The Girl in the Mirror(25)

My mother fades out of my mental picture, and Francine’s face takes her place beside Colton. Younger, blonder, and more ruthless. Dad chose Francine over Annabeth, so why wouldn’t Colton, too?

It seems out of character for Summer to imagine love—or whatever it is, some secret sexual thing—between our stepmother and our uncle. “Do you really think he’s fucking Francine?” I ask.

“Steady on, Iris! No, I don’t think anything of the sort. It was Adam’s idea. I don’t like to speculate. But I’ll tell you what isn’t speculation . . .” She taps away on the iPad.

“Summer, I hate to break it to you, but you can’t check Facebook in the middle of the Indian Ocean.”

“I know,” she says, “but Adam took screenshots. Here!” She thrusts the screen in my face.

It’s Virginia’s Facebook page. My half sister is looking a hell of a lot older and prettier than last time I saw her, at Summer’s wedding late last year. In her profile pic, her skintight dress reveals her new curves. She’s lost the albino look. Her brows and lashes are darker, and her hair is curled. It makes her look a lot more like us.

“There are more screenshots,” says Summer, flicking her hand across the screen. There’s a new, steely tone in her voice, and she darts her eyes at the screen and away again, as though she can hardly bear to look at our half sister.

In the next screenshot, a group of young people pose on a windswept beach. The sand is jet black, and a great rock rises behind them, like a lion looking out to sea.

“This photo isn’t from Virginia’s page,” says Summer. “This is Jake, an old school friend of Adam’s.” She points to a smiling face in the foreground.

“I know that beach,” I say. “That’s Lion Rock at Piha Beach in New Zealand.”

“That’s right,” says Summer. “Take a good look.”

I don’t recognize anyone in the foreground, but in the background, a platinum blond in a multicolored bikini looks familiar. I point to her. “Do you think that’s Virginia?”

“I’m certain,” says Summer. “I gave her that rainbow bikini. Now, have a squiz at this.”

It’s another beach photo, a close-up of a teenage boy, as chalky blond as Virginia. The caption reads, Richie turns sixteen, and the name Richard Bishop is tagged. His face takes up most of the frame, but I can see that he is seated with a girl standing behind him. A female torso is visible, bare except for a scrap of rainbow fabric, and slender arms encircle his shoulders in an embrace that looks both intimate and uncomfortable. The girl’s face is out of shot, but I can see snow-white hair.

“See, Richard lives in New Zealand.” Summer scrolls through the screenshots and points to the words.

“Richard Bishop. That name rings a bell.” I hunt through my brain for the memory.

“Bishop is Francine’s maiden name. Richard is her brother’s stepson. His real dad was never in the picture, so he has his stepfather’s surname.”

I’m beginning to understand Summer’s hostility. “Yuck,” I say. “That means he and Virginia are practically cousins. And they’re dating?”

“I don’t know if dating is the word,” says Summer. “Gross as it is, I wish they were dating, but look at her posture. Look at her arms. They should be resting on his shoulders, but instead they’re hovering an inch above his body. She’s trying not to touch him. You can see that she’s not into him. So tell me, what would be the point in dating a relative who you don’t even like?”

I take the iPad from Summer and look again at the close-up of Richard. It’s as though the girl’s face has been deliberately cropped out. I zoom in on the arm hovering above Richard’s shoulder, on the left hand. She’s wearing a fat diamond ring.

“They’re engaged,” I say. “Francine’s jacked it up with her brother, and they’ll marry as soon as Virginia’s eighteen. They’re keeping it secret from us so we don’t hurry up. I don’t know what we can do, though. They’re not truly related, and even if they were actual cousins, it isn’t against the law to marry your cousin.”

“Damn,” says Summer. “I was hoping you would say it was illegal. Or at least that it was possible to object to the wedding. Isn’t that why the priest asks whether anyone has a reason why these two shouldn’t be wed?”

“No,” I say. “You have to have a lawful reason why they shouldn’t be wed. Like that one of them is already married, or that the marriage is incestuous—but even real first cousins don’t count as incest. Not in Australia, and not in New Zealand, either, I’m afraid. But the marriage law is different there.”

The back of my neck prickles. I’ve been thinking that fifteen is awfully early to be getting engaged. Now I remember something else about New Zealand’s marriage laws.

“So it’s kind of lucky that I’m pregnant,” says Summer. “Otherwise, look what Francine was capable of. She was going to marry Virginia off on her eighteenth birthday.”

“It’s worse than that, Summer,” I say. “Don’t you see? New Zealand is the key. New Zealand is their trump card. All along we thought there was plenty of time, but Francine was hatching her plan, and Uncle Colton, too, maybe. The point is, the legal age of marriage in New Zealand is different from Australia. With your parents’ permission—and I reckon that won’t be a problem—you can marry in New Zealand at sixteen. When is Virginia’s birthday?”