Once Two Sisters

by Sarah Warburton

  Glenn’s study.

  My heart is pounding the way it used to before we met for a date, thrumming a beat of danger and desire. If I am discovered here, I really will look crazy obsessed. The smallness of the room, barely larger than a closet, makes the size of the furniture even more dramatic. Glenn’s desk is easily twice as heavy as Ava’s. While hers is a simple wooden table that wouldn’t be out of place in a farmhouse kitchen or a workshop, his is made of a highly polished mahogany look-alike; it’s the kind of desk that demands attention. A show horse, not a workhorse. He gets to sit in a leather-padded ergonomic dream chair. The surface is dominated by a desktop computer and its keyboard. Why haven’t the police taken it too?

  His desk doesn’t face the window like Ava’s does. He keeps his back to the view and his gaze on the door. The same alpha-male quality that I used to find sexy now seems controlling.

  One wall is lined with dark bookcases, but each shelf holds only a few books. These shelves are for display. There’s an assortment of manly knickknacks: an abstract glass sculpture, a bronze eagle, a pyramid-shaped award of some kind. And there are so many framed photos of Glenn—holding up a giant fish, in outdoor gear on a ski slope, with his arm around Ava as if she is just another trophy. The ocean is behind them, and with a pang I wonder if it is their honeymoon picture.

  The silence of the empty house is beginning to creep me out. I slip behind Glenn’s desk, glad I can keep an eye on my escape route as I rummage. For all the fancy wood and brass-handled drawers, nothing is locked. It’s tricky to handle the papers with my hands in socks, so I slip them off. It’s not like anyone will fingerprint the entire house.

  In a movie, I would find incriminating evidence right away. Instead, all I learn is that they pay extra for the premium sports channel, they support Doctors Without Borders, and Ava makes more money in a year than I could make in a lifetime, which makes me feel like even more of a failure.

  Not as much of a failure as if I will be if I’m caught. Time’s slipping away like the dripping of a faucet. I can’t stop until I find something, but I can’t stay too long.

  I tentatively touch the keyboard of the computer, and it hums to life, but the screen is locked. Although feeling invasive and creepy with my hands on the keys, I remind myself I’m doing this to find Ava, whether or not she wants to be found. The password isn’t any variant or combination of Ava’s name, or Glenn’s, or “password.” I’m not some tech genius, so I just leave it and hope the computer will put itself back to sleep before Glenn gets home. Then I scrub the keyboard with my socks.

  Next to the computer is a business card holder in the same rich wood as the desk. I pick up a card and study the sparse details. Glenn’s name, his email with its dot-gov domain, and his cell phone number. No address, no job title, not even a decorative picture of some kind. Seems strange to have this in a holder. Ava probably gave it to him. She always sucked at gift giving.

  I pocket the card, not that I can imagine wanting to contact Glenn, but I need any information I can gather right now.

  Before leaving, I pick up the picture of Ava and Glenn. He looks like he’s really smiling with his mouth and eyes, and I can feel my insides dissolving a little.

  I only saw Ava with her “new boyfriend” Glenn over one Christmas break. I didn’t talk to him or make eye contact. I didn’t look at the two of them, and I always left the room as quickly as possible. The next summer I ran into Glenn in Providence. When he said, “Zoe?” I was startled, not recognizing him for a second. Then he stepped forward to give me a hug, our first, and asked warmly, “How have you been?” and I was lost.

  We were together only ten weeks, because of Ava. She was done with him, and then she wasn’t. All she had to do was stretch out her hand and take him, and I was alone in the cold again, always second best.

  I study the Ava in this picture. Her hair is blowing across her face, and she looks like she is about to laugh. There is motion and joy in the sunlight on the ocean waves and in the way Glenn and Ava hold on to each other. If I’d never known either of them, I would want to meet the woman in the photo. This couple looks perfect for each other. I would wish them both well.

  I put the picture facedown on the shelf and leave the room, feeling again like I’m on the wrong side of the glass, looking in.

