I STARTED AT MY AUNT’S CAMBRIDGE HOTEL. A frugal woman, she’d looked up budget motels in the Yellow Pages and called for rates before making her decision. Given that she would’ve used a credit card to check in, I figured it wouldn’t be too hard for a Boston cop to track her down. Detective O could follow the credit card transactions right to my aunt’s hotel door, flash her badge, and my aunt would let her in.
I parked a block away. Telling Tulip to stay, I approached cautiously, trying to appear inconspicuous, while simultaneously scoping out the area for a sign of my aunt and/or Boston cops. The cheap no-tell motel formed a two-story horseshoe built around a central parking area. I followed the covered stairs up to my aunt’s room on the second story. Door was closed, but the curtains of the main window had been drawn back to reveal a brightly lit, perfectly kept, empty brown-and-gold space. I stood there a minute, absorbing the deliberateness of such a gesture. No woman in her right mind stayed in a hotel with the curtains drawn back to expose her entire room. And my aunt never left the lights on. Wasting money, you know, not to mention burning energy and ruining the planet.
Detective O. Had to be. Letting me know the room was empty. Letting me know, she had my aunt.
I headed back to Tom’s truck, hands thrust deep in my coat pockets, head down, ears acutely tuned for the sound of fast-approaching footsteps that might or might not signal an ambush from behind. But nothing. Just a dark, bitterly cold Saturday evening, where the rest of the world was hunkered down safe in their homes, laughing with the ones they loved, while I walked the empty streets of Boston, realizing that I was too late and it was going to cost me.
Clearly, Detective O had reached my aunt first. But she hadn’t strangled her in the middle of the hotel room; instead she’d taken my aunt elsewhere. Why?
Because a hotel room wasn’t her home. They had to die in the safety and security of their own homes.
Why? Because we never had safety and security? Or to heighten the terror, make it worse?
My hand went unconsciously to my side, I rubbed my scar.
And for an instant, I could almost feel it. My ribs, wet and sticky, my legs trembling, starting to go. Watching flames leap up a wall. Thinking it was strange, to feel so cold while staring at fire.
SisSis, a voice called to me. SisSis!
Sorry, I said. Sorry.
MY CELL PHONE RANG. Twenty feet away from Tom’s truck, I answered it.
“Do you remember yet?” my sister asked.
“The house was on fire.”
“Dear old mom. Always had a flair for the dramatic.”
“You beat out the flames.”
“Seemed like a good idea at the time.”
I hesitated. “SisSis. You called me SisSis.”
This time, she didn’t answer right away. When she finally did, her voice was bitter.
“You promised to always take care of me. You promised to keep me safe. But you didn’t keep that promise, did you, Charlene? You left me. Then you forgot me completely. So much for sisterly love, SisSis.”
I didn’t know what to say. It didn’t matter, she was already filling the silence: “Tell me, Charlene, are you still a good soldier?”
“Why?”
“Because everyone has to die sometime. Be brave, Charlie. Be brave…”
I felt the chills go up my spine. Not just because of the words she spoke, but because of the way she spoke them. A voice, rising out of the grave. My mother, whispering across the years.
“Please don’t hurt her,” I forced myself to say evenly. “This has nothing to do with Aunt Nancy. This is between you and me.”
“Then you still don’t remember.”
“What do you want?”
“You should know that.”
“Tell me, and I’ll come to you.”
“You should know where I am.”
Then I did. I understood. I opened the truck door. I climbed inside, phone still glued to my ear. I felt the weight of what had to happen next.
January 21. A day twenty years in the making.
“I love you, Abby,” I whispered to the sister who was about to kill me. “Remember, whatever happens, I love you.”
My baby sister hung up on me.
I thought long and hard about what I had to do next.