What My Sister Knew

by Nina Laurin

  There it is. 417. My fingertip hovers over the little laminated paper the landlord has slid in next to the apartment number. I trace the letters, as if touching them will make them disintegrate, rearrange themselves into something—anything—else.

  417. Andrea L. Warren.

  Next thing I know, I’m swinging the door wide open, racing past it, letting it crash closed behind me. The inner lobby leading to the dank stairwell smells like stale cooking with a whiff of more-than-ripe garbage emanating from the giant black bins in the farthest corner; my stomach knots and I attempt to hold my breath—not a good idea, as racing up the first flight of stairs leaves me breathless, doubling over on the second floor’s landing. I steady myself against the sticky pale-green wall and then yank my hand away from the rough surface as if it were white-hot—fingerprints. While I try to catch my breath, I use the hem of my shirt to clumsily wipe down the wall where I touched it. Oh shit, the door. I have to do the same to both door handles—although it’s not as crucial, since the building houses over a hundred people who come and go at all hours, their tired, sweaty hands groping the handles, the oil on their palms obliterating any trace of mine.

  My heart hammers from the effort as I make my way up one more floor. I remember trudging up those stairs after my mother, pawing at the splintery railing while she huffed and puffed ahead. Exercise, Addie, she used to say, with strained cheer through the breathlessness, it’s good for us!

  One more flight of stairs and I’m on the right floor, at last. I’m panting, and the fact that my heart is doing somersaults isn’t helping. At the very end of the hall is 417. The carpeting muffles my steps—not that there’s anyone obvious to hide from. The other doors stand still and mute, no shuffling steps, no locks clicking or curious faces peering out to see the intruder. Back then, everyone here minded their own business, and they still do.

  I stand in front of the door to 417 for what feels like a long time. I could still leave, I think, knowing I won’t. The doors were repainted not too long ago, sloppily—paint stains the apartment number. The locks look shiny and new. I glance around for a cursory check: The two closest apartments still have the old locks, which must be a pain to use by now. There’s a doorbell, the old doorbell. I pull my sleeve over my hand and press it with my knuckle, but predictably, there’s no sound behind the door. Paint job aside, the door is still flimsy, and I should be hearing everything as if I were standing in the middle of the living room. But nothing, and no one, moves.

  I knock, also through my sleeve. Not that I expect an answer—I’m just delaying the inevitable. When I place my hand on the door knob, I feel like I leave a damp trace even through the fabric of my shirt. The doorknob turns without resistance, without so much as a squeak, and the door opens smoothly.

  Beyond it is an empty apartment, nothing but dust and shadows. The lights are off, but the streetlights and the lights in the windows of the building across the street all add up to a flat, orangish glow that filters in stripes through the blinds. All these apartments come with blinds, I remember, grayed with time, sticky with dust.

  “Eli,” I whisper, and the echo picks up my voice, amplifying it into thunder that rolls through the whole apartment. There’s no answer. “Eli?”

  I feel like a fool. I’d kick something, if there were anything to kick except the walls. Of course he’s not here. He’s not an idiot—he’s a lot of things but stupid was never one of them, and he was not going to wait for me here, in this apartment with my name on it. I thought he had no money, but now I know that’s a lie—another one on top of many. Did he rent it to have an eventual hideout? Or did he do it just for the pleasure of messing with me? It sounds like Eli, but not like this, not without another, more concrete purpose.

  And he would never wait for me here, where I would lead the cops right to him, to us both. He wouldn’t bet his life on my ability to avoid being trailed. Hell, I know I wouldn’t. I’m not a mastermind. I’m better at doing what I’m told. He’d be the first to remind me.

  What I need to do is turn around and get the hell out of here. Wipe the door handles anyway, just in case. I need to go home, call Figueroa, and tell her everything. I think of the smug, self-satisfied look she had on TV, the look she will surely have again when she hears the whole story, and it’s not even the worst thing I can imagine.

  I use my scant legal knowledge to try to work out how much shit I’d be in: obstruction of justice, for sure, and what else?

  The air in the apartment is still and stifling, with a sickening undercurrent of raw sewage, like a pipe had burst or something had overflowed. At first I hardly noticed it but now it seems to be thickening in the air. It’s gag inducing. From where I’m standing in the middle of the room, I can see the alcove of the kitchen on one side and into the tiny bedroom on the other. There’s no fridge or stove, and the bedroom is similarly bare. The bathroom door is the only one that’s closed.

  I take a step forward, aware of the squeak of my soles on the linoleum. He is in there, I think, and the fine down on my arms stands on end. I reach for the handle—unnecessarily, as it turns out, because the door opens without resistance, letting me tumble into the tiny room behind it. It’s pitch black, and I feel along the wall for the light switch, find it, flick it, and, to my surprise, the ceiling light flickers on.

  I stumble away, only instead of toppling out of the room, I hit the door with my back and slam it shut, leaving me trapped, blindly pawing for the handle, unable to look away from the sight in front of me.

