What My Sister Knew

by Nina Laurin

  The security guard lets go but the two of them flank me all the way back to the lobby downstairs. After the doors close behind me, releasing me back into the cacophony of the evening traffic, they still stand there, behind glass. Watching me as I leave.

  It takes me forever to get home. After working odd hours for so long, I forgot how trying Denver traffic can be. Plus, even once I white-knuckle through the worst of it, every light I hit seems to turn red right in my face. When I finally pull up to the town house, I’m exhausted and starving, shaking with hopelessness and anger.

  I race up the steps, envisioning a long bath and maybe—Why not?—ordering some takeout. I’m so absorbed in my thoughts that I practically collide with the person waiting for me at the front door.

  I stumble back, cursing, but then she turns around.

  “Andrea,” Figueroa says, smiling. “I’ve been meaning to talk to you. May I come in?”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  There are a million reasons I should know better. We used to instruct shelter kids about this all the time: You have rights, you don’t have to consent to a search, you cannot be detained unless you are arrested. But the viper is right here on my porch, and incriminating evidence is in my pocket, and all that useful info evaporates from my head instantly.

  “Come in,” I say dumbly as I take the keys out of my pocket. Figueroa has to move aside in order to let me open the door, and she does, just barely. She stands there, in my personal bubble, as if she genuinely sees no problem with that. Like she’s a close friend. I swear I can hear her breathe.

  But she’s nothing if not a gracious guest. She takes off her shoes without being prompted, and she compliments me on the house, the décor, the furniture. She doesn’t point out I can’t afford any of it on my own but I bet she already made that mental note and stashed it away deep in the whorls of that brain of hers.

  “How have you been, Andrea?” she asks. She moves a crumpled blanket aside and takes a seat on the couch. My mind flies into panic mode as I assess the traces of Sunny’s presence in the house: the blanket, yes, but also the pizza box, the two plates still sitting on the coffee table. Not that they stand out too much in the general mess but someone like Figueroa would notice.

  “How do you think?” I retort, noting in my mind that it’s the classic tactic of someone who’s lying—answering a question with another. “My brother is wanted for murder, and now you show up at my house without warning.”

  “I didn’t realize a warning was needed,” she says.

  “You call people up before you show up on their doorstep,” I mutter. Although she’s the exception, because she’s police—showing up without warning is what she does.

  “What can I say? You had a busy day.” She’s smiling. “Have a seat. Let’s talk. Because right now, I have people going over every inch of that apartment, so whatever you found, they’ll find it too.”

  I breathe in but there doesn’t seem to be any room in my lungs. Of course. I shouldn’t be surprised. I bet the place was under surveillance—in case he came back to it. Or I did.

  “Anyway, if you had the idea to remove or tamper with the evidence, this is your chance to come forward.”

  “I didn’t— I didn’t remove anything.”

  “We’ll see.”

  “I’m not what you think,” I blurt.

  “You can’t make excuses for him forever, Andrea.”

  “I’m not making excuses!” My voice cracks. “I’m the same as you. I just want the truth.”

  “The truth is that your brother murdered this girl. We’re going to catch him, and he’s going to go to prison for it. The end. He won’t bullshit his way out of it. No psychiatric facility this time. He’s going back into a federal prison, and he’s not coming out again.”

  She’s looking me straight in the eye as she says it, taking pleasure in my reaction. Or is it something else? Is she waiting for me to slip up? Pushing me toward something?

  “What do you want from me, then?” The words tumble out, out of my control. “You have the truth; you have proof of it. What did I ever do?”

  “You’re helping him. I don’t know exactly how—yet. Or especially why. But you are.”

  Wouldn’t you, if it was your brother? I don’t say it. It’s what she wants, what she expects, because it would be akin to an admission of guilt.

  I open my mouth to deny everything—I am not helping him, it was just morbid curiosity, he’s a murderer but he’s still family, the usual set of retorts she’s probably heard a million times. But then I close it, my teeth making a hollow clack.

  I think about the money and the release forms. If I could read the fine print on them right now, I’d have a pretty good guess what it would say.