  For a moment, I am opposite the front door. Light shines through the beveled window, and the back of my neck prickles again. Every second I stay here is tempting fate. I should walk right out that door and be done with it.

  But I’m rash and sometimes stupid. And if I can prove where Ava is, there’s no way I’ll stop now.

  I whip around the corner and down the hall. The soles of my shoes catch and squeak against the hardwood floors.

  There’s a formal dining room and a little room with a piano in it, but I’m hurrying now, knowing my time is running out. I open doors and find a coat closet, a half bath, then finally the master bedroom.

  The first thing I notice is the darkness. There are windows along two sides of the room, but heavy floor-to-ceiling drapes block any light except that from the hallway behind me. There is a scent to Ava’s master bedroom, feminine and masculine mixed, light citrus and something woodsy. If the staircase made me feel exposed, this room is like a safe cave, hidden from the world. I avoid looking at the bed.

  This is the most intimate space of Glenn and Ava’s life together. Waves of emotion surge through me—jealousy, resentment, fury, and even a wisp of yearning.

  I yank open the drawers of one bedside table, then the other. Tissues, coins, an old copy of The Economist. Must be Glenn’s side. Ava’s side has a bedside table with only a lamp. No books, not even an e-reader. I’m kneeling down to peer under the bed when a phone rings in another room and I startle, banging my head hard enough to bring tears to my eyes.

  Crap. I explore the bump with my hand. I’ll just check the closet, then get the hell out.

  Inside Ava’s walk-in closet, I systematically search through expensive suits, flannel pajamas, and oversized sweaters—even inside soft leather boots. When I pull out a scrap of paper, I hang on to it. The loose change, lint, and candy wrappers go back where I found them. There’s a rhythm to the work, and I’m completely engrossed when suddenly I hear the front door open.

  Fear surges in my stomach, sending chilled tendrils throughout my body. A housekeeper? I can bluff my way past a housekeeper. But that’s a wild hope. Odds are it’s Glenn. I can already see the contempt in his eyes, hear the words he won’t need to say—psycho, criminal, loser. My breath catches in my throat.

  There’s no way I can leave the master bedroom without being seen. I’m not even sure I shut the door between the bedroom and the hallway.

  Only bad choices remain: stay hidden in the closet, hope I have enough privacy to climb out a bedroom window, or take a deep breath and charge straight out the front door.

  Every muscle is tensed with the desire to go, go, go. I know the smart play is to stay put. Sooner or later whoever has come into the house, even if it’s Glenn, will leave, or go upstairs, or fall asleep. But I suck at waiting. The tension and suspense are so much worse than anything else that could happen. I know this is my biggest weakness. I always lose my temper, or cut and run, or make the drastic choice instead of playing it cool. And this closet is full of Ava, reminding me, smothering me.

  The person has gone into the kitchen. I can hear sounds, too faint to identify. If I come out of the bedroom, I’ll be in the hallway, not really visible from the kitchen. Just wait. Be smart. But even as I think the words, I am ignoring my own good advice. On one side of the closet is a hooded sweat shirt. If I make a break for it, maybe they won’t be able to tell it’s me. I pull it on over my shoulder bag and everything else. As it goes over my head, I feel safely invisible. I really, really want to run. I stand up, tensed and ready.

  I won’t run. Not yet.

  I sit back down and shove my hands into the sweat shirt’s pouch pocket. Then I feel somethi
ng crumple under my fingers and pull it out.

  A torn piece of notebook paper. And on it, my address. My own address in Texas where I live with Andrew and Emma. My address, right there as though I had brought it with me. Those familiar words, the house number I’ve practiced with Emma, but written in Ava’s distinctive handwriting.

  My neck tingles like she’s standing right behind me.

  This scrap of paper is proof that someone looked for me. Proof that someone found me.

  Ava.

  And then the bedroom door opens.

  I freeze.

  My nerves are screaming with every sound from the other room. A drawer opening, the swish of a curtain. Carefully I scoot deeper into the closet, and the sound stops. I stare blindly at the closet door.

