The Night Sister

“You…you left them for me.”


The room felt smaller. Rose took a gulp of air—suddenly she understood. Sylvie had left the earrings for Rose, not as a gift, but to make it look as if Rose had stolen them. And Rose had walked right into the trap, like a fool. The certainty of it hit her hard in the solar plexus, forcing out what little air was in there.

Sylvie stood up and stepped toward Rose, shaking her head. “If you’d wanted to borrow them, you could have asked. You didn’t need to steal them.”

“But I…I found them, under my pillow.” Rose took a step back, nearly tripping over the leg of a kitchen chair.

“Rose,” Mama said, voice stern, “take off the earrings. Now.”

Rose did as she was told, fingers shaking. She saw how foolish they looked—the dainty, glimmering green stones in her hand with dirt under the nails and deep in the creases of her skin. It was all wrong. As she handed them over to Sylvie, she looked up at her sister’s face, half expecting her to turn her head completely around, to start speaking from an ugly gash of a mouth on the back of her head. But Sylvie only smiled sweetly, a look of pity in her eyes.

Rose felt dizzy. Sick to her stomach. She needed to sit down, but couldn’t make her legs move in the direction of a chair.

“You need to leave your sister’s things alone,” Daddy said flatly, still clutching the newspaper, not even looking up from the stories of the day. The Russians were testing more nuclear bombs, but President Kennedy had tests of his own going on. Only a matter of time until the whole world blew up. Sometimes, like now, Rose found herself wishing for it, willing the bombs to start falling from the sky, beautiful and strange.

He stood up and snapped the paper closed. “Coming to help me with the books, Sylvie?”

“Yes, Daddy,” she said, clearing both her plate and his. “I’ll be right there.” Then she turned to Rose again. “Honestly, Rose, the next time you want to borrow something, just ask.”

Mama smiled at her older daughter—so kind, so forgiving. But it was all an act, and Rose knew it. Rose gave her sister the most sinister look she could muster—a look that said, You’re not fooling me.

After Sylvie followed Daddy out of the kitchen, Mama started collecting dishes and putting them in the sink. She picked up Rose’s plate, too, even though she hadn’t eaten.

“Mama, I’m telling you: Sylvie gave me those earrings. She left them for me this morning under my pillow.”

She’s the monster. Not me.

Mama turned and stared at Rose wordlessly for a moment. The look on her face made Rose’s blood run cold. It was an expression that said, I don’t know you at all; you are a stranger to me.

“You must stop these lies, Rose,” Mama said at last. “And if you ever, ever steal anything from your sister again, there will be very serious consequences.”





Rose


The next night, Rose woke up with a start. She glanced over to Sylvie’s bed and saw that her sister was gone. Rose threw off the sheets and got out of bed, holding her breath, listening. Where was her sister—her wretched, cruel sister, who’d planted the earrings to make her look like a thief? What could she be up to next?

Rose felt it then: the thrum of certain danger. Something bad was going to happen. She just knew it. The air felt the way it did just before a thunderstorm: all charged up, heavy, and waiting.

Rose went to the window, pulled back the lace curtains, and peered down at the yard, bathed in silver moonlight. Pebbles on the driveway glinted like jewels, and down at the office, moths flocked to the light out front, hovering, banging uselessly into it. The motel sign was all lit up, but Route 6 was empty this time of night.

Tower Motel, 28 Rooms, Pool, Vacancy.