  My brother tested some kind of medication for them. While on that medication, he—allegedly—murdered a girl. Even this I can only speculate about. I can only imagine all the other layers of truths and half truths and outright lies my brother could spin around these two things.

  In case I can’t prove his innocence, these drug trials are Eli’s get-out-of-prison-free card.

  So why isn’t he using it?

  My gaze refocuses on Figueroa, who watches me with a pensive, calm air. Is she thinking the same thing? I’m more than certain someone already found the hiding place—I snapped the tile back into place, but it won’t hold up to a police search. Someone already told her about the papers and the money. Someone is probably on the way to the research center right now, if they didn’t already know about it.

  “The girl. Adele,” Figueroa says. Just hearing the name spoken out loud in my house is enough to rattle me. “We know she used to frequent your shelter. I have several witnesses who place her there…during hours when you were in charge.”

  I swallow. “I don’t remember her. Lots of people pass through the shelter. Especially those in her circumstances.”

  She nods. “Here’s the thing, Andrea, and perhaps this is what bothers me the most. You keep protecting him, when he just used you. You understand that, right?”

  You’re too soft, Addie. That’s why everyone—

  “He spied on you, probably for months, in defiance of the court order.” She rattles off the words dryly. “He came to your work. He most likely got one of your charges to spy on you for him too.” Her smile widens. “Ah. Now, there it is. The reaction I was hoping to see. Surprised now, aren’t you?”

  “That’s insane,” I say hoarsely. How can she know? It’s impossible, impossible—

  “There was a call from a cell phone to his own, made the night of the murder. The tower places it around the shelter. And another call, made to the same number later. She probably thought it wasn’t trackable because it’s a flip phone. But hers wasn’t a pay-and-go. It was a regular phone, and she put her name on a contract.”

  I already know the answer but I still ask. “Who?”

  “Elizabeth Jones. Known in your circle as Sunny.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  Rage crackles beneath my skin, my hands trembling as I climb into my rental car and slam the door. I don’t know if I’m in any shape to drive. Not to mention that I have no idea where to look for Sunny. If she had half a brain, she’d be on the next bus to somewhere far away. But somehow, I doubt it. She doesn’t know what she’s dealing with. Like a lot of teenagers who grew up like she did, she lacks the life-saving preservation instinct that tells you when you’re in a bad situation. Always trusting the wrong people for the wrong reasons.

  To say she doesn’t remind me of myself, once upon a time, would be a lie.

  But the fact is, I let her into my house. Why? Because I felt guilty, felt like I owed her something. And now, as usual, I’m paying for it.

  It felt like an eternity, waiting after Figueroa left, but I had to be sure. I still can’t be, not 100 percent sure, that she, or someone she sent, isn’t watching me, ready to follow wherever I go. I take the most convoluted road possible, turning randomly again and again—but
not one car seems to go out of its way to follow me.

  This time, when I pass the place where I crashed, I barely notice. Just another stretch of a dark, empty, familiar road. Everything has been cleaned up by now, no more broken glass, no more caution tape.

  The shelter’s sign glows dimly, dwarfed by the two aggressive floodlights above the entrance. There are cameras watching the perimeter because Marla doesn’t want people shooting up around the corner. I park the car and direct my steps to the main door, trying to remember who’s on duty at this hour. Chrissy? Allan? Here’s to hoping it’s someone who doesn’t hate me. With that, I push open the door.

  I’m in luck: It’s Allan, who’s had a soft spot for me since forever. I always got the feeling that, if I didn’t make sure to casually bring up the existence of my fiancé every time we spoke, he would have asked me out a long time ago. And perhaps he isn’t too off base. We’d certainly make a more plausible couple than I ever made with Milton. Resolutely hippie Allan, with his round glasses and his hair either in dreadlocks or just unkempt, and me, freckles and no makeup—we’d look like one of those couples who go kayaking on the weekends. When all the shit went down months ago and suddenly everyone knew I was single again, he was this close, I could tell, but my murderous mood and shitty attitude must have kept him at bay.

