The Favorite Sister

by Jessica Knoll

  The next morning, the police and the public believe, Vince insisted on coming with us to Jesse’s house, perhaps because he panicked when he realized we were driving the car that contained Brett’s body. Perhaps he wanted to monitor the situation, be sure that Stephanie didn’t trash his name on camera now that they were getting a divorce. It is impossible to tell exactly what he was thinking, if he was planning on doing what he was doing, or if it just happened in a moment of passion. The police asked for footage of the day, which Jesse turned over only after the producers cobbled together enough Frankenbites to fit her account. Jesse made a large donation to the Montauk Playhouse and offered the police chief’s niece an internship at Saluté, and no one ever specified that it was the unedited film they needed.

  “Talk to me about how you plan to honor your aunt’s legacy,” Jesse says, tapping the whisk against the side of the mixing bowl before dropping it in the sink.

  “I will,” Layla says, “but I want to say something else first. About Stephanie.” She turns the food processor off.

  “Stephanie?” Jesse says, eyebrows in the middle of her forehead, although Layla told her in advance she wanted to say this. Layla feels an impassioned obligation to take up for Stephanie, the woman she doesn’t know tried to hurt her in Morocco, the woman she doesn’t know succeeded in killing her aunt. My stomach burbles. This is the part of the day that I have been dreading most, and there was already so much to dread. Why, why does Layla always have to do the right thing?

  “I know Stephanie messed up by lying in her book,” Layla says. “But I think that was her way of reaching out for help. We know now that Vince was hurting her, but she was too afraid or embarrassed to say that, so she made up this other abusive relationship in her book. And I don’t want people to forget her, and all she’s done for women.”

  This is indefensible, what I can’t stop my daughter from doing: unwittingly pardoning my sister’s murderer.

  But Layla was insistent. If she was doing this interview, then she was defending Stephanie, especially once it came out that Stephanie had changed her will right before she died, leaving all her worldly possessions to End It!, the national organization devoted to providing women of color with the financial means to leave their abusers. To me, this just read like an ironic punctuation point at the end of her original plan, which was to kill as many of us as possible before she killed herself. Violence against women by a woman who left the entirety of her estate to an organization dedicated to fighting violence against women. The depravity is enough to make your head spin.

  A renowned intimate violence expert that Jesse interviewed on Facebook Live said it was possible that Stephanie anticipated the worst when she ended the relationship with Vince. And so, as though signing the divorce papers were akin to signing her own death warrant, Stephanie changed her will just in case Vince came after her. If she was going to become another statistic, at least some good would come out of it. Other women in her same position could be helped.

  And it made sense, the expert added, that Vince would go after Brett too. Perpetrators of intimate partner suicide-murder tend to be overwhelmingly white and male, and tend to blame others for their feelings of powerlessness in a romantic relationship. It is never the man’s fault that his partner has abandoned him, it is always the doing of somebody else. He likely laid the entirety of the responsibility for the dissolution of his marriage at Brett’s feet, the expert neatly concluded.

  Then there were all the cell phone videos of Brett and Stephanie, dancing at Talkhouse the night before they died, having the time of their lives celebrating Stephanie’s emancipation from Vince. Only a man would see this pure and unadulterated adoration these two women had for each other as a threat, Yvette had said in Brett’s homily. Only a man would feel compelled to snuff out these two beautiful lights. Naysayers have long disparaged what I do and what I stand for. Women have all the same rights as men—what am I shrieking on about? I shriek on until women have more than equal rights. I shriek on until women’s lives have equal value. Overnight, an Etsy merchant designed T-shirts silk-screened Shriek on that sold out in less than forty-eight hours. I don’t know where the proceeds went.

  There were others who came forward, who told stories that cast suspicion on Stephanie, like the cabbie who drove the two home from Talkhouse and the high school senior, just eighteen(!), who Stephanie deflowered in the back alley of the bar. The detectives assigned to Brett’s case kept me apprised of each development, but they didn’t wander too far down any roads that didn’t have large yellow Vince as hater and killer of strong beautiful women theories staked at every turn.

