And I was there when she died.
We go back to the park every year on her birthday, my sister and I. We never actually set foot inside, just stand outside at the gates. March 11, early spring, and almost always raining or damp. A dozen white roses, wrapped in a yellow ribbon, left on the brick wall at the entrance arch.
And every year, on that day, there’s a huge celebration with our family—bigger each year, it seems, with Mom and Dad, Grammie and Uncle Phil and our cousins. We are still making up for lost time, for the four years when there were no birthday parties. Sarah invites her friends, new friends—there’s no one from her past in her life anymore. Where Max and Paula have disappeared to, I really don’t know. I heard Paula was in graduate school out West. Max was doing his residency somewhere in New York City. I’d lost touch with both of them, as had Sarah.
When Sarah first came back, I let myself believe: What if it is her? What if she crawled from that lake, from the deep, with no memory of who she was, and someone took her in? She was back, with no idea what had happened, no knowledge except for her name. That would mean that I was not guilty. That I hadn’t kept the secret for four years. That she was still alive. And she looked like her, so much. Everyone thought it was her. My parents embraced her, everyone did.
I wanted to believe, especially because she was so changed. She was the sister I always wanted. And I was that for her. I wanted to forget. But I never would. The secret would live with me forever, and it was Sarah’s secret now too; there was no escaping the truth.
But on the edge of our happy, restitched lives there was always, for me, a dark anxiety. I worried that Paula would snap again someday, and persuade another detective, a cop, of what she had seen, what she thought she knew, and implicate Sarah and me in the process. I was haunted by the possibility that someone might discover the real Sarah, whatever was left of her. What if they drained that lake, or dragged it? What if there was a terrible drought at some point, and her bones emerged from the silt?
Every now and then, a reporter gets in touch—when some other kid goes missing, especially if it’s in our state—or some kid is returned. They want interviews or photos, but we always politely decline, referring them to the Center for Missing Children for information on Sarah’s case, without giving any personal details. I understand now why Mom never wanted Sarah’s return publicized: She didn’t want to face the scrutiny, the doubt, the questions. Better not to know, not to ask. I was starting to see just how wise my mother was, a trait I had never respected or recognized in her, now I not only admired, I emulated.
On my last trip home from college, Tessa came over for dinner with the family, and I let Sarah try her experimental highlighter on my hair—something she had mixed up in the lab at beauty school. It smelled like rotten eggs and burned my forehead a little bit. “When I get done with the chemistry side, I’ll add a fragrance, promise,” she said. She stepped back with the plastic gloves on her hands to admire her handiwork for a moment while Tessa made faces behind her.
After she rinsed it off, I had a few sections of lighter blond hair in the front, but the strands were also brittle and frayed. “Too much peroxide,” Sarah murmured to herself, jotting something down in a notebook. “I’ll put a deep conditioner on tonight, that’ll be better by morning. But look, it worked—natural blond made blonder, right?”
“I think it looks pretty good—summer in a bottle,” Tessa said, putting her hands on my shoulders and looking at me in the mirror.
“I think you just came up with the product name: Summer in a Bottle. Mind if I use that?” Sarah was serious.
I looked at my hair in the mirror over the sink, startled by the almost-white highlights around my face. It wasn’t really my look, but I knew Sarah could fix it tomorrow, dye it back a more honey blond. Or maybe I’d just leave it, tell my friends at Princeton, proudly, that my sister was creating a line of hair products and I was her guinea pig, supporting her every effort—her partner in crime.
A team.
After all, what are sisters for?
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
This novel was inspired by the mysterious true crime case of Nicholas Barclay, a Texas boy who disappeared in 1994 at the age of thirteen, and the young man who impersonated him and insinuated himself into the Barclay family three years later.
I am grateful to all my early readers, especially my agent, Brenda Bowen, and her assistant, Wendi Gu. Special thanks to Nanci Katz Ellis, who read the manuscript more times than I did. To the Ross men, Damon and August, I owe more thanks than I can ever express; you both have taught me the true meaning of family and love.
A deep bow of gratitude to Donna Bray for her unwavering support, and the editorial team of Balzer + Bray for their talent, hard work, and dedication.