What My Sister Knew Page 4

  “I see her smoking in the bathroom,” Andrea says meekly, feeling like a pathetic baby. They’re the same age—he is actually a few minutes younger than her—but for as long as she can remember, he’s seemed older. Always one step ahead.

  “She’s what we call a slut. She gets weed from a guy who’s in high school in exchange for…” He gives her a clever sideways glance. “Well, you know. Oh, and her mom is the head of some youth abstinence committee program thing. Use that info as you see fit.”

  The only thing for Andrea to do is to nod. She wants him to think that she knows what to do. He sure does. Doesn’t he always know what to do in any situation? There’s nothing you can’t do with the right dirt on the right person, he’d often say to her.

  For some reason, her mind goes back to that Saturday afternoon not so long ago, when she had to stay home while her mom, Sergio, and Eli went to the movies for the weekly family outing. Eli had hogged the computer all morning, and she bugged and bugged him to let her use it, whining that it was her turn and it was unfair and she’d tell Sergio. Up until she got on his nerves and they had a fight, with her pushing him off the computer chair just as their mom walked in. Mom got mad and made Andrea stay home as punishment. Andrea remembers how peaceful and quiet the house became with everyone else gone; the computer stood there on the desk in the basement rec room, all hers for the next two to three hours. Somehow, by breaking the rules, she’d gotten exactly what she wanted. It was a discovery that mystified her because, try as she might, she couldn’t think of ways to repeat the feat. Her brother seemed to pull this off so often and with such ease.

  She had climbed into the big, cushy computer chair that Sergio had bought a while back and turned on the computer. The machine took a few minutes to boot up, and before it had loaded all the way, she impatiently clicked on the browser icon, opening a window.

  Her brother spent more and more time on the computer lately, and she had to know what he was doing. Once or twice, she woke up in the middle of the night and saw that he wasn’t in his bed. When she went to look for him downstairs, she saw the light under the door of the rec room. She knew it was sex stuff. If only she could find proof, she’d tell her mom, and she’d banish him from the computer for good. Andrea would have it to herself as much as she wanted, to draw multicolored squiggles with Paint or to play online games, colorful and primitive versions of pinball and Battleship that could keep her occupied for hours on end.

  With a few clicks, she found the browser history, her eyes roaming the columns of links, greedily soaking up forbidden sightings. She had to reread the top three several times before the meaning began to sink in. They were searches on a search engine. She reread them nervously one more time, to be sure, and then clicked on the top one. The page loaded in moments. The top two links were purple instead of blue. Her hand sweaty on the computer mouse, she clicked the first one, went back, read the second.

  The last question her brother had typed into the search field less than an hour ago burned in her mind. What happens if—

  There had to be some mistake. She read the header of the page she found herself on. It read, in blocky, austere black letters, SIGNS OF CHILDHOOD SEXUAL ABUSE: SPOTTING THE TELLTALE BEHAVIORS.

  She squeezed her eyes shut, opened them again, and the page was still there. Exhaling noisily, she clicked Back, again and again, until she was back on the blank browser page. She opened the history one more time and reread the top query.

  rape what happens 12yo

  Then, underneath it:

  molest accusations child

  And finally:

  what happens if you rape a 12yo how long u go to jail

  With a little more clicking around, she found the option to erase the browser history. Without hesitation, she clicked it and watched it all disappear.

  If only wiping what she had seen from her mind could be as easy.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  It’s a feeling I know all too well. When I set foot onto the first step, terror and dread are warring within me, my mind in disarray, but by the time I get to the last step, my nerves have calmed, falling back into well-memorized patterns, my protective shell settling back into place seamlessly, even after all these years. The knot in my stomach is familiar, a part of who I am, like a limb.

  Downstairs is like a scene from a bad Lifetime movie, reminding me uncomfortably of another scene in the same living room, my so-called intervention that Cynthia staged six months earlier. Except this time, there are police. At the other end of the room, in the doorway, I notice a familiar tall, portly figure—my stepfather, Jim Boudreaux. I feel an uncomfortable chill. What is he doing here? Now, of all times.

