The Better Liar(3)

    I touched the scratch again, compulsively, like an itch. How could she have let it happen?

I was forced to stop at a light. The image of my sister’s body floated up before me, more bone than flesh.

How could she have let it happen?

The exultation of my escape began to leach out of me. All the way into the city that morning I’d felt myself pushed forward as if on a wave. I’d never driven so far alone before. The highways between New Mexico and Nevada were dwarfed periodically by mesas, and the traffic was so infrequent that the cars resembled a thin rushing stream between the lowering rocks. The whole way here I’d been thinking to myself: I’ll talk to her—I’ll explain—and then everything will be all right—

I pulled off the freeway at the next exit and turned in to the first open parking lot I saw. Three cars took up the only spots shaded by the single tree. The sun hung just past the visor, turning the dust on the windshield opaque, so that I could barely see beyond the confines of the car. The illusion of privacy gave me a little comfort, and I picked up the phone to call Iker back.

My hands shook. I tried to press the home button, but my fingers were stiff from gripping the steering wheel so tightly. I fumbled and dropped the phone into my lap.

I clenched my teeth and let the air escape in a hiss. Maybe it was hunger. The last time I’d eaten was breakfast. It was just past five now.

I had to strain to make out the sign on the building I’d parked in front of. GEORGE’S. Some kind of steakhouse. The building wore a badly constructed stone fa?ade, like a Macaroni Grill, and all the blinds were drawn, but the outer doors stood open.

The bottoms of my shoes warmed as I crossed the parking lot into the stuffy little vestibule and pushed through the inner set of doors. It was cooler inside, with a large exposed air vent near the ceiling whuffing away; despite that industrial fixture, the rest of the restaurant was outfitted like a midcentury men’s club, with dark wood paneling and heavy curtains flanking each window. At the edges of the room were large plush booths with gold hooks for coats and hats; the rest of the dining room was taken up by freestanding tables set with white tablecloths and upended water glasses. No one was in the restaurant, not even any workers; except for the air vent, I was the only thing breathing.

    I went up to the host stand, feeling underdressed in my slacks and blouse. “Hello?” I said. “Are you open?”

There was a clanking noise from the kitchen, and a rat-mustached teenager leaned out from between the swinging doors, his head suspended briefly midair. “One second.”

I edged behind the host stand and took a menu. It was expensive to eat here. Vegas prices. Ordinarily I wouldn’t. The red meat. But my hands wouldn’t stop shaking; the menu fluttered as I held it. Didn’t they say you should eat protein if you felt faint?

The teenager returned and crept around me to reach the wrapped silverware. “Just one?”

“Yes,” I said, trying to fit the menu back into its stack and knocking several others to the floor. The kid scrambled to pick them up for me. “A steak. A porterhouse. And a glass of wine. No—I have to drive. Water.”

“Do you want it to go?” His forehead wrinkled.

“No.” I gripped the edge of the host stand. “I want to sit down.”

“Okay—uh…” He led me to a booth and leaned across one of the seats to open the blinds for me. I blinked as the late-afternoon light hit the varnished table. “We’re still firing up the grill, so it’ll be a half a minute.”

I nodded. He went away, his too-large oxford shirt hanging off his shoulders. I sat down and put my head in my hands.

If I had shown up even a day earlier, she would have been alive.

A different oxford shirt appeared in my peripheral vision. “One glass of water. I’m Sherrod, I’ll be your server today. Can I get you anything else to drink?”

My gaze drifted to the window. Outside, a man in the parking lot got out of his SUV and went around to its rear door, where he lifted out a little white boxer puppy, which he set on the asphalt next to a water bowl. He filled the bowl from a small water bottle and squatted down next to the dog as it drank, stroking its ears.

    “Ma’am?”

I jerked to face him, spilling water. “I’m sorry.”

“No, I’ll get it.” He lifted my glass and mopped the dripping table with the rag he carried at his side. “Can I get you anything else? Your order should be out shortly.”

“No. Thank you.”

When I looked up again, the waiter was gone.

It had taken me two months to track Robin down. The last number I’d had for her had been picked up by someone named Andre, who said he thought Robin had moved to Las Vegas but he wasn’t sure, and if I found her to tell her to go fuck herself. I’d searched Robin Voigt as well as the fake name she’d been using to avoid her creditors, but found nothing. At last someone had left a message on my father’s answering machine regarding a new credit card registered to my father’s address. The name on the card was Rachel Vreeland. I searched this new name and found an address. The property was part of the SweetHomes rental company. Iker picked up when I called. I need to find my sister, I’d told him. Rachel Vreeland. Our father left her a lot of money in his will. Iker had said, Yes, yes, Ms. Vreeland. Yes, in Henderson.