  Sunny is in the tub, curled up in the fetal position. There’s no gore, no blood, but it’s impossible to mistake that empty shell of a person for being alive. I know she’s gone even before I see her face. There’s something, a stillness, about her that can only be final. Her ponytail hangs over the edge of the tub, its too-blond color dull beneath the single light of the bathroom. Next to the ponytail’s ragged end, something else hangs, slim and black, like a snake.

  I hear a little whimper, and for a split second, I rush forward with a flash of wild hope—Could she be alive after all?—but before my knees land with a thud on the bathroom tile, I already know the whimper came from me. Her face is bluish gray, eyes screwed shut—a small mercy: I don’t know what I’d do if they were open, if they had been looking at me. Her hands, frozen into claws, are clutched to her chest. The smell of death is overbearing.

  I catch myself before I can touch the edge of the tub with my bare hands. But not before I can see what killed her. What’s wrapped around Sunny’s neck still, glistening dully with that sheen of real leather. It’s a belt. I recognize it because of the little silver studs: an expensive belt, one from my closet back home. One she stole before she left my place in the early hours of the morning.

  Surprisingly, the first thoughts to rush through my mind are of a practical nature. How long before someone notices the smell, goes to investigate, and calls the police, if they haven’t already? What else have I touched? Where have I left fibers of my clothing or lost a hair without realizing it? What can I do, and how can I cover my ass now that a teenage girl is dead, strangled? Because it won’t bring her back, of course—nothing I do will. It never does.

  Eli killed her, I realize with sudden clarity and calm. He killed her just like he killed the other one. He’s not innocent. He never was, and now he played me again. Now I can’t pretend none of this concerns me. I was naïve to ever think I could stay one step ahead of him.

  I’m beyond worrying about clothing fibers and bits of DNA, because something tells me these things are about to be the least of my problems. And the worst part is, I should have known what this was about from the moment they identified Adele Schultz.

  Fifteen years later, he managed to blow up my life all over again, and I never saw it coming.

  He never wanted me to prove he was innocent. He wanted me to take the fall.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  Eli Warren recounted proudly and in detail how he pulled his sister out of
the fire. I let him go on, and the story, embellished with true imaginative flair and garnished with colorful details, took a little over forty-five minutes. When I subsequently turned the conversation to the fire itself, the gleam in his eyes seemed to flicker out for a moment.

  “Oh yeah. They deserved it. But even if they didn’t, what can I do, right? What’s done is done.”

  He did not look or sound in any way remorseful.

  Truth be told, my main emotion after my last conversation with Eli Warren was pity. Whatever way you spin it—and however he justifies it—he has done this to himself. He once had a family, a home, a promising future. He threw it all away on a whim, in a flash of anger.

  —Into Ashes: The Shocking Double Murder in the Suburbs by Jonathan Lamb, Eclipse Paperbacks, 2004, 1st ed.

  Fifteen years earlier: after the fire

  In the hospital, time stretches into infinity. It’s not that Andrea doesn’t have anything to do to pass the long hours. Since the fire made the news, maybe even national news, the gifts have been pouring in. They surround her from all sides now, piles and stacks of stuffed toys and books, and Andrea is hopelessly too old for all of them. But you can’t really tell well-meaning women (it’s mostly women, judging by the cards) from all over the state that a girl who’s almost thirteen won’t much care for Dr. Seuss.

  She should probably have the books and toys donated to someone who has more use for them. She still might, when she can gather the courage to speak to someone. She’s afraid the nurses might judge her, as if one wrong word, misunderstood or misinterpreted, will bring everything crashing down.

  The visitor comes early in the morning. The only visitors she’s had were police and social workers, because there’s no one left to visit her. Her mom didn’t have any family, and she isn’t sure about Sergio, but why would his family visit her? She wasn’t really his daughter. She wasn’t even officially adopted. She remained a Warren, her father’s last name.

  The fire itself is still foggy. She did ask herself a couple of times where Eli was. She has never been away from her twin for longer than a few hours. Besides, she doesn’t know what happens when your parents die. Do they put you in foster care right away or is there some kind of in-between limbo place where they keep you? Now she finds herself wondering. What will happen to her, after all? It seemed unimportant before but now, as the burns on her chest and neck get better, as the grafted skin heals, it has been monopolizing her thoughts.

  When the visitor comes in, she wonders if she can ask him. He doesn’t look like police. He’s tall but portly, and old. He looks older than Sergio, in any event. He also looks vaguely familiar but she can’t place him.

  “Hi, Andrea,” he says, and, without asking, takes a seat on the chair next to the bed. The chair is too small, and it groans under his weight.

  “I’m here because there’s something you have to do,” he says, wasting no time on introductions. “I think you already know what that is, don’t you?”

  She shivers. She can’t help herself, and she can’t hide her visceral reaction. Not from him at least.

  “They already suspect something, Andrea,” the man says. He speaks in a measured, confident voice. It’s meant to make people trust him, she thinks. But she, Andrea Warren, can’t trust anyone. Not anymore. She will never be able to trust anyone again for as long as she lives. “Why do you think they haven’t allowed Eli to see you?”

  I should say something, Andrea thinks with a suffocating sense of urgency. I should stop him.

