Page 36 of The Lies I Told
The room stilled and neither Brit nor I breathed.
“Sorry about that.” David coated the words with enough charm to ease my sister’s frown. If this exchange had been between Brit and me, we’d be fighting, and I’d be counting seconds to my exit. But David, who’d likely gotten an earful about me from Brit, skated by unscathed.
Brit set her fork down, reached for a wineglass filled with sparkling water. She had to be calculating the minutes until I left and she could crack open a red. Brit loved her reds. So had Clare, for that matter.
I plucked a slice of buttered garlic bread from the platter and tore off a bite-size piece. “I went to see Detective Richards.”
Brit picked up her fork and looked at David as if praying for strength. “And?”
“Nothing,” I said.
“Who’s Detective Richards?” David asked.
“He investigated our sister’s murder,” Brit said.
I’d heard that word so many times now that it felt more like a bramble brushing my skin than a knife slicing flesh. “There’s nothing new to report. And he’s retiring in a couple of weeks.”
“He’s always been good about following up every few years,” Brit said.
“Clare died thirteen years ago, right?” David said.
“That’s right, babe,” Brit said.
“I asked for his case files, but he said he couldn’t do it,” I said.
“Why?” David asked.
“Formal police records can’t be handed out, I suppose, especially in an open case,” I said.
“But it’s not solved after thirteen years. The cops have had their shot. Now you get yours,” David said.
My opinion of David was improving. “Logic and the law don’t always mesh.”
“What would you do if you had the case files?” Brit’s expression teetered between shock and amusement, much like it had when I was nine and she’d caught me tie-dyeing all my clothes purple and white. “Follow up on old leads?”
“That’s exactly what I’d do. I’d start making the rounds just like the detective did thirteen years ago.”
“If no one knew anything then, they won’t now,” Brit countered.
“That’s not always true. People change over time. Breakups happen, someone dies, priorities shift, and someone is willing to talk. Deathbed confessions. Time can shake things loose.”
“You’ve been listening to too many podcasts.” Brit drew in a breath. “Time hasn’t changed you that much. Still ready to rush in where angels fear to tread.”
I might’ve been out of control too many times, but now I could throttle the turbulent emotions when they surfaced. “I hope I never change when it comes to Clare.” I tore my bread into smaller pieces but didn’t eat them.
“It was hard moving on,” Brit said quietly, her head inclined toward David. “But I found a way.”
And so had our father, in the arms of his second, and then his third, wife. My forward progress had been painfully slow and unsteady, like wheels mired in the mud. Two steps forward, three back. “You didn’t lose your other half.”
“Clare was your sister, not your other half,” Brit said.
Of course we’d been two very different people—I was as moody as Clare had been lighthearted—but we’d been connected since conception, and losing my twin had been akin to a physical loss. “That’s not what it felt like.”
“She was my sister, too.”
“What do you remember of that last night?” I asked. This conversation should have stayed between my sister and me, but I was just annoyed and saddened enough not to care.
Brit drained the water from her wineglass. “I was home sick. You know that.”
