Page 109 of The Lies I Told
I reached for my badge. “Detective Richards. What do you do, Alan?”
A brow arched more out of curiosity than alarm. This guy was accustomed to seeing cops. “I’m with the Commonwealth’s Attorney’s Office.”
And I knew him from somewhere. We’d crossed paths at some point. “Richmond Homicide.”
“There a problem?”
“It’s an old one that goes back a long time.”
Marisa’s door opened, and her gaze darted between the two of us. She wore jeans, a simple T-shirt, and no shoes. Dressed like this, she looked a decade younger, and I was again reminded of the body on the medical examiner’s table.
“Detective Richards?” Marisa said. “Looks like you’ve met my neighbor, Alan Bernard.”
“We just made introductions,” I said.
Alan stepped forward. “He’s with Homicide.”
Marisa’s expression softened. “I know. We go way back. I can explain later.”
“I’m holding you to that,” Alan said.
Her smile warmed another degree. “Knock on my door when you get in tonight.”
“I’ll be home late.”
“I don’t sleep much.”
Another hesitation, another sideways glance, and Alan headed down the stairs. Both Marisa and I waited until we heard the security door close.
“You got my message,” she said.
“I did.”
“Coffee?”
“Sure.” She turned into her apartment, and I followed, closing the door behind me.
I’d been to her father’s home multiple times, first for her mother and then later for Clare. I’d spent time in the twins’ bedroom, sitting on Clare’s neatly made bed and staring across to Marisa’s tangled sheets and comforter and scattered clothes on the floor.
The difference in the twins’ personalities was evident immediately. From levels of cleanliness to wall posters, to their choice of clothes, Clare and Marisa were opposites. Maybe the internal differences were a reaction to the physical similarities. Each girl needed to be her own person, and they’d expressed their differences any way they could.
This apartment was a far cry from the sixteen-year-old version of Marisa’s side of the bedroom. There were no frills, a couple of sweaters puddled on the floor, and the images on the walls were stark. As she moved toward the open galley kitchen and reached for two cups from open shelving, I was drawn to the series of black-and-white framed prints that ran along the wall. I recognized the location immediately. God knew I’d walked those shores enough times.
“I guess you think it’s odd of me to focus on that place.” She poured two cups.
“It clearly left an impression.” Accepting a mug, I sipped, found the flavor good, really good. One thing I wouldn’t miss about the work was the shit coffee.
She stood beside me, her cup cradled in her hands. She smelled of rose soap, which hit me as strange. She didn’t strike me as the flowery type. When the mother had died, I’d asked around about all three girls. Oddly, I’d always felt paternalistic toward Marisa, whose demeanor had appeared to be a coping mechanism. Unlike Marisa, Clare couldn’t release her rage but balled it up inside, and Brit, well, she was just plain sneaky.
As I turned from the photo, I caught the curve of Marisa’s breast in my peripheral vision. I was old, not dead. Creepy maybe, though she was no longer a kid but a thirty-year-old woman. “You said there was someone else.”
“David Welbourne.”
“Who’s that?”
“My sister Brit’s fiancé. He’s a money manager who works out of his home.”
“Are you drinking again?” I had a nose for alcoholics. Took one to know one. And I sensed she’d had a tussle with sobriety.
