Page 83 of The Lies I Told
What if she’d not worn that blouse? What if she’d dressed as Clare and not me?
After Clare died, I was a mess and Dad could no longer ignore me. He needed to prove to himself and the world that his absentee parenting had not led to Clare’s death. The police and the neighbors were watching now, he’d said many times. I needed to be on my best behavior.
Brit had offered to drop out of college, but he wouldn’t hear of it. No sense pissing away both their lives because of Clare and me. His solution had been to ship me off to Catholic boarding school. The change of scenery didn’t help—demons do travel—and if there was trouble to be found, I located it. By summer break, I’d been expelled.
So it was just me and Mother Brit, who fell back into her role as the fussy surrogate parent. She drowned me with enough attention for two. I’d gotten pretty sick that summer, and again the doctors theorized it was grief. I’d suffered two major losses in three years, and it was no wonder my body was breaking down.
Frankly, I thought the experts were all correct. It made sense that I was shutting down. Grief was a powerful enemy that sucked not only energy but the will to live. I was ready to die and unwilling to fight death off anymore.
But by August, Brit was in DC interning for a congressperson. I was feeling better and smart enough to know if I pressed too hard, Dad would ship me off again. I begged to stay home. Swore I would be good. Dad reenrolled me in my old high school, and though I was still using, I kept it at manageable levels. As long as I kept trouble behind closed doors, I was free to do what I wished.
Our lives had been splintered by that New Year’s Eve party, too many innocent lies, and a damn black blouse I’d bought with a stolen credit card.
My phone rang, startling me from my thoughts. Detective Richards. The man had radar. “Hello.”
“Can you meet me at the coffee shop on Grace Street?” His voice was gruff with hints of annoyance.
“Why?”
“There’s something I want to tell you about your sister that I never did before.”
“What?”
“Not over the phone.”
“I can be there in a half hour.”
“See you then.”
34
RICHARDS
Friday, March 18, 2022
9:30 a.m.
When Marisa entered the coffee shop, I was relieved to see her eyes were bright, and there was a warm glow in her cheeks. She was a far cry from the thin, pale teenager with charcoal-smudged blue eyes. In my career, I’d seen few real happy endings, and I wanted to believe Marisa was going to be one of them. She deserved to be happy.
She grabbed a cup of coffee and came toward me with a plate sporting two doughnuts with green sprinkles. She sat, settled her camera bag by her chair. “I remember you eating doughnuts once when I came by the station.”
“No more.”
“Just one?”
“Tell it to my blood pressure. Doc says limit the sugar, fat, and cigarettes.”
She slid off her jacket and then sipped her coffee. “If you don’t mind then?”
“Have at it. Enjoy that youthful metabolism while you can.”
“Hit the big three-oh. Not so young.”
“Baby,” I growled. “What I wouldn’t give.”
“I heard a lifetime’s worth of aging jokes last Friday,” she said. “But I’m not complaining.” Bracelets on her wrist jangled as she popped a piece of doughnut into her mouth and then wiped green sprinkles from her fingers.
“Any luck remembering your car accident?”
