Lucy
My lungs are on fire as I rip open Millie’s door. She’s right where I thought she’d be, curled up on that stupid chair she’s always in, doing what she always does. Nothing.
We stare at each other, and it takes me a second to realize she’s wearing my sweater, the well-loved gray cotton pullover that’s so soft at the elbows it’s almost threadbare, and for a moment it looks as though I’m sitting in the chair.
“Take it off,” I say. “Take off my sweater. Now.”
Millie looks down like she doesn’t remember what she put on when Mom turned the air conditioner on high, and when she registers the item, she calmly lifts it up over her shoulders and starts to fold it into quarters.
I’m in front of her in two steps and yank the fabric out of her hands. “You think you can take whatever’s mine, don’t you?”
“Lucy—” she starts, but I slice my hand through the air.
“You don’t get to speak. Not yet.” A hitch catches in my voice, and I swallow the lump in my throat. I will not let her lead this conversation.
Millie shuts her mouth, but her shoulders begin to shake as she grips the arms of her chair.
There’s fear in her eyes, like she’s terrified of me, and I’m horrified that my first instinct is to grab Millie and hug her tight.
To make calming noises and tell her that everything will be okay.
Because that’s what I’ve done my whole life. Protect my sisters.
Not this time.
I can’t protect her from her own bad decisions.
“You kissed Ethan,” I say, my words a hiss.
“What the hell were you thinking?” I’m amazed to hear my voice is brittle like it’s already broken.
“Actually, I know the answer. You were thinking that we broke up and he might notice you for once. Is that right? That after all these years of being jealous of me, you could finally go after him? You’re pathetic.
” A strange sound escapes my lips. Not quite a laugh but not a sob either.
“That’s not—” Millie says. Her cheeks are red and splotchy, and tears threaten to spill from her eyes. But I don’t care. Not anymore. “I’m sorry, Lucy. I’m so sorry. It just happened, and he…”
“It just happened? Millie, that’s not how kissing works.”
Millie hiccups, but the sound she makes is more like a wail, and I’m struck by the absence of a denial, how obvious the truth is.
Every moment Ethan had been in our house, in my room, at our dinner table, Millie had been swooning, yearning, devastated by the knowledge that he was with me, not her.
If I were a stronger person, I would feel empathy for my sister. If I were good, I would be able to wrap Millie in my arms and whisper into her ear that everything was going to be all right. We were going to be fine. That I could forgive her for such a betrayal.
But I don’t feel good. I feel mean and rotten, like I want to hurt Millie.
Because even though I have no claim to Ethan’s heart or his body or his mind, he is still part of me.
The person who awakened in me a sense of desire and pleasure, and made me realize that there is beauty in being connected to another human being in the way our parents seem to be, singing and dancing in the kitchen when they think no one else is home.
“I didn’t want to hurt you,” Millie says, tears running down her face. “I don’t even…Not anymore…It was such a mistake.”
“Well, you did hurt me,” I say. My eyes sting and my throat is raw like I had screamed for a thousand years. “You really fucking did.”
I can’t look at Millie anymore. I force myself to turn away from her and walk across the hall to my room, where I shut the door and lock it.
I don’t open it again. Not when Millie pounds her fists against the wood, not when Mom yells up the stairs for us to quiet down.
Eventually, Millie relents, and I hear her open and close her own door, can hear the sag of her armchair, her weight on top of the cushions.
The house grows quiet, and then, finally, in total privacy, I let the tears come, hard and heavy, as I crawl into bed and cry.
—
Going to work the next morning is a relief so great, my whole body seems to relax as I drive away from the house.
I haven’t heard from Erica since yesterday, and as I sit down at my desk at the mayor’s office, all I want to do is forget about everything that’s happened over the past few days and focus on my job.
“Got you something.” Olivia plunks an iced coffee down on my desk. “Whole milk, right?”
Warmth spreads through my chest. I take a sip, and it’s heaven. “Thank you. I needed this.”
“I owed you,” she said, sliding into her seat. “Besides, figured any sort of pick-me-up would be a good idea today.” She pauses, and for a moment I think she’s going to bring up Ethan. “After everything going on with Erica…”
My spine prickles, and I sit up straight, relieved. “Honestly, I’d rather talk about anything else.” I grab a manila envelope full of the property records.
“First one to find an instance of tree-house-induced violence gets a cookie?” Olivia asks. “Too soon?”
I burst out laughing, and for the next hour, we work together in tandem, passing pieces of paper back and forth, as we sort the files in terms of immediacy.
It’s tedious work, but it’s the easiest, most relaxing part of my week.
At one point, Olivia reads some of the complaints aloud in a British accent, looking up at me every few sentences in hopes that I laugh, which I do, so hard I snort out a little bit of coffee onto my keyboard.
“Oh my god,” I say, wiping it up with a napkin. “Thank you for that.”
“At your service.” Olivia takes a deep bow in her seat, then cracks up, covering her hand with her mouth.
“I’m surprised you’re so chill,” I say. “I know I said I didn’t want to talk about it, but I haven’t heard from Erica yet, and I’m starting to think…”
“Think what?” Olivia cocks her head.
“That she killed Billy.” The words come out choked, like I can barely get them out.
Olivia frowns. “She didn’t kill him.”
“How do you know?”
“They let her go early this morning,” Olivia says, tucking her hair behind her ear. “Made her get a paternity test, which I told Aunt Sally was a dumb idea anyway. So rude. If she says it’s his, it’s his. But I don’t think they ever suspected her of murder.”
“Oh, thank god,” I say, resting my hand over my heart, the relief immediate and all-consuming.
Olivia’s face sours for a moment as she turns back to the computer.
“What?” I ask.
“Obviously, I’m happy it wasn’t Erica,” she says slowly. “But with every false lead it just means we still don’t have an answer.” She turns back to her computer, typing quickly, and I realize she’s right.
Billy’s death is still a question mark.