“Any proof of that? Theories, maybe?” I ask.
“Fuck! They got in a fight over who got the last squirt of heroin, and Kayla kicked her ass, maybe went too far. You’ve never seen my little sister when she doesn’t get what she wants.” Kyle seems to find this idea both plausible and entertaining. He giggles tipsily. “Or maybe she got jealous ’cuz she found out you were fucking her girlfriend,” he says to Wyatt, giving him a shove that is not entirely friendly. “Maybe you better look out!” He chuckles again and drains down most of the rest of his beer in a gulp.
I sip mine daintily. Somehow it is easier to stay sober when confronted with a convincing reminder of just what being fully toasted looks like. Too bad I’m usually that reminder.
“Have you talked to the cops at all?” I ask Kyle.
“No, why would I?” He seems surprised. “They got their guy, that fucking Jason dude. Why would I rat out my sister? If they catch her with drugs, she’ll go to prison. She’s got a record, yo.”
I look over at Wyatt. I’m distracted by this turn of the conversation with Kyle when my phone starts ringing. Wondering, as always, which phone is vibrating in my bag, I poke around before pulling either phone out. It’s my phone, though, and I swipe across the screen to answer it. A local number, not saved to my contacts.
“Hello?”
“Ava Antipova?”
“Yes…”
“This is Officer Giles, with the Watkins Glen Police Department. Do you think you could come down to the station?”
“What, now?” I ask. Wyatt raises an eye.
“The coroner was just here,” the cop continues. “And he was able to complete his report. We’d like to discuss his findings with you and your family, if possible.”
“What do you mean? What did you find?”
“Well, ma’am, I’d really prefer to discuss it in person, with you and your family,” the cop says uncertainly.
“Why? I mean, it wasn’t Zelda, was it?” I say, the beer making me reckless. Still, I don’t need to get dragged down to the station at this time of night just to hear that it wasn’t my sister in the fire. They can tell me that on the phone.
“Um, well, see, the coroner was able to find a few pieces of dental evidence, and he says they’re a match with your sister’s records. He’s ruling it a homicide.”
20
Taped to the windshield of Wyatt’s truck is a letter: T.
Dear Tangled, Trusting, Trepidatious Twin,
Ta-da! Is the Truth tentatively trying to tell itself? Are there tantalizing tip-offs and traces of what truly transpired? Tell me, tricksy twin, tell. I’m pretty sure I’ve surprised you, either way. Tell the truth. You weren’t expecting: teeth!
I know, I know. A little tawdry, right? A bit gruesome, gauche, gory even. But the evidence doesn’t lie. Our good friend the coroner might, but dental records are dental records. Tough titty!
I’m sure you’re scrambling around, looking for elegant solutions and a taut explanation for all this. I’m sure your mind is running at full tilt, tracking down any missing pieces and filling in the blanks where you’re just not sure. Much as I have been doing these last few months. When there’s a hole, the brain races to plug it, to stop the hemorrhage, stem the tide, close the gap, make up the difference. When you wake up and can’t remember where you’ve been for the last twelve hours, your brain helps you out. Oh, generous synapses! Oh, mysterious neural connections! The brain abhors a vacuum, and it will cram just any old thing in there, to make sure no one notices. But, of course, everyone does. Except you.
So. You have some questions for which you need answers. And you will. Answer them. If only because I don’t believe in leaving strings loose, untied, untethered. Test those theories! Ask yourself the hard questions. Does Zelda think she can get away with this? What can her long-term plan possibly be? Where is she right now? Who is she? Hilariously enough, these are questions we’ve been asking all along, our entire lives, right? Can we pull this off? Who are we? What are we doing?
Or here’s another option: Quit now. Don’t keep reading these letters, don’t finish the story, don’t find out what happens. Settle down with Wyatt. Why not jettison practicality, chuck your qualms aside, and externalize your vast anxiety, go forage in the garden for the biggest zucchini?
But here’s a tantalizing piece of encouragement. You have all the information you need, right now. You know where I am already, and how I’m doing this. If you use your brain and just THINK, you’ll be able to figure it out. Unless, of course, you’re concerned. About your brain, I mean. Does your brain work the way it should, Ava dear? Have you noticed any Symptoms of your own? (Did you seriously think I skipped S? S has been there all along, skittering along the surface, sucking up space, scaring us shitless. As I suspect you have suspected before.) How’s your clarity these days? Let’s find out.
You’re holding the next letter in your hand. Unearth it, uncover it. Underneath these carefully constructed surfaces we conceal our missing pieces.
Your Taunting, Terrifying, Treacherous Twin,
Z is for Zelda
I read the letter aloud to Wyatt in his truck as he drives toward Watkins Glen. He is quiet, staring out the windshield with a blank expression. At one point, I lean over and try to squeeze his thigh, but he shrinks from my hand, and I withdraw, hurt.
“Do you think…” he begins after I’ve read the note. “Do you think she could be dead?”
“I mean…” I’m about to say “maybe,” but I don’t. “No, not really. It just doesn’t make sense.”
“But then the teeth?”
I shrug. “I’m sure she thought of something. Bribed someone. I don’t know.”
“But—” he tries again.
“I just don’t think so. She’s jerking us around, Wy.”
“Ava, you need to seriously consider that you’re not being entirely logical about this whole thing. I mean, I know you think you know her inside and out—”
“I do, though. That’s what she’s counting on. And she knows me—that’s how she’s orchestrating this whole elaborate thing.”
“Don’t you think it’s possible that you’re maybe projecting?” he suggests quietly.