Her Sister's Secrets

by V. J. Chambers

  I rolled my eyes. “I don’t think the letter is as important as my sister’s murder.”

  “Okay, well, we don’t know that your sister was murdered—”

  “Is there someone else I can talk to besides you?” I said. “Someone who’s not more concerned about getting his Saturday shift covered?”

  He opened his mouth to say something, and then he shut it.

  “Maybe the equivalent of a police manager? Do they call them lieutenants?”

  “Don’t,” he said softly. “Don’t be like that.” He spread his hands. “I screwed up. You’re right. I shouldn’t have done that. I shouldn’t have taken you from Black. I should have let it be. It was unprofessional of me.”

  I lifted my chin. He wasn’t wrong.

  He leaned forward, lowering his voice. “Okay, here’s the thing. No one in the department wants murder, okay? Murder is bad. The more murders we have around here, the worse it looks for the community, and this is a vacation and retirement town, got it? So, it’s supposed to be a safe place.”

  I furrowed my brow. “What are you saying? They’re covering up my sister’s murder for the purpose of appearances?”

  He raised both hands and shook his head. “No, no, not at all. We wouldn’t do that. I’m just saying that this incident was investigated, and it was ruled an accident. You want to make it a murder, you’re swimming upstream. The department would need compelling evidence to do that.”

  “And this letter isn’t compelling?”

  “It’s probably from a crazy person who’s harassing you,” he said.

  I sighed.

  “All right, look,” he said. “I screwed up here. I did. I owe you one. So, I’ll tell you what. I will look into your sister’s drowning, okay? I’ll go over the files, do a little snooping, ask some questions, see if I can shake loose anything.”

  “Well, gee, thanks,” I said, a little sarcastically. “Like it’s a favor to me? This is your job.”

  He nodded. “You’re right. I’m sorry.” He let out a long, slow breath. “You know, I am actually not a terrible cop, appearances to the contrary.”

  I rolled my eyes. Whatever.

  “I’m not,” he insisted. “Look, you know what I can do for you right now? I can help with that letter. You want to let me see it?”

  I handed over the two pieces of paper.

  “Where’s the envelope?”

  “I think I left it at home,” I said.

  “But we need to see the postmark,” he said. “Figure out where it was mailed from. That’ll help us find out the identity of the writer.”

  “I don’t really care about that,” I said. “What I care about is my sister. Now that I’ve got this in my head, I can’t get it out. You know, she and I weren’t speaking, and I can’t be sure if maybe she was messed up with bad people or something. If someone killed her, I owe it to my sister to find justice for her.”

  “Of course,” he said. “And I am going to look into her file. If there’s anything there, I’ll find it. I promise you. About this letter, though? Whoever wrote it is very possibly dangerous. Do you want to file a report against this person?”

  “A report?” I said.

  “Yeah, we can fill it out now,” he said. “And then if this escalates, you’ll have a paper trail, and it’ll be a lot easier to build a case against this guy.”

  “Oh, I don’t know,” I said. “Can I think about that?”

  “Sure,” he said. He regarded me. “Hey, you’re not thinking about going out to this address, are you?”

  “No,” I said.

  “Good,” he said. “Don’t do that. That could be a very dangerous thing to do.”

  * * *

  It was nearly midnight when Phin got home from his shift at the hospital. I was waiting for him in the living room. “I thought you were working sixteen hours today.”

  “As you know, I always have to stay late,” said Phin.

  “I’ve been waiting for you for ages,” I said.

  Phin threw himself down on the couch next to me. “I have exactly seven hours until I have to be back at the hospital, so I’m thinking that I’m going to go to bed right now, and—”

  “No,” I said. “We’re going out to Siesta Key.”

  He yawned. “Why would we do that? Going to those bars is like begging for a DUI. There’s always cops on both bridges.” He yawned again. “Oh, hey, did you go to the police?”

  “Yes, I did, and they were less than helpful,” I said. “So, we’re going out to the address ourselves.”

  He sat up straight. “What?”

  “The address in the letter. It says that if I want to find out more to go there. So, we’re going. I would have gone without you, but the cop I talked to said it might be dangerous, and so I thought I’d bring you along—”

  “So that what? My sleep-deprived gay ass could die along with you?”

  “Well, think about it,” I said. “The person sent a letter. That takes days to go through the mail, and then he couldn’t be sure when it would be that I’d actually get there, right? So, it wouldn’t make sense for him to be waiting at that address to kill me or something.”

  “This guy is obviously insane. He’s not going to make sense.”

  “Come on, Phin, I have to know about Violet.”

  He groaned. “What exactly did the police say?”

  “They said that Violet’s death was an accident and that I could file a report against the guy who sent the letter. Like, for harassment or whatever.”

  “Ugh, that is less than helpful.”

  “So, you’ll come?”

  “No,” he said. He let out a little whimper. “I’m going to bed, Mila. Bed.”

  I grabbed him by the arm and tugged.

  He shoved me off.

  “Please?” I said. “Please, please, please?”

  “No.”

  “I’ll be your best friend,” I said.

  He glowered at me. “What are we? Twelve?”