  There was also the question—that if it had been Stephanie who killed Brett, how did she manage to get my sister’s body into the trunk all by herself? Vince would have been the only one with the strength to do that, the detectives assured me. I had a simple workaround to that conjecture—adrenaline—but I didn’t bother to float it, the same way I didn’t tell them the other way Vince’s handprints could have ended up on the trunk of Jen’s car. What would be the point when I would then have to explain that I thought Stephanie did it, and what her motive was? I needed my sister to be remembered as a martyr for the resistance, not as her best friend’s husband’s mistress. Tribalism trumped truth, in the end.

  I sometimes wonder what Jesse has offered Jen and Lauren to keep their silence. Surely they suspect Stephanie too. Their contracts have been renewed for a fifth season, as has mine, but that would seem to be the bare minimum. Even if it had gone down the way we said it had, it would be in poor taste for the show to come back without its surviving members.

  “Stephanie was as much a victim as Brett was,” Jesse says, spelling it out clearly for everyone at home in case Layla hasn’t stated it plainly enough. “And the network plans to honor her legacy by matching Stephanie’s estate and donating that amount to End It!” Jesse meets Camera A’s glass eye. “And if you’re sitting at home and wondering how you can help, you can donate to End It! by visiting the link at the corner of your screen.” She addresses Layla again. “I know you have plans to help too. Tell me about those, Layla.”

  “My mom and me”—the awkward phrasing plays a string in my heart. She’s still just a kid in so many ways—“are going to Morocco next month with more e-bikes. And we’re opening a store in Union Square that sells rugs and blankets made by the women we’ve met through SPOKE.”

  “And we will be there to document your latest endeavors. Stay tuned after the hour for a special preview of Still SPOKE, which will follow Layla and Kelly as they work to keep Brett’s mission alive.” I didn’t understand the name of our spinoff. Jesse’s assistant had to explain to me that it was a play on the word “woke,” and then she had to explain to me what that meant. It means, like, being aware, she told me, rolling her eyes. But being aware of what? I asked. Social stuff, she answered after a hefty pause.

  Jesse smiles at Layla with unreserved adulation. “Layla, Little Big C, I can’t thank you enough for being here. I think I speak for every woman watching when I say thank you for all you do.” She points her finger at the ceiling. It’s coated in flour. “We miss you, sister.”

  Layla holds stock still, smiling a stiff smile, until the sound producer declares, “Got it!”

  “Phew,” Jesse says, fanning her face with her hand. “That was tough, huh?” She holds up her phone. “Why don’t we take a selfie?”

  A gaffer opens the door to the guest bedroom. It will take a while to pack up the equipment and clear out, and it’s been a long day. I let everyone go in front of me so they can get to it. As I’m walking out last, I run into Marc in the doorway, walking into the guest bedroom.

  “Oops,” I say, stepping aside to let him through. “Sorry.”

  But Marc just stands there. He glances over his shoulder, and when he’s sure no one is watching, he presses something small and plastic into my hand. “Take this,” he says.

  I look down. I’m holding a black USB flash drive.


  “I’ll do whatever you want to do with it. You know I loved her.” He wipes his eyes. “Ah, shit. I don’t want to cry in front of you. It must be so much worse for you.”

  I close my fingers around the flash drive weakly, dreading its contents. I am so tired of having to make difficult decisions. “What’s on here?” I ask him.

  “That weekend in the Hamptons, when Lauren went upstairs after the game? She passed out with her mic still on. I’m the only one who’s heard this.” Marc motions for me to pocket the device, which I do, reluctantly. “It’s something you should have. I can’t . . . it can’t be up to me what to do.” He plugs a runny nostril with a knuckle. “You’re her sister.” He means it wholeheartedly, but with his finger in his nose like that, the statement comes out nasally, girlishly aping. A PA approaches, and Marc clears his throat and finds a manlier voice. “Listen to it alone,” he tells me before doing an abrupt about-face.