  That’s when he looks up, as if sensing my gaze. Our eyes meet for just a moment, and he gives a short shake of his head, so subtle it’s barely noticeable.

  In the living room, Cynthia circles around, chattering with her well-practiced, overly loud politician’s wife cheer. She may never have gotten to be a real politician’s wife after all, but old habits die hard. At the center of her attention are two detectives, a man seated on the couch and a woman hovering in the periphery. An untouched cup of coffee is already sitting on the table in front of the man, next to the sugar bowl and creamer. They’re both wearing civilian clothes, him in trousers, button-down, and suit jacket, her in a sweater and baggy jeans.

  Cynthia focuses her attention on the man, naturally. She asks him if he’d like anything to eat with his coffee and bravely attempts small talk. He responds with the tight-lipped smile of a saint. Cynthia either doesn’t realize it’s fake or doesn’t care.

  So it’s the woman I need to watch out for, then. I know it in my bones the moment I set eyes on her. She has a look I recognize, a half frown that seems to have become the default setting of her face, her eyes quietly watchful, wary, taking in everything around her. She’s a woman who fades into the background, and she knows it. But while others might try to overcompensate with flashy clothes and makeup, she chooses to turn it into her advantage.

  I know something about that.

  She is the one who sees me first, while I hover on the bottom stair. Her eyes, of an indiscernible color that looks plain dark at this distance, zero in on me, her gaze sinking into my skin like a hook. It will not let go, not without ripping out a chunk of flesh. I instinctively hide the shudder that courses through me.

  Then, as if on cue, Cynthia and the man turn their heads and see me. Cynthia purses her lips, but the man breaks into a smile.

  “Ms. Boudreaux,” he says.

  The woman steps forward. She’s not here to waste time.

  “I’m Sergeant Detective Figueroa, and this is Detective Childs.” She barely acknowledges him with a nod. Her voice is deep and melodious—the voice of a much more beautiful woman. All of us plain girls have that one thing—with me, it’s my eyes, or so said the drunk guys in bars who tried to hit on me. They’re not bright blue like Eli’s, but without him around, there’s no one to compare to, and my gray eyes with dark lashes can pass for beautiful.

  I should say something—hello would suffice. But instead I stand there and look from one to the other, in what I hope passes for bafflement. They don’t know that I’ve just seen the newscast, I remind myself. I have every reason to be surprised to have detectives show up at my mother’s house.

  “Why don’t you have a seat,” Childs says. I try to puzzle out how old he is. In contrast to her, he’s probably considered attractive, with close-cropped black hair and dark eyes. “We understand that you just got out of the hospital.”

  “She has a concussion,” Cynthia chimes in, a hysteric edge to her tone.

  Figueroa doesn’t even look at her.

  “Andrea, do you know why we’re here?”

  “She doesn’t,” Cynthia says, in a much softer voice.

  I make a split-second decision. “I do.”

  Cynthia turns livid. I know this look of hers, the one she gets in private when the Stepford-wife mask drops. Her
furious gaze jumps from me to somewhere above my shoulder, and I remember that Milton is here, right behind me, hovering protectively. Sorry, Milt, I think as the knot in my stomach tightens. You can’t protect me from this.

  “Milton,” Cynthia snaps in a low voice, “I thought I was clear. I said—”

  “She would find out eventually,” Milt says. “And she has the right to know, doesn’t she?”

  Figueroa, in the meantime, is observing the whole soap opera with what I guess to be amusement, as far as I can tell by the look on her face. The hint is the corner of her pale lips that turns up a touch.

  “Andrea, your brother is wanted for murder,” she says, making it all true. Not something on the other side of a TV screen, not something I may have dreamed up because of the concussion. “Sit down. Let’s talk.”

  “Andrea, you don’t have to say anything,” Cynthia murmurs. She casts a quick glance at her ex-husband as if silently pleading with—or commanding—him to step in.