  Then, a miracle. A creak from the bedroom, footsteps in the hallway. I crawl cautiously toward the closet door, but my heart won’t stop pounding. With the tips of my fingers, I push, and the door swings open enough for me to see through the bedroom door and into the hallway.

  For once, I should be smart.

  Instead, I run for the front door.

  CHAPTER

  17

  ZOE

  SIX FEET. THAT’S how far I make it down the hallway before someone swings over the banister and grabs me by the shoulders hard.

  I am so focused on the front door that my feet try to keep running. Then I see who’s holding me.

  Glenn.

  Trapped. My mind freezes on that thought, and my animal instincts take over. I’m flailing, hitting and kicking, trying to break free. My elbow knocks something out of Glenn’s hand that clatters on the floor. Swearing, he seizes my wrists, holding me at arm’s length.

  “Just stop,” he shouts. “What the fuck are you doing?”

  “Nothing. I was looking for Ava.” I try to twist away, but my wrists are pinioned. I hate him right now. I’m panting and I hate him.

  “What are you doing in my house?”

  “Looking for Ava.” I spit the words out this time.

  He shakes me. “You know she’s not here!”

  “Bullshit. You probably killed her.”

  A strange look crosses his face, and he studies me. “You really don’t know where she is?”

  “Of course not. I just want to find her and go back to my family.” I can’t tell what he’s thinking, but at least he’s not shouting.

  “Don’t freak out again. Just stand there.” He looks at the floor, and I see that the thing I knocked out of his hand was a cell phone.

  Panic floods me. The police. Breaking and entering. Person of interest. I try to yank myself free. “Let go!”

  “Shit. Zoe! Zoe!” He shouts my name like he’s trying to get me to grab a lifeline, and I stop struggling, shocked at how much I want to trust him.

  “I’m not going to call the police. Calm the fuck down.” He keeps hold of one of my wrists and leans down to grab his phone. “How’d you get in here, anyway? The front door was still locked when I got home.”

  Is this a trick? “Study window.”

  “Which study?”

  “Ava’s.”

  “That’s the second story.”

  “I used a bench to get to the porch.”

  “Christ.” He sounds exasperated, but not angry. “Look, you can’t stay here. I’ll drive you home.”

  So, we walk out together. In the driveway there’s a black Lexus sedan, elegantly practical. Glenn opens the passenger door.

  “Get in the car.”

  Some instinct makes me freeze.

  His jaw tenses. “Get in the damn car, Zoe.”

  I don’t have to go with him. But I have a phone, so I can call for help if I need to. And he seems to believe I didn’t hurt Ava. I don’t believe he did either. Mostly.

  So I get in and pull the door shut.

  He slides into the driver’s seat, hits the accelerator, and we pull away.

  Sitting next to Glenn, I study his profile. He used to wear his hair longer, but the bridge of his nose, the angle of his jaw are still the same. Physically he’s more similar to Andrew than I realized. And Glenn’s take-charge attitude is a more volatile version of Andrew’s cool focus on logistics.

  A warning chimes deep within me as the memories unfurl. Glenn and me in the sheets of his futon bed while sun streamed through the curtainless window. I remember sitting on the dock of the boathouse with a book, waiting while Glenn sculled. Then the deepest memory, Glenn’s closed door, his empty apartment.

  I can tell he’s driving me straight back to my parents’ house and I shouldn’t waste any more time, but I can’t help myself. “Why didn’t you even tell me you were leaving?”

  He knows what I’m talking about. Three years ago I read the dedication in Ava’s latest book, I told Glenn about it, and the next day he took off. Now he’s staring straight ahead, like he can leave this confrontation in the dust. “I’m sorry.”

  He doesn’t say it like he means it. He says it to shut the conversation down. There’s a sour taste in my mouth, but I’m not the kind of angry that picks a fight, not right now. My heart isn’t broken, it’s just bruised. And I don’t care what he thinks of me, so I ask, “You know I didn’t do anything to Ava. What do you think happened?”

  He sighs, and the edges of his eyes and mouth droop.