  CHAPTER 24

  * * *

  Kelly

  Her scream is cut short. It isn’t until I listen to the recording a third time—alone; Layla is in school—that I start to visualize some of what I am hearing. Lauren must have been startled awake by Brett, and Brett must have slapped a hand over her mouth when she cried out.

  It’s me. Shhhhh. It’s Brett.

  Bedsheets rustle. When Lauren speaks, her voice is rough and disoriented.

  What . . . She clears her throat . . . why are you . . . ? Is it time for dinner? Fumbling. More rustling. You have my phone.

  Just give me a sec.

  Why do you have my phone?

  Because Stephanie jacked mine up and I can’t get the button for J to work. Brett groans, quietly. You don’t have Jesse’s number?

  Lauren is awake enough now to speak with some embarrassment in her voice: It’s a new phone. I have Lisa’s number.

  I don’t want to talk to Lisa.

  What do you need to talk to Jesse about at . . . a pause while Lauren strains to read the bedside clock, probably . . . three twenty-nine in the morning? I knew you guys were boning.

  Lauren Elizabeth Fun, Brett reprimands, that word ages you.

  People still say “boning”!

  Old people. Like Stephanie. Who is out of her FUCKING mind right now. Do you know what she did tonight? She got up onstage at Talkhouse—

  You guys went to Talkhouse?

  After dinner.

  Why didn’t you invite me?

  Um. Because your hair caught fire and you came up here to fix it but, I don’t know, I guess you passed out instead?

  I didn’t pass out.

  You’re still wearing all your clothes. And your boob is hanging out of your T-shirt.

  A pause while Lauren checks to be sure this is true. You love it, you little lezzie. What happened at Talkhouse?

  So. The band let us come up onstage and sing with them—

  What song?

  “Bitch.”

  Fuck you.

  Brett finds this misunderstanding uproariously funny, laughing while she sings, I’m a bitch, I’m a mother, I’m a child, I’m a lover.

  Ohhhh. Good one for us. Very on brand.

  Why do you think I requested it? Even in her final hours, Brett couldn’t help but pat herself on the back. Anyway. So after the song was over I got off the stage and I thought Steph was behind me. But she stayed up there and, like, hijacked the mic and started saying all kinds of crazy shit. About us.

  Did she say anything about me?

  About all of us! How everything is made up. How we made up our fight and you and Jen went along with it. Stephanie didn’t actually mention Jen or Lauren by name, but this was Brett, recruiting allies. Just really bad stuff. It makes us look so thirsty. Oh. And then. She fucked a teenager behind the side of the bar. I’m not kidding when I say teenager. I would be SHOCKED if he was legal.

  She was trying to make you jealous.

  Why would she— Brett stops. She forgot her own impending storyline. The point is. Jesse needs to know before tomorrow. She can’t be allowed to go to the brunch. She’s totally unhinged and I don’t want her spouting off lies about me on camera.

  Just tell Lisa.

  Lisa won’t give a fuck. She would one hundred percent support anything bad Steph says about me. Talk about jealousy. You know Lisa is jealous of me.

  Lauren’s pause is incredulous.

  Don’t roll your eyes. You know it’s true.

  I’m hungry.

  Your boob is still out.

  It sounds like Lauren throws off the covers. Come on. If I’m hungry I know you’re hungry.

  I saw frozen pizza in the garage, Brett says. And seriously, put it away. I’m so sick of boobs.

  I hear a pucker, the noise a fridge makes when it suctions away from the frame. Then my sister’s sarcasm, More wine is what you need.

  My hair looks like Kate Gosselin’s.

  Four million people used to watch Jon & Kate Plus Eight. Show some goddamn respect.

  Make the pepperoni one.

  I thought you weren’t eating bread right now.

  Pizza isn’t bread.

  Cabinets open: searching for a plate on which to nuke the pizza, maybe. Wait. Holy shit, Brett says. Does she not have a microwave?

