Page 43 of The Lies I Told
“You were the instigator,” he said with certainty. “If you and Clare got into trouble, you always started it.”
That was true. “We didn’t do anything wrong.”
“Depends on who you talk to.”
I was a minor, only sixteen, but he stared at me as if I were twice that age. There was no pity, no empathy, just a keen and unsettling interest.
“You were arrested twice for drunk driving last year. Not only too young to drive but loaded. Then you were caught shoplifting. Daddy fixed both issues, and then you and Clare were caught speeding. Oddly,Clare was behind the wheel. She didn’t pass the Breathalyzer test, whereas you, in the passenger seat, did. My guess is you two swapped driver’s licenses.”
We had. It would have been my third offense, and another DWI would have meant fifty hours of community service. The judge had already stated he’d see to it that every college I applied to would know about my drunk-driving record. Clare hadn’t wanted to trade, but she was always looking out for me.
“You don’t know that,” I said.
“You’re right, I can’t prove it. But I really don’t care about that now. I’m wondering if you didn’t swap places the night Clare died. Maybe whoever killed her thought it was you.”
“How can you say that?” Anguish wrapped each word.
Richards was unmoved. “We found the clothes Clare had been wearing. They were in a pile a half mile down the road in the bushes. Like someone balled them up and tossed them out a car window before or after they dumped her body.”
Picturing my sister being treated as yesterday’s garbage hurt.
“Funny thing about the clothes, they didn’t strike me as the kind Clare would wear,” he said. “I studied a lot of pictures of her this week. Overall impression was pastels and simple jewelry. Nothing like the black torn jeans, boots, and studded leather bracelet we found.”
I didn’t speak.
The ash on the edge of his cigarette grew. “Clare was the cheerleader, all As, and soccer team, even enjoyed photography like you. She was the whole package. But I’ve learned to question surface facts. They’re only a snapshot and don’t always show the whole picture.”
“What’re you talking about?”
“Come on, Marisa. There had to be more to your sister. What was she hiding?”
“Nothing. She was the best of us.”
“Then why was she dressed like you?”
“We wore each other’s clothes all the time.”
“I never saw a picture of you in pastels, and I’ve seen plenty in the last few days.”
Again, I was silent.
“Why was she at the party dressed like you? And why were you out for a drive? Not many sixteen-year-olds I know go for long drives on I-95 instead of going to a party.”
“Driving clears my head.”
He dropped the cigarette, ground it with the point of a wingtip shoe. “You said you bought gas in Ashland, twenty-six miles north of the party around eight p.m.”
The receipt was legit, and I’d used it to prop up my story. “I told you that. I gave you a receipt.”
“Why so far from the party? What else were you doing?”
“I wasn’t doing anything.” Color flooded my face, and holding his gaze was a struggle now. It felt like he had X-ray eyes.
“Where’d you get the alcohol?”
“I stole it from my father.”
“I’m not looking to put you in jail, Marisa. Your family has been through enough. But it’s important I know why you were so far from a party that you convinced your pal Jo-Jo to throw.”