  “You think someone kidnapped her?” It feels like he is taking her side, like I am the horrible person everyone else believes I am.

  “Zoe, I don’t know what to tell you.” The car turns into my parents’ neighborhood. “You say you’re married, you’ve got a life. I think the best thing you can do is get on a plane and go home.”

  “She’s my sister. If she’s in trouble, really in trouble—”

  “You’ll do what?” He brings the car to a hard stop right in front of my parents’ house and cuts his eyes at me. “If Ava’s in trouble, you should fucking run. I told you before. Go home.”

  CHAPTER

  18

  AVA

  I AM FLEEING THROUGH the woods, and a full moon gives the scene the flickering light of an old filmstrip. I need to find a refuge, but I can’t catch my breath. I stop, clinging to a tree for support, my fingers clutching the rippled bark. Then the tree gives way under my hand, a small door opening, and inside the tree is a tiny room with a fireplace. A man bends over it, feeding twigs into the flames. He straightens and I see it is Beckett, but a younger version, the man I fell in love with.

  He smiles and holds out a hand in invitation. “‘Come live with me and be my love.’”

  I put my hand in his. Relief floods through me, but then the sky darkens and a cage falls down around us. We are caught.

  My mother stands on the other side, a clipboard in her hand. She frowns at it, then at us. “You’re not nearly fat enough. Stick your finger through the bars and let me see how plump you are.”

  There’s a chicken bone in my hand, gnawed clean, and I poke it out of the cage.

  Now she looks at me with Cristina’s piercing dark eyes, and her face begins to sag like an oversized rubber mask. “Don’t try that trick on me. You’re the damn witch in this story. Just ask Zoe.”

  I wake with a gasp. The room is still dark, and now Beckett is sleeping behind me, almost touching. I don’t inch away. The dream felt so real, not like sleep, not like a fairy tale. Zoe probably does think I’m a witch, but I don’t think she’s behind all this, I’m crossing off one option after another—not Zoe, not a crazy fan, not a random psychopath.

  The signs point to my parents.

  But that’s insane. I can’t believe it, but I can’t refute it either. Setting aside the secret research and the connections to all the terms Cristina rattled off, the most damning evidence is the way my parents always take a minute to decide on an emotional reaction. When I first brought Beckett home and told them we were engaged, they just looked at us. The silence grew more and more uncomfortable. Then my mother took a breath and said, “Congratulations, sweetie.” The endearment
sounded like a word in a foreign language, one that she’d read mothers should say.

  Behind me, Beckett whispers, “Ava?”

  “What?”

  He pauses. “Did you ever think it was Zoe?”

  “Maybe.” Of course I did. Now I almost wish it were.

  “But it sounds …” He draws a deep breath. “Do you think … maybe your parents are involved? Somehow?”

  I squeeze my eyes shut. My parents.

  Nothing can dispel the loneliness and fear of that thought. This is exactly how I felt as a child, when my parents’ presence in the house was no comfort at all, and Zoe always fell asleep straightaway. Some evenings I couldn’t stand lying awake by myself and I would slip into bed next to her, the solid fact of her breathing the only comfort I could find. This chill, this isolation, brings it all back.

  But I still can’t believe it. Their research was a mystery to me and their attitude toward me and Zoe was clinical, sure, but I can’t wrap my head around the idea of my parents actually doing this.

  I lean back just a little, so I’m closer to Beckett. We are frightened, cold, disoriented, and exhausted, and even though it’s been five years, my body remembers the shape of his.

  “It’s going to be okay,” he whispers into my hair, and the sweetness of the lie makes me tear up. Maddening, infuriating Beckett. If only I could hate him all the time.

  I was never sure what my parents did for a living, and I never felt love or emotional connection from them, only a sense that Zoe and I were some kind of family experiment.

  I don’t doubt that my parents would prioritize their research over my health and well-being. I know the grim truth—they are absolutely capable of this. I just can’t believe they would go to all the trouble, or that my mother would delegate a massive research project to anyone else, much less somebody like Cristina. I tell myself that if my parents were really involved, I would have seen them by now.