  I lean on the counter in front of the bulletproof glass. His expression changes when he sees me. His eyebrows crawl up his forehead, and I can’t tell if he’s glad to see me or just surprised. “Andrea,” he says.

  “Hi.”

  “I thought— Marla said—” He’s visibly squirming.

  “Yeah, I’m off work for a while.” I try to make it sound as normal as possible. Although I’m convinced that, like pretty much everyone, he already knows the whole story. “Allan, I’m looking for Sunny. Has anyone seen her around?”

  He hesitates, and I wonder if he knows but doesn’t want to tell me or really has no idea.

  “I think she might be in some kind of trouble,” I add. “She called me the other day. That boyfriend of hers was stalking her again. She said she’d let me know she was okay but I haven’t heard anything.”

  “Andrea…” He hems and haws, stalling for time. I glance at the locked door, expecting Marla to emerge any moment to shoo me away. But Marla has usually gone home by now.

  “I know I’m not supposed to be here,” I say, lowering my voice. “But I can’t just let it go, can I? These kids don’t get a week off, you know what I mean?”

  Allan is one of those people who got into this job out of a desire to help and one of those even rarer people who has kept that desire, resisting the inevitable cynicism and pessimism that usually set in after about six months.

  “I haven’t seen Sunny, Andrea,” he says. He looks uncomfortable but I don’t think he’s lying. “Your shirt is inside out. Are you okay?”

  Distraught, I glance down at myself and realize he’s right. I can’t even tell how long it’s been like that. Figueroa never said a word about it, but I’ll bet she noticed. I’m coming apart at the seams. The situation that I thought was still in my grip is spinning out of control, fast.

  “Yeah,” I tell Allan. “I’m fucking peachy.”

  With that, I turn around and give a wink to the surveillance camera over my head. Behind me, I hear Allan nervously clear his throat and then gasp as I unselfconsciously pull the shirt over my head, clad only in my washed-out, once-white bra. My scarred skin glistens like pink wax in the unflattering overhead lights. I turn my shirt the right side out and put it back on. I can feel him staring, and when I turn around and give him a broad grin, his jaw is slack.

  But I guess, as Sunny would have put it, I’m fresh out of fucks to give.

  * * *

  My phone rings as I’m walking to my car. When I take it out of my pocket, I see Chris’s number and feel a short-lived pang of guilt when I hit Decline. I haven’t answered any of her texts so she probably thinks I’ve fallen off the wagon. (Haven’t I?)

  But before I have a chance to put the phone back, it rings again. Groaning inwardly, I pick up. “Chris, I’m fine. I’m…sober. This isn’t really a good time.”

  “I know you’re sober,” she says with strange calm, yet I can hear the anger behind the words. “I think we should talk.”

  “I can’t right now. I have to do something important.”

  “It can wait.”

  “No, it can’t,” I snarl, unable to contain my irritation any longer. Just who does she think she is? Mother Teresa, Savior of Alcoholics? “There are worse things at stake here than me snapping and having a beer, okay?”

  Her answer is silence. At first I think the call disconnected or she hung up. Then I hear her sigh. It becomes unnerving.

  “Hello?”

  Nothing.

  “Chris, hey, listen—I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to yell. I just—”

  “I did some searching of my own,” she says. I stop cold just a few feet away from my car, my phone frozen to my ear, my heart hammering.

  “Researching you. You may have gotten carried away with your confidences. Too many details.”

  “What do you mean?” I feel like I’m speaking through a mouthful of chewing gum.

  “I talked to some people who would know. And I don’t think this is news to you, but your party years are basically a fabrication from beginning to end.”

  I don’t move, my mind at a standstill.

  “Now, the question on my mind is, Are you just making shit up to cover your real problems, or was the whole thing one big stunt for attention? Have you ever even done coke in your life?”

  I say nothing.

  “Andrea?”

  I hang up the phone. Then, before she can call back, I block her number.