  The man leans closer. “They’re going to find out what really happened anyway,” he says. “So you might as well tell them first.”

  Without warning, he gets up, as if to go, and Andrea betrays herself. She gives a start and reaches out to grab his arm, his sleeve, something—anything to stop him. His sharp gaze is on her in an instant, and she freezes. She lets her arm drop.

  “I can count on you,” he says, with an inflection that implies he already knows the answer. “And afterward, I’ll make sure you’re well taken care of. You can trust me on that.”

  Andrea gives a short nod. There’s warmth in his words, reassurance—even though it all feels a little bit artificial, as clinical as the cheap art print on the wall above her bed. But she already decided. She knows what she’s going to do.

  It’s only when the door closes behind him, leaving her alone with her thoughts, that she recognizes Leeanne Boudreaux’s father.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  April 10, 3:22 a.m.

  The headlights of the old Toyota seem to be the only lights in the whole universe. I slam the car door shut, and before I take another step toward the figure standing in the grass by the side of the road, I know that the red I see isn’t just a trick of the light. Inwardly, I’m pleading, begging myself: Just get back in your car, drive away, never look back. Pack your things and move. To LA, New York, Australia. Put as much distance between us as you possibly can.

  Get lost in a city of millions. Change your name. The last name already went, and now the first will go too. No more Addie Warren. Poof, gone.

  But something in me already knows that it’s too late. I can’t get back in the car any more than I can raise our childhood home from the ashes.

  In the back of my mind, I always knew this day would come.

  “Why would you call me at work?” I snap. As if it even matters anymore. Eli is standing in the shadow of a tree, the only tree on this entire stretch of road. Its trunk isn’t thick enough to hide behind, and my brother doesn’t seem to realize it. When he moves and the headlights of my car hit his face, he looks dazed.

  The blood splattered all over him gleams a deep, malignant cherry red. It makes his eyes look even bluer, their color as clean and vibrant as it was the last time I saw him. He always had all the beauty, and now he’s lost it all. His eyes are the only things that are the same.

  He holds up his hands.

  “Are you crazy? I told you— Never—” I’m spewing words, making myself breathless. As if were I to stop talking, something irreparable will happen. “I’m the one who texts you. Never the other way around—never. You hear me?”

  “Did you erase it?”

  “You fucking bet I erased it. It’s not my phone. What the hell were you thinking?”

  He lets go of a shuddering breath. “Addie, you have to hear me out, okay?”

  I feel like I’m about to have a panic attack.

  “I came home, and she was there. Dead. That’s all I know. I didn’t do it, I swear to God.”

  “Who— What—”

  “This girl. I picked her up at a dive bar, just fucked her once, nothing else. Didn’t even get her name.”

  In spite of myself, I wince. “I don’t need to know that.”

  “She was just there. On the floor. She didn’t have a face anymore, Addie. This is so fucked. I’m so fucked.”

  “You have to call the police,” I hear myself say and cringe. I sound like a social worker, a privileged little bitch who has no idea why the police are not an option. I close my eyes, exhale. “Okay. Where were you before? Were you alone?”

  When no answer comes, I open my eyes again to see his face, disarmed, defenseless, desperate. “Fuck,” I mutter. “Eli, just tell me: What do you want me to do?”

  “I want you to help me, Addie. You know what’s going to happen.”

  I catch myself grimacing every time he says the nickname. Why does he have to use it so much? It’s just us here. It feels like it’s just us in the whole damn world. I listen for any other cars, look out for headlights, but the asphalt beneath my feet is still, no vibration of faraway tires growing closer. We’re alone.

  “I’m going back to prison. They’re not going to believe anything I say. Unless you help me.”

  I can’t hold back a shiver and pull my jacket closed over my chest as if it could help.

  “I can’t help you anymore, Eli,” I say, and we both know it’s a lie. “We’re not twelve years old. I have
a job. I have a life—”

  I cut myself off, wondering to what extent that’s true anymore. I have no parents. Jim and Cynthia Boudreaux were never family except on paper, and because of that money I stole, they now think I’m some kind of alcoholic-junkie-thief and hate me even more. My relationship with Milton blew up.

  The truth, no matter how deadening, is right in front of me. The only family I have left is my brother, shivering in the headlights of my car, desperate and scared, covered in blood. He’s the only one who was always on my side. Who would do anything for me. We’re not just siblings; we’re twins. We’re supposed to have some special bond, right? We’re supposed to read each other’s thoughts.

  To an extent, that’s true. But it’s always been very much one-sided.

  “I tried to make something of myself,” I say stiffly. “At least I tried.” That has to be worth something.

  “Let me remind you that I did not exactly have the same opportunities you had,” he says. His voice changes, dripping with sarcasm and disdain.

  “And whose fault is that?” I fire back.

  “Really, Andrea? Really? We’re going to go there?”

  I hang my head.

  “Because if we are, here’s what I have to say: If I go to prison for this thing, I’m going to take you with me. You owe me. Don’t forget that.”

  As if I ever, in a million years, could forget it.

  “What do you want me to do?” The words come out flat as paper. I have no more fight in me.