  I let go of him. “Okay, fine. I’ll go on my own. You go to sleep. You’re right. You need your rest. Otherwise, you’ll probably kill someone at work tomorrow.” I took a deep breath. It would be fine. Like I said, the odds of someone being there and actually trying to kill me was really slim. Of course… I wondered if maybe the letter writer had killed my sister, and that he was luring me out there so that he could kill me too.

  But what person could have a vendetta against me and my sister?

  Phin was getting off the couch. “You’re serious, aren’t you?”

  I nodded. “I have to do this. It’s for Violet.”

  He shook his head. “Hey, I know that you and Violet were not on great terms when she died, but you don’t have anything to prove. You loved her. She knew that.”

  “That’s not why I’m doing this.” I crossed the living room to the door. I got my keys from the rack there. “Anyway, don’t worry about me. You get some sleep, and I’ll tell you all about it—”

  “I’m coming with you,” he said, sounding defeated.

  I grinned. “Oh, good. Oh, thank you, thank you, thank you.” I went over to him and hugged him.

  “If we die, though,” he said, “I’m going to be supremely pissed at you.”

  “Noted,” I said.

  CHAPTER TWO

  As my GPS guided me through the roads that wound through Siesta Key, I began to get a sinking feeling in my chest. Everything looked familiar, but when I remembered this scenery, it was higher up and less overgrown, because I was seeing it with the eyes of a child, over twenty years ago. I remembered pressing my face against the window as my mother drove our car away just before dawn. She was crying. Violet was crying. And before… before…

  No, I couldn’t remember before.

  Sometimes, I awoke from a nightmare, and my chest would be tight and my heart would be pounding, but I could never remember the nightmare, and I could never remember why we left.

  Now, descending back through the narrow
roads, surrounded on both sides by underbrush and palm trees and bamboo plants, I felt as if I being sucked into a pulsing, hot tunnel of darkness. Sweat broke out on the back of my neck. My palms were slick as I gripped the steering wheel.

  And every turn the GPS directed me to make brought me closer to the Wainwright house, the place of my childhood, that place of nightmares and tears that we’d run from.

  Finally, the Wainwright house came into view. Not all of it, because it was surrounded by greenery too. From the road, all I could see was the tip of the roof, which was asymmetrical, longer on one side than the other. I could see the driveway, gated to the road.

  But the GPS wasn’t taking me there.

  Instead, it directed me to keep going down the road and to take the next turn.

  There was another driveway surrounded by tall growth and greenery. No gate here, though.

  I turned there and pulled the car in.

  “Whoa,” said Phin. “Is this place oceanfront?”

  “I think so,” I said. Why were we going to this address?

  The house came into view. It was smaller than the Wainwright place, but it wasn’t what you’d call small. However, it looked cozy tucked into the surrounding palm and cypress trees. The broad roof’s color harmonized with the warmth of the natural-wood siding. It had a deep wraparound porch. Beyond the house, I could see the ocean glittering.

  I parked the car.

  Phin got out, gaping at the house. “How much you think something like this is worth?”

  “Anything on the ocean in Siesta Key is worth crazy money,” I said, getting out too. “A shack on this lot would be worth a fortune.”

  “True,” he said. “I guess I wasn’t thinking about this. I thought maybe the address was one of those condos nearer town, you know? Maybe someplace your sister was staying?”

  “There’s no way Violet could have afforded to stay here,” I said.

  We were quiet, gaping at the house.

  Then we both shut the doors to the car. The sound was loud. It seemed to echo off the waves.

  I took a deep breath. I gestured toward the steps up onto the house’s porch. “Should we…?”

  Phin came over and grabbed my hand. His voice was a whisper. “This is crazy, Mila.”

  I nodded, biting down on my lip.

  Together, we inched our way over to the steps. Together, we put our feet on the first one. There was no give as we put our weight on them. These were strong, sturdy steps. We climbed them almost silently. And then we walked across the porch to the front door.

  Once there, we stood together, neither of us making a move.

  My pulse was racing, and my palms were sweating again, and I was having a hard time catching my breath.

  Phin’s eyes were wide. In the darkness, I could barely make out his features, but he looked pretty freaked out too.

  I slowly lifted my hand.

  And knocked.

  CHAPTER THREE

  The sound of the knock was deafening. Two loud bangs that carried through the night air.

  My heart stopped. I held my breath.

  We waited.

  I let my breath out. My heart started to beat again.

  Nothing.

  I knocked again.

  Still nothing.

  “You have that key?” whispered Phin.

  “Oh,” I said. “Yeah.” I had brought it along, because I didn’t know why it had been sent to me. But maybe it was the key to the house. I got it out of my purse with trembling fingers. And then I fitted it into the lock on the front door.

  I tried to turn it.

  No dice.

  I started to pull it out. “I guess it’s not—”

  “Here.” Phin stopped my hand. He pushed the key back in and turned it in the lock. The door opened. “Your hands were shaking too hard to make it work,” he said. He was still whispering. We both were.

  I pushed the door open.

  Inside, it was dark.

  “Hello?” I called.

  No answer.

  “Is there anyone here?” I called. “If there’s someone here, we’re coming inside.”

