THE BOTTOM ROW OF EMPTY WINDOWS gaped like a toothless smile as I approached. No front porch light burned, no back patio light beckoned. Maybe the front door was unlocked. Maybe my sister was standing on the other side, waiting for me to walk right in.
I decided to do the unexpected. She wanted me here, obviously. There was unfinished business on both sides, so I didn’t think she’d simply shoot me. She wanted to talk. I wanted to listen. She wanted to kill my aunt and hurt me as much as possible. I wanted her to know that I was sorry, that I loved her, and that, even though I didn’t know how to fix the past, doubted it could be done at this stage of the game, I wished it could be.
I wished we both could start over.
No sign of life on the street as I walked to the rear garden fence, opened the gate, and closed it gently behind me. Now free from prying eyes, I approached the back door, the one I used to come and go.
Deep breath in. Deep breath out.
I knocked. Three times. Rap, rap, rap.
And ten seconds later, she answered.
The hallway loomed dark and shadowed behind her, while I imagined the Cambridge night sky cast a faint urban glow behind me.
She was dressed in black jeans and a tight-fitting black sweater. She looked leaner and meaner than Detective O, with her hair scraped back in a tight ponytail and her eyes blazing with crazy blue contact lenses.
I looked at her, and I saw my mother.
I looked at her, and I saw myself.
“Hello,” she said. “My name is Abigail.”
SHE RAISED HER RIGHT HAND, revealing a hypodermic needle, which she pointed at me.
“Arm,” she said.
“What is it?” I gestured to the needle.
“You of all people know better than to question. Now, be a good girl, and do what I tell you.”
“No.”
“Charlene Rosalind Carter—”
“Our mother is dead. I won’t go back and neither should you. We’re sisters, and sisters don’t treat each other like this.”
“Arm.”
“No.” I turned and walked away.
“Leave now and she dies,” she shrilled behind me. “Eight minutes. Maybe nine. All your aunt has left. Or maybe you don’t care. Maybe leaving your family to die is what you do best, SisSis.”
She had used my old nickname, which I considered a victory of sorts. The beginning of getting both of us to remember. I needed to recall most of my childhood if I was going to survive the next fifteen minutes. And Abigail…I needed her to recall at least some parts when she didn’t hate me so much. When maybe, she even loved me a little.
I turned back toward her. She once again pointed the needle. After another moment’s hesitation, I held out my arm. She moved quickly, before I changed my mind, jamming the needle straight through my coat into the fleshy part of my upper arm. I barely felt it, a faint pinprick that could’ve been a piece of grit caught in the weave of my shirt. She hit the plunger, and the whole thing was done in a millisecond.
Abigail eyed me. I returned her gaze levelly, waiting to feel something. Woozy, a burning in the back of my throat, maybe tingling down my arm. Most of our mother’s tricks were meant for instant gratification, but I didn’t feel a thing.
Abigail nodded, apparently satisfied, then made me strip my coat and hand it to her, immediately divesting me of most of my homemade weapons, which I’d stuck in the pockets. Next she patted me down, claiming my cell phone, but overlooking the ballpoint pen tucked into the back of my hair and the duct-tape knife covered by my ragged jeans, thick wool socks, and worn winter boots. Once I’d passed inspection, she opened the door wider, letting me into the darkened hall.