  “You don’t have to talk to anyone,” he says at last. “Not without a lawyer present.”

  “They’re right,” Milt chimes in behind me, sounding apologetic for agreeing with Cynthia for the second time in as many hours.

  Cynthia looks triumphant.

  “He’ll be here any minute. Can it wait?” Jim still manages to sound like he has authority, influence, like in the good old days. When I get a closer look at him though, I’m a little shocked at how much older he looks. He’s stooping, as if all the disappointments of his life are pressing down on his spine, an enormous, invisible weight.

  “It really can’t,” says Detective Childs.

  Feeling everyone’s gazes on me, I walk over to the couch and sit on the very edge. As if ready to jump to my feet any second. “It’s all right. I can talk, because there’s nothing to say. I haven’t seen him since…since last time.”

  Figueroa nods. I can inspect her up close at last. She isn’t wearing a stitch of makeup, and her dark, curly hair sticks out in flyaways around her head. Lines are starting to etch into her forehead and in deep brackets around her mouth. Her lips are chapped.

  “And when was the last time?” she asks. She manages to intimidate without looking her victim straight in the eye.

  “After the fire. As everyone knows.”

  “Who’s everyone?”

  “It was in all the papers.”

  Figueroa smiles, a smile that doesn’t get anywhere close to her slate-gray stare. “If you don’t mind, I’m recording this.” She points at her phone, on the coffee table next to the cup of coffee for Childs. And what if I do mind, I think. I’m guessing it doesn’t make a difference.

  “Tell me about last night. Walk me through it.”

  “I crashed my car on the way home,” I say.

  “I know that. I’m talking about the part up until the crash.”

  “I was working. At the Relay Youth Center, out by the refineries. My shift ended at three a.m., like always. I got in my car and drove home.”

  Figueroa nods along with each clipped sentence. “I already verified all that.”

  “I crashed my car on the stretch of the road before the gas station,” I say. “As you probably know too. It must have been about three fifteen. The next thing I knew, I came to, the car was wrecked, and there was no one around. I couldn’t find my phone so I had to walk to the gas station for help. I don’t know how long I was unconscious. I guess I was lucky I woke up—it would have been morning before anyone found me.”

  “Lucky,” she echoes. “Definitely. I saw pictures of the car. It could have been a lot more serious. You could have been badly injured, or worse.”

  “Yeah.”

  “It was almost four when the clerk called the ambulance. So you would have been unconscious for a half hour.”

  “If you say so. To me it might as well have been five hours. I was completely out of it.”

  Cynthia sighs loudly, reminding us all of her presence. Milt clears his throat. “I always wanted to get her a newer car,” he says, speaking up. “I knew that sardine can would kill her one day.”

  Figueroa acknowledges him with another cold smile. “I’ll speak with you another time, Mr. DeVoort. You can tell me all about it then.” The smile widens. “If it’s necessary, that is.”

  “Is it going to be?”

  I hear the old confrontational note in Milt’s voice and silently pray he shuts up.

  “What does any of this have to do with anything?” I say, raising my voice. “I just want to know. What exactly did E—did my brother do?”

  “I’m getting to that.”

  “It’s the only reason I’m talking to you right now,” I say, throwing a sideways glance at Cynthia. “Without a lawyer. I want to know what happened to my brother.”

  Somehow, a look of satisfaction appears on Figueroa’s face, unmissable, the first genuine emotion she’s shown so far, and what’s more alarming is that she’s not even trying to hide it.

  “Your brother murdered a young woman.”

  “What young woman? How can you know—”

  “That it was him? The body was found in his apartment; his neighbors heard a fight and screaming; his prints are all over the place…Do you want me to go on?”

  So far, it sounds circumstantial at best.

  “You don’t even know who she is yet.” I meant it to be a question, but it doesn’t come out that way.

  That satisfied look flashes over her features once more. She reaches into a square bag by her side and takes out a black portfolio.

  “See, your brother made it difficult for us.” The zipper hisses as she opens the portfolio. My chest tightens when she takes out a stack of four or five photos the size of a printer page. She puts them down on the table with a thump of finality.

