick is my partner now. He was at the scene tonight. Anyway, Ben Emory is corroborating your story.”

“My story?” My voice was small and far away, like it came from someone in another room.

“Your version of what you heard tonight,” Parker clarified. “Now, when it comes to incriminating statements made by family members of the victim, it doesn’t always hold a lot of weight in court—for reasons I’m sure you understand.”

I didn’t.

“But when you’ve got the alleged murderer’s son backing up everything you said,” Parker continued, “that’s a different story.” He leaned back in his chair and folded his arms over his chest. “It’s still only testimony, though. And listen—I believe you—I believe what you and the younger Mr. Emory said you heard tonight.” He scratched his cheek and looked at the wall behind my head, as if unable to meet my gaze. “But we’re still lacking direct evidence, and that could be a problem.”

I felt my eyes expand, an old fear instantly resurrected.

“Now, with both of your statements,” Parker rushed ahead, “we have enough to arrest Mr. Emory. But I want to warn you about the possibility that it may not stick. He’ll be arraigned in the morning, and more than likely, he’ll be able to post bail immediately.” He changed his tone then, seeming to notice the panic on my face. “But that doesn’t mean we won’t try.”

In the silence that followed, I felt tears begin to spill over onto my cheeks, wetting the salt that had dried there from tears I’d already cried.

When Parker spoke again, his voice was gruff but sincere. “I want to see him pay for this just as much as you do. I promise, Ms. O’Leary, that I will do my best for you and your sister.”

“And my mother,” I added. Even after everything, the words slipped out of my mouth like instinct, like breath.

Parker flicked his eyes toward mine and nodded. “And your mother.”

? ? ?

And now, I would have to do my best for her. I had asked Detective Parker to let me be the one to tell Mom, but when I’d finally left the police station, fetched my car from Ben’s and somehow driven it home, I hadn’t trusted myself to speak to her. Instead, I’d shuffled past her closed door and crashed onto my bed. I’d been certain then, even as sleep tugged at my eyes and eased the ache in my muscles, that I’d be clearheaded enough in the morning to do it right.

So now I had to do it. I had to tell her that the man whose love she’d worn like a lead cape on her back was the same man who’d stolen her daughter, who’d plunged her entire life into darkness. I had to hold back my fury, keep myself from screaming that her relationship with Will was the root of our relentless pain. After all, I reminded myself, planting my feet onto the floor, if it hadn’t been for that love embedded in my mother like a tick, I never would have had a sister in the first place. I never would have known the compromises I was capable of making.

So I had to be better than I wanted to be, better than I really was. The truth, I knew, would punish Mom enough.

Walking toward the door, I caught my reflection in the dresser mirror. My eyelids were swollen, my cheeks puffy, my hair matted against the side of my head. Shadows crouched beneath my eyes like bruises, and my lower lip looked bitten and chewed.

I moved closer to the glass, examining the shape of my nose, the curve of my chin, but it wasn’t until I traced my jawline with my finger that I knew what I was looking for. Will’s face the night before had been granite-hard and impenetrable, but thinking of it now, remembering the features that had been spotlighted by the bulb over the garage, I could see Persephone in it. Her blonde hair, gray eyes, and pointed chin were Mom’s, but her nose—the sharp slope of it—was Will’s. Her lips—their fullness like ripened fruit, their Cupid’s bow—were Will’s. Even her skin tone, like sunlit sand, seemed borrowed from him. It was a wonder I’d never noticed it before.

Scrutinizing my own features, I turned my head to look at every angle of my face, searching for even the slightest resemblance to Will. Mom had sworn he wasn’t my father, and I’d believed her at the time, but it was possible, I realized now, that she was still protecting him. It was possible that—

A sound came from the living room that snatched my attention away from the mirror. I listened for it again, holding my breath, and when it came, I recognized it as Mom emitting a low moan before letting out a deep, echoing retch.

I yanked open my door and headed toward the living room. When I rounded the corner, I found Mom in her chair, holding a bucket to her chest as she leaned her head back, her skin slick with sweat. The room had a stale and sour smell, and I watched Mom close her eyes, groaning.

“Mom, what’s going on? Should I call a doctor?”

I hadn’t seen her like this since the day I’d come home late from picking up her medication. I reached for the phone on the table beside her chair, but she jerked out a hand, cold and moist, to stop me.

“I’m fine,” she snapped. “It’s just—” She stopped suddenly, then opened her eyes wide as she swallowed. I saw her throat move up and down in her neck. “It’s just catching up to me. But I’m fine. It’s already passing.”