“Hello?” my sister’s voice called from the foyer.
I froze, a forkful of lasagna halfway to my mouth. I quietly returned the fork to the dish and glanced at the back staircase, debating whether I should stand perfectly still in the hope that she wouldn’t hear me or dart up the stairs in an attempt to outrun her. I had no interest in speaking with her.
Before I could make a decision, Lanie stepped into the kitchen. It still shocked me to see my sister looking so clean and composed. For ten years, I had remembered her as I had last seen her: stumbling down the front stairs of Benny Weston’s house, dressed in ripped jeans and a pink sweater that had once been mine, hair tousled and eyeliner smeared, a vacant smirk on her face.
But now, with cheeks flushed a healthy pink and a light-blue cashmere sweater that highlighted the color of her eyes, she smiled tentatively at me and said, “Hi.”
I opened my mouth to return the greeting, but my eyes were distracted by the princess-cut diamonds sparkling obscenely in her earlobes.
“Are those Mom’s earrings?”
Lanie’s hands flew to her ears, fingertips grazing the jewelry’s sharp edges. “It’s not like she’s using them.”
“That’s not the point. They’re not yours.”
Lanie nodded, a little too readily, and started to pull the earrings off. “Do you want them?”
“Stop. Don’t. It’s just strange to see them on you.”
The diamond earrings were a gift from our father for our mother’s thirty-fifth birthday. Our mother rarely wore jewelry or dressed up, but the earrings quickly became part of her routine. To her, they were more than glittering rocks; they were tangible evidence of love in the dark days after her parents’ death. I associated their appearance with baked goods and field trips; I never saw her wear them after our father was killed. I used to wonder what had happened to them.
“Aunt A told me I could borrow them for the wedding. I didn’t see the harm in keeping them. She was my mother, after all.”
“She was our mother.”
“I know,” Lanie said, tilting her head slightly. She frowned a bit. “Did she have any pearl earrings?”
“Thinking of swiping those, too?”
She shook her head. “Josie, can we talk?”
Aunt A’s entreaties to forgive my sister bounced around inside my skull, but the sight of her wearing our mother’s earrings, earrings that had been pillaged to celebrate her marriage to a man she had stolen from me, made my throat clench and my heart cold and intolerant. I shook my head. “No.”
“Please,” she insisted. “I know it must have been a surprise to see me with Adam yesterday.”
“No,” I said more forcefully. “I do not want to talk about Adam.”
“But—”
“You want to talk?” I cut her off. “Fine. Let’s talk about Dad. Let’s talk about who killed him.”
Lanie’s mouth dropped open. “Are you kidding me? You’ve been listening to that podcast? It’s all lies, Josie. You know that.” She paused to glare at me. “You do know that, right?”
Did I know that? What I knew, better than anybody, was that Lanie was capable of incredible deceit. But still . . . I had a hard time believing that she would purposefully lie and send an innocent man to prison.
“I can’t believe this,” she hissed, eyes narrowing. “You think I lied.”
“Not lied,” I said quickly. “But . . . is it possible you were mistaken?”
“No,” Lanie said, adding emphasis by snatching up the chair in front of her and slamming it down hard. My body tensed from muscle memory, ready to dodge any objects she might choose to hurl. “I can’t believe you’d ask me that. You’re my sister.”
“Have you listened to the podcast? She makes a pretty good case against Melanie Cave. Her husband had left her that day, Lanie. And that voicemail . . .”
“I don’t care! I don’t care if Melanie Cave wrote a confession and signed it in blood. I saw Warren do it.” She stamped the chair against the floor again. “I saw him.”
“But are you sure?” I pressed. “It was dark. Maybe . . . Is it possible you saw Melanie running back to the Cave house but just thought it was Warren?”
“Say that’s the truth,” Lanie said, her eyes smoldering with barely repressed fury. “Say Melanie killed our father, and I mistook her for Warren. How could I ever admit that now?”
My heart leapt in my throat, nearly choking me. “What are you saying?”
“That you’re wasting your time.”
“But the truth, Lanie,” I began.
“We know the truth!” she screamed suddenly, grabbing the casserole dish from the table and heaving it at me. I jumped out of the way, and lasagna splattered across the floor. Veins bulging in her neck, Lanie screamed, “It was Warren Cave! I saw him!”
We stood frozen, staring at each other, panting and wide-eyed.
“What’s going on?” Ellen asked, sweeping into the kitchen via the back staircase. She looked from me to my sister to the lasagna on the floor. “Oh.”
Lanie pivoted on her heel, preparing to make an exit.
“Hold it right there,” Ellen commanded. She pointed to the lasagna on the floor. “Clean that up.”
“Fuck off, Ellen,” Lanie snapped, stalking out the door.
“What happened?” Ellen asked me.
I shook my head.
Ellen nodded and smiled her insouciant grin. “Fine. If you won’t talk, the least you can do is eat with me. Let’s get lunch.”
As Ellen backed her car out of Aunt A’s driveway, a silver Lexus parked across the street pulled away from the curb. From its driver’s-side window, I thought I caught a glimpse of ash-blond hair, a thin face hidden behind enormous sunglasses.
“Wait,” I said so suddenly that Ellen slammed on the brakes. “Was that Melanie Cave?”
“Where?” Ellen asked, looking around.
I pointed in the direction of the Lexus, but it was already turning the corner. My stomach felt jumpy and my extended hand felt tingly. What was Melanie Cave doing watching our house?
“New plan,” I said, my voice shaking. “We’re skipping lunch and getting drinks instead.”
“Now you’re speaking my language.” Ellen smiled, pulling onto the street.
Ellen took me to Last Call, Elm Park’s most reputable watering hole. As a resident of New York City, where space was at a premium and bar patrons were willing to pay upward of $20 for so-called artisan cocktails, I was astounded by both the spaciousness (there was a large bar, booths along the walls, and at least fifteen tables, not to mention a jukebox, Big Buck Hunter, and a vintage Pac-Man game) and the low cost of its drinks (my Jack and Diet cost me a paltry $2.50 and Ellen’s white wine hardly broke the bank at $3.00).
“So,” Ellen said, taking a sip of wine. “Are you going to tell me what happened?”
I winced. There seemed something disloyal about confessing that I had wondered about Lanie’s honesty, and even though I knew Lanie had done nothing to earn my loyalty, I couldn’t bring myself to say anything to Ellen. “Can we talk about something else?”