  Cynthia makes a sound midway between a moan and a shriek. Milton draws a breath through his teeth.

  What reaction does Figueroa expect from me? To fold over and vomit right on Cynthia’s gleaming floor? Scream, maybe? Throw the pictures in her face and demand how dare she show me such traumatizing things? But I can’t bring myself to do any of that. I just sit there like a doll at a pretend tea party, not moving a muscle.

  The girl in the top picture—I know to call her a girl only because Figueroa just told me it was—doesn’t have a face to speak of. Just a pulpy, bloody mass, like something out of a B-grade horror flick, a mess of fake blood and gelatin and fake bones and teeth thrown in for realism. I can’t even tell the color of her hair, matted as it is with blood and gray matter. I try to imagine how much rage you’d need to muster such violence, how much adrenaline to summon enough strength. You’d have to hit her again and again until she was dead, and for a while after.

  You’d have to hate someone more than you’ve hated anyone in your life.

  I’m trapped in my bubble of numb shock when Figueroa flips to the next photo with a flick of her hand. The next picture I can’t even identify—it’s just a limp piece of bloody meat not attached to anything. As I peer closer—not like I could look away even if I’d wanted to—I see five bloodied stumps with grayish-white bone poking through in places.

  “Her hands.” Figueroa’s jarringly melodious voice reaches me from far away. “He smashed them and crushed her fingers so we can’t identify her with prints. We can’t use dental records either, with her teeth almost all knocked out.”

  “Why are you showing me all this?” I finally bleat.

  Figueroa catches my gaze in hers and holds it, for an agonizingly long time.

  “Because you’re the key to finding him.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  “I think you’re mistaken,” I say, carefully weighing every syllable. And I mean it. If she thinks I can help her, she’s crazy.

  “I don’t think I am,” Figueroa says.

  “Why? I haven’t seen him in fifteen years—I already told you that. I haven’t even spoken to him. I—”

  “Maybe so,” she says. “You might not even know it
, but you can help me find him.”

  “You want me to help you hunt him down.” The words escape from me before I realize how they sound.

  But Figueroa sighs patiently.

  “Not quite. I have reason to believe that, while you cut off all contact with your brother after the fire that killed your parents…he might not have done the same.”

  I draw a breath to speak, but the words won’t come. First of all, I want to say, a fire didn’t kill my parents. Eli killed my parents, and I don’t see why she’s being delicate about it now, of all times. “You’re saying he’s been spying on me.”

  Infuriatingly, she won’t say yes or no. But she holds my gaze again. “You are his only remaining family, after all.”

  “So you think he intends to finish what he started,” I spit. Milton exhales with a hiss.

  “Let’s talk more about your car crash,” Figueroa says, and I clench my fists, forgetting that my hands are placed neatly on my thighs, in plain sight.

  “I already told you everything there was to tell. You have to tell me what you know about Eli. You—” I almost say you promised except, of course, she didn’t promise jack shit. She threw out only a few shocking facts that I was supposedly the first to learn. Except those same facts will probably make the evening news, if not today then tomorrow, since certain gore-hungry tabloid papers and channels thrive on this stuff. But I stumbled into the trap, thinking we had some kind of rapport.

  “There’s something you said to the paramedic who showed up on the scene,” Figueroa says.

  I swallow nervously. “I was out of it. I don’t remember. My head hurt like hell, and blood was in my eyes, and—”

  “You said something about a figure.”

  Of course. “I must have…It could have just been a shadow. Or nothing at all. It was all very sudden. I—”

  “Did you swerve and drive off the road because you saw this figure?”

  “It was three a.m. I was dead tired.”

  “But I think that’s exactly what you saw. A surveillance camera near the crime scene caught your brother crossing a parking lot. It was only for a couple of seconds before he was out of the camera’s range. But it’s clearly visible that he’s covered in blood. Just like he would have been if he’d bludgeoned this young woman to death with such force.”