  There was nothing. The house was quiet.

  “I don’t think anyone’s here,” said Phin. He pushed past me and felt along the side of the wall for a light switch. Abruptly, we were bathed in light.

  Inside, the house was open and airy. There was a staircase in the center that climbed to another level, but that level was open too, a loft. Downstairs, we had entered into a living room, decorated with white couches and navy blue accent pillows.

  “Wow,” said Phin. He started to walk around. There were no walls cutting anything off, so he could walk all the way around the staircase, through a dining room area and a kitchen area, all immaculately furnished.

  In the middle of the dining room table was a tall glass vase full of calla lilies. Sitting next to the vase was a cell phone.

  “Someone is here.” I pointed at the cell phone.

  Phin stopped walking to pick it up. “Two new texts,” he said. “‘Welcome, Emilia. This house is rented for you for the next three months. The refrigerator and pantry are stocked, and you should find a selection of clothing in your size in the closet upstairs.’”

  “What?” I said. I stalked across the room and ripped the phone away from Phin.

  “Oh my God,” he said, looking around. “Someone rented this place for you.”

  I looked down at the text he’d been reading. It was exactly as he’d read. I shook my head. “I don’t understand,” I murmured. I flipped to the next text. “‘If you want to know the truth about what happened to your sister, you’ll have to stay and immerse yourself in this world. Sincerely, the Host.’”

  “What does this have to do with Violet?” said Phin.

  “Well, she worked for these people,” I said. “Mom didn’t like it, and I didn’t like it, but she thrived on this atmosphere. She was working for the Wainwrights. Next door.”

  “The guy who’s Violet’s dad,” said Phin.

  I sighed. “None of that makes any sense.” I set the cell phone back down on the table and then I noticed a plain white envelope on the table. Another letter? I snatched it up.

  “What’s that?” said Phin.

  “It’s an invitation to a party at the Wainwright house,” I said. “Two nights from now.”

  “You got a plus one?” said Phin, grinning. Then he made a face. “Actually, two nights from now? I’m working.” He sighed. “I’m always working.”

  I set the envelope down, turning in a circle and looking around at this amazing house. Was this really for me?

  * * *

  In the middle of exploring, Phin had thrown himself down on the king-sized bed in the loft bedroom, and he’d immediately fallen asleep. He was lying there now, gently snoring, as I pawed through the enormous walk-in closet, which was, indeed, full of clothes in my size.

  They were all expensive, designer clothes, the kind of stuff I’d never be able to afford. Casual clothes like jeans and blouses and sundresses. Dressy stuff too. Semi-formal dresses. And then a selection of gowns, all gorgeous and glittering. If I went to the party at the Wainwrights tomorrow, I’d have to wear one of these. I fingered a red satin strapless number. I was thinking about trying it on.

  But… trying it on almost seemed as though I was accepting this, and I couldn’t accept this. I didn’t know who this Host person was. I wasn’t sure what kind of person rented a house this expensive and bought this many expensive clothes for a person they’d never met, but it didn’t seem normal. That kind of person might very well be insane. Or dangerous.

  I didn’t know. Maybe there were cameras in the house.

  Maybe I’d been lured here by an uptight rich man who liked to play erotic mind games with women like me. He would probably text me a contract next, like Christian Grey, and then I’d end up his sex slave if I let him take care of me and buy me fancy clothes and keep me in this house like his pet.

&nbs
p; On the other hand, maybe things like that only happened in trashy romance novels.

  I wasn’t the kind of girl that those sorts of things happened to, anyway. In romance novels, those women were sweet and unassuming and virginal. And I was not. I mean, I wasn’t not sweet. I was a good person, but I was stubborn. When I set my mind to things, I liked to get my way. And as for being virginal, well, I was twenty-nine. The idea of saving myself for the “one” had long sailed.

  I’d met the “one” three times. I’d loved all of them, very much, but eventually they had each decided I wasn’t the one for them. All I had to show for myself now was a string of failed relationships.

  I didn’t hold out a lot of hope for finding the “one,” anymore. I would settle for someone who I got along with and who wanted to commit to me. I supposed I might be able to make it work with a twisted billionaire who was filming me without my knowledge if he was a good guy deep down.

  I peered around the room, looking for cameras. I didn’t see any, but they could be hidden somewhere. They could put them in pens or teddy bears or all kinds of things.

  Oh, what was I saying? I was not going to fall for a billionaire.

  I knew all about wealthy people, and the way they behaved. They weren’t like regular people. They had different values. They considered giving money to charity a good deed, but they worried more about what dress they’d wear to the charity auction than where their money was actually going. And they had everything they could ever want, but yet they were still pathetically fragile. They were all always depressed. They elevated trivialities to the importance of real substance. They judged people on their clothing and their cars and their houses.

  No.

  I wasn’t going to fall for a billionaire. I wouldn’t be able to stand it in a world like that.

  But I did understand it. If I had to blend in here, I could do it. I could talk to these people. Maybe they knew something about what had happened to Violet. Maybe she actually had been murdered. And what better way to infiltrate their closed ranks than with this house, these clothes, and that invitation on the table down there?