  I drive straight to the place where I went to pick Sunny up a few days ago. The highway is roaring with cars, a mighty waterfall that swallows me up seamlessly without a splash. I take the exit to the little glowing island of twenty-four-hour civilization, if you can call it that. Half the pumps of the gas station are occupied, and more cars are parked in front of the neighboring fast-food joint.

  The hot, greasy smell that envelops me the moment I get out of the car makes my stomach growl, despite the fact that my insides are still in knots—have been since Figueroa left. Still, before all else, I check the bathroom, as if Sunny might still be in there by some miracle. But I only find two unfamiliar teenage girls, who give me looks brimming with derision as they fix their heavy makeup.

  So I go back out to the restaurant and get in line, ordering a double cheeseburger and large fries when my turn comes. My stomach growling has escalated, and I’m pretty sure the whole restaurant can hear it. I don’t want company, least of all a dozen strangers watching me scarf down my heart attack on a plate under halogen lights so I bring my takeout bag to my car and devour the contents in minutes.

  After all, they probably don’t have double cheeseburgers in jail.

  As if it can hear my thoughts, my phone chimes. The meal sitting like a brick at the bottom of my stomach does a perilous jump but I pick up the phone and look. I think I might throw up right on the rental’s sensible navy seats when I see the text.

  You’re close. You know where to find me.

  Fuck fuck fuck fuck. What the hell is Eli doing? He can’t text me on this number, and he knows it.

  * * *

  Shit. I think of Figueroa tinkering with my phone, police trailing me. Cell phone towers pinpointing my every move. My first reaction is to switch it off but I realize it’s probably too late.

  The realization comes to me suddenly, out of nowhere, like it always does. Peering out the window, I see it, silhouetted against the dirty indigo sky: scattered rectangles of windows glowing yellow, orange, and the occasional blue, giant parasitic mushrooms of satellite dishes peppering the rooftop. The apartment complex, the maze of four- and five-story slum buildings from the seventies that were probably crummy even then. I search for the right one
but I can’t see it from this angle—it’s on the other end, farther from the highway and the ramp.

  Although we didn’t see cars when we looked out of the window, the distance wasn’t enough to keep the endless roar of the highway out of our apartment—it seeped in even through tightly shut windows, night and day, summer and winter. We didn’t notice it, just like we didn’t notice the diesel smell. After Mom married Sergio and we moved to the suburbs, I couldn’t sleep for a while, deafened by the quiet that made my ears ring. I would lie awake in the room I shared with my brother and stare into the dark ceiling. The only sound was Eli’s breathing, all the way across the room, and I wondered if all this was good or bad, and whether it even mattered, because just like with everything else, no one asked my opinion. They just made me confront the fact: This is how it’s going to be from now on. And I’d float along, not trying to change or influence where I was going. All my attempts at self-determination were nipped in the bud from an early age. I learned to accept things as they were, try to find the positives, ignore the negatives, and move on.

  Pro: I kind of like my new stepdad. Or the fact that I have a stepdad at all.

  Con: I have to go to the new school, and the other girls are always sneering at me, their faces like a language I don’t speak.

  Pro: I have a bigger, nicer room.

  Con: My brother is starting to act weird.

  I make my way to the building on foot, after leaving my car at a safe distance. I don’t need to check the rusted metal numbers over the lobby door—I know it’s the right building the moment I see it. I’m overcome with a weird sense of calm, a kind of quiet despair, as if I already know things have spun way out of my control and there’s little I can do. Floating. Again.

  The lobby has a set of two doors, the first one without a lock, opening into a tiled area with mailboxes on the wall and a stand heaping with discount brochures from neighboring stores. Next to the second set of doors is a primitive, ancient intercom system, a list of apartments with little slots for papers with the tenant’s name, next to a dialing pad and a speaker. It didn’t work then, and I suspect that it doesn’t work now. But before I try the door handle, something compels me to scan that list, my gaze straying way down before making its way back up, to the fourth and last floor where our apartment used to be. Since there’s not an elevator, the top units were cheapest, and our sensible mother lugged groceries up four flights of stairs without complaint.