Instead of being relieved when I told them the truth, my parents just seemed angrier. Angry at me for not telling sooner, and angry at Sarah for making them worry. They sent me to bed in tears, sick and sobbing, unsure if I had done the right thing or made the biggest mistake of my life. I was only eleven, but I knew one thing for sure: Sarah would make me pay. She always did.
After that, I saw my parents second-guessing themselves at every turn, questioning every decision. Even with me. I told Mom I didn’t feel like going to tennis practice one day after school—Sarah had “accidentally” closed my hand in the bathroom door and my nails had turned black on two fingers and my hand hurt. Mom let me stay home, but it prompted a whole in-depth conversation after dinner with both Mom and Dad about whether they were pushing me too hard, and did I really want to take tennis two times a week, because if I didn’t, that was fine with them. They were fine with everything; they just wanted me to know.
Even with all their concessions, everything they did, it wasn’t enough. At the end of the summer, she disappeared again. Of course, the first person questioned that time was Max.
“The cops came down pretty hard on Max,” I told her now. “And Paula too—the detectives thought they had something to do with your disappearance.”
“Did they?” Sarah asked innocently. She met my eyes and I realized that she really had no idea.
I shook my head. “No,” I said honestly. Max had been their number one suspect. They searched his parents’ house, the cabin, even his car. Mom spent hours with the cops, trying to convince them he couldn’t have done it. He would never do that. He loved her.
“Max would never do anything to hurt you, I know that,” I said quickly.
“And Paula?” Sarah met my eyes for a moment. “What about Paula?”
I took a deep breath before answering. “You and Paula had some problems. . . .” I remembered the article from two years ago, the one that reopened Sarah’s case. The journalist had really exposed the issues between the girls at school—the fierce competitiveness, the arguments—that stuff was all documented on social media, even though Paula had tried to delete some of it. They investigated the phone call that Sarah had received on the day of her disappearance and tried to interview Paula. She wouldn’t talk, but that didn’t stop the reporter from speculating.
I had heard later that the article made it hard for Paula to apply to college, that anyone could look up her name and find her connection to the case. The specter of Sarah’s disappearance haunted both Paula and Max, casting a shadow of doubt on everything they tried to do. Was it any wonder they had found each other, had become a couple in the wake of that?
Sarah and I sat there awkwardly for a moment, neither of us speaking. I tried to think of what else I could tell her, to set her mind at ease.
“Max might want to see . . .” I pointed to my left hip. “Where you put the tattoo, of his initials. That little M and V.”
Sarah looked down and touched her own left hip gingerly. “I gave myself the tattoo?” she finally said. “Why?”
“It was when Mom and Dad said you couldn’t see him anymore, they told you he was too old. And Paula said you were dating him just to hurt her. You wanted to prove something.” I paused, remembering. Sarah, coming out of the shower, wrapping a towel around herself. She knew I had seen the tattoo.
Now he’s mine, forever. If you tell anyone about this, she said, I swear to God you will be so sorry. I’ll kill you, I mean it, Nico. I will seriously kill you.
“I saw it by accident. You told me that you did it with a pin and ink. I think they’re still in your top drawer.” I glanced over at her white desk, my eyes traveling down to where I’d found the duffel bag. Was it still there?
“Max has your initials, too—same place—in case you don’t remember that. But I think the whole thing was your idea.” I gave a weak smile and looked at her, but she just nodded, slowly, as if taking it all in. I stood up and turned to go.
“Nico,” Sarah said, stopping me. “Thank you.” Tears welled in her eyes.
I shrugged, leaning against the door for a second. “What are sisters for, right?”
She nodded. “Right.” And she met my eyes for an instant.
I pulled the door behind me, almost closed but not quite, the way Sarah liked it now, and stepped into the dark hallway.
SARAH
SHE HAD TO PART my hair very carefully and comb it into braids to hide the red part on my scalp. I watched her hands in the mirror as they moved, quick and effortless. “I used to cut hair,” she explained. “Still could if I wanted.”
There was writing on her wrist, a name, but it was in cursive so I couldn’t read it. “That’s for my angel,” she told me. “I don’t believe much in tattoos, but I had to get this one. Had his name put on me so he’s always with me. Hurt like a bitch, too, but it was worth it, every second.”