  Infrared light and cancer cells. Blah blah.

  I can’t.

  I know.

  The silence stretches. Initially I thought that maybe Brett was trying to figure out how to turn on the oven, but on subsequent listens, I think she was debating whether or not to say what she said next. You know it’s not real. Her whole vegan shtick. She eats meat.

  Lauren snorts. And I’m the one who sent the Post that video of me blowing the baguette at Balthazar.

  I’m being serious.

  Glugging. Lauren already on to glass two, maybe? I am too.

  Lauren. Brett is astounded. Jesus.

  Whatever. It worked, right? I got another season. I got to pretend to accuse each of you of doing it and have a reason to fight with you.

  But you had to step down as CEO.

  It was going to happen anyway.

  Brett says, Damn, girl, which is rich, given her own duplicity. What are you doing?

  I think there’s Tito’s in the freezer.

  You definitely need vodka.

  Like a hole in the head. That Lauren said that, given the way my sister died not even an hour later, feels like grazing the third rail.

  They putter around the kitchen for a while. Looking for snacks. Making fun of the vegan items in Jen’s pantry that she doesn’t even eat anymore. Lauren’s voice grows increasingly garbled, and she’s having trouble keeping track of the conversation. A few times, she asks how long until the cabs get here. Brett corrects her in the beginning but eventually starts playing along. Twenty minutes. An hour. An hour? Lauren mumbles, with attitude. Get your shit together.

  A loud crash marks the recording at fifty-seven minutes and thirty-two seconds. My best guess is that someone slammed the freezer door too hard, because they were just discussing how nut milk ice cream isn’t the most disgusting thing in Jen’s freezer. I think some of the platters that were stacked on top of the unit clattered to the ground. One dog barks, and then all three. I cannot believe I slept through this. And now, on my third listen, knowing what happens next, I wonder, Did Jen give me that Xanax on purpose to knock me out? Did she plan to confront Brett when she got home later that night?

  Oops. Lauren giggles. After a few beats, there is a noise like rubbing somebody’s back over their shirt. Lauren climbing onto the sofa, just in view of the kitchen.

  Don’t get up, Brett says. Really. Just lie there and spoon your Tito’s. I’m fine to clean up your—oh, God. What do you want?

  You is Jen.

  Go to bed, Jen pleads. For the love of God. You’ve been banging around down here for an hour.

  Because we’ve had to, like, rub sticks together to make this pizza, Brett retorts, belligerent and rude. The two of them were never a
good match, but that night, they were aluminum and bromine in a gas jar. I mean, Brett says, that shitty meat you’re eating from FreshDirect is more likely to give you cancer than a microwave.

  Bretttt, Lauren croaks from the couch, in some half-hearted attempt to defend Jen, lapsing into a convoluted rendition—You’re a bitch, you’re a child, you’re a sinner and a mother . . .

  Brett continues to open cupboard doors and drawers. The tape here is cluttered with the sound of utensils rattling, plates clinking into one another. I think, even as drunk as she was, that she was pretending to stay busy to avoid meeting Jen’s eye. I think she knew she had gone too far by saying that in front of Lauren. Not like either of them had to worry about Lauren remembering in the morning. She barely seems to remember what happened next.

  I thought you’d like to know that I’ve crafted a statement with my PR team about my decision to step away from veganism, Jen tells Brett, eloquently. At this point in the tape, I have become so inured to Brett and Lauren’s slurring that Jen, speaking clearly and reasonably, is the one who makes me sit up and take note. Green Theory has and always will be about promoting what works best for your individual body, and shedding labels is truly a healthy step forward for all women. I have a good feeling about this. I’ve built a strong community and I have confidence they will support me, and by disassociating from veganism, my team believes I will attract a whole new customer base.

  I know you’re talking, Brett says, but all I hear is this. She’s misquoting Emily Blunt in The Devil Wears Prada, making a closed beak gesture with her hand, I have no doubt.