Vera
Ana lies on my couch now, her Louboutins kicked to the carpet, a heated eye pillow on her face, her breath shallow. April
is in the kitchen; I hear her dutifully cleaning up the brunch mess. Likely she’ll leave by the back door without saying goodbye.
I’ve handed her the envelope of cash already, told her to take all the leftovers. If only all relationships were so easy.
The air in the room is thick with tension—all my questions, the shock of the news. A man we know has died. He’s been in my
home, eaten with my family, had a relationship with my sister. Foul play. According to the police, they suspect murder.
My sister takes a shuddering breath. I’m about to speak, then don’t. As long as I don’t ask the questions, I won’t have to
face the truth.
We’re alone.
Esme has taken the visibly shaken Iggy home, leaving Iggy’s car in my driveway. Which I don’t love, only because it’s something
out of place.
Payton has left as well, said that she’d make the arrangements for Ana to go to the station to talk to Detective Bandeau tomorrow.
“I wish I could take her myself. But it’s best that she has someone with teeth,” she said at the door, looking concerned.
Payton is a business attorney, but her on-again, off-again boyfriend, Victor, is in criminal defense, has a big city firm.
“They’ll send someone suitably intimidating, if Victor can’t come himself,” she assured us. “Just to let that detective know
that Ana is not an easy mark. The ‘ex-girlfriend did it’ is way too easy a narrative.”
Of course, it goes without saying that I’ll be footing the bill. Ana, with her walk-in closet full of designer clothes, bags,
and shoes, is as broke as ever. According to her tax returns, which are done by our accountant, she makes a decent living.
But my sister has never met a dollar she didn’t spend.
We sit in silence until we hear the back door close. April’s vehicle pulls down the driveway, the sound of the engine disappearing
up the street.
The kids could be back anytime. They both have a raft of homework, and Sunday night is sacred in this house. Family dinner,
without fail. Early to bed.
“Talk to me,” I say.
She draws in a breath, holds it a moment before releasing a heavy sigh. Then she removes the pillow, looks at me.
“You think I did this?”
“Did you?”
“No,” she says flatly. “I had nothing to do with this.”
Ana’s face is her best asset. She’s as pretty as a porcelain doll with big blue-gray eyes and false lashes, apple cheeks,
and a Cupid’s bow mouth. And she has absolute control over her expressions. You’ll only ever see what she plans for you to
see when you look at her. Even me, who knows her better than anyone.
“Then who?” I ask.
“How should I know?” she snaps. “Paul. He’s a dick. Lots of people didn’t like him.”
I grab my laptop from the desk over by the window, start a search for “dead body found Little Valley.”
There are already a couple of short news items.
Hikers find dead body in shallow grave off the Big Bear Trail at Black River Park.
Local man found dead at Black River Park. Foul play suspected.
This is early coverage from stringers alerted by police scanners. The real news won’t hit until tonight. He’s been identified
and next of kin notified; the bigger news channels are likely waiting for Detective Bandeau or someone to make a statement.
I flip on the television to the local news station, turn the sound down.
“I think maybe I loved him,” says Ana, putting the eye pillow back in its place.
“Oh, please.”
“No,” she says, her voice just an exhale. “Really. And I thought he loved me. He just dumped me. A text. Then he just disappeared. Who does that?”
“You’ve ghosted a thousand people.”
A pout. “That’s not true.”
I’m about to say something like, Stop being an idiot. But I hold my tongue.
I’m trying to be softer with people. Something Coraline said in family therapy about being afraid to show emotion around me,
that I viewed feeling as weakness. She’s right of course. I do view giving in to emotion as weakness. Because it is.
“I’m so sorry he hurt you,” I say instead. It practically pains my mouth, it’s so saccharine.
Ana peeks out from under the mask. “Shut up.”
Maybe you can fool your kids into thinking that you’re working toward real inner change; but you can’t fool your sister.
Her eyes fall on the screen, and she sits up. “Turn up the volume.”
There he is on the television. The too-tall, bad-attitude Detective Timothy Bandeau.
He’s uncomfortable in front of the camera, like he’s more accustomed to being behind the scenes.
He glances shyly down at the notes on the podium in front of him.
I reach for the remote and bump up the volume in time to hear him nervously clear his throat.
“This morning at 6:00 a.m., two hikers who’d ventured off Big Bear Trail at Black River Park found the body of entrepreneur
and philanthropist Paul Hayes buried in a shallow grave disturbed by local wildlife.”
I glance over at Ana. She’s come to sitting, chin in her hands, eyes on the screen. A single tear trails down her cheek. I
should move over to comfort her as any good sister would. But I don’t.
“Our forensics team is currently at the scene, and we will share information as it comes to light.”
I wouldn’t say the detective is good-looking exactly. Virile, that’s the word I’d use. Big through the shoulders, maybe too thick through the middle. There’s something wolfish about
his dark eyes, his thick head of hair, like when the moon is full maybe he’s a different kind of man. He impresses me as someone
my sister might find attractive. A glance at her reveals that she’s transfixed, tears dried.
“Are there any suspects?” The question drifts up from the audience.
“At the time we have no suspects. But an investigation is underway, and we’ll be questioning people close to Mr. Hayes in
the coming days. In the meantime, if anyone has any information, please call the tip line.”
He gives the number, and it comes up on a banner at the bottom of the screen.
Detective Bandeau looks at the camera. Why do I feel like he’s looking directly at us? “No further questions at this time.
Thank you.”
I flip off the television. The silence around us expands. Down the hall, the ticking of the grandfather clock from Brad’s
side of the family is measured and quietly relentless.
“If there’s something you need to tell me, tell me now.”
I walk over to the table beside the couch and open the drawer there. I remove the item I found on my porch, hold it up.
“Where did that come from?” she asks, frowning.
I tell her.
Ana looks at me, and I see it. We come from a long line of secret keepers, of women who do bad things, sometimes for the right
reasons, sometimes not. There’s something moving behind her eyes.
She opens her mouth to speak, and just at that moment, the front door opens. The kids burst in, apparently dropped off at
the same time, already arguing about something. I stash the item again, rise to greet them, stand in the door and wave at
the parents in their big SUVs as they pull away on to normal Sunday activities that surely don’t include murder investigations.
“You’re an idiot, Grant,” says Coraline, slamming the door. She looks exhausted, pale with dark circles under her eyes like
she hasn’t slept a wink and probably she hasn’t.
“I’m just saying.” He drops his bag by the stairs even though there are hooks by the door just for this purpose. They each
give me a kiss, then head straight for the kitchen, their conversation teetering between talking, teasing, arguing. A pleasant,
familiar rise and fall, usually punctuated by laughter.
Ana’s already up, pulling on her slim sky-blue coat.
“I need to think,” she says, tugging it tightly around her. She stows her phone in a bone-colored Louis Vuitton tote that
by the way costs more than her rent. And I know this because we pay her rent.
Ana, I told Brad when he proposed, is part of the package.
I take care of her. She’s more like my child than my sister.
He’s never once complained except to suggest that maybe our taking care of Ana prevents her from learning to take care of
herself. Maybe he’s right. Of course he’s right.
“Where are you going?” I ask her now.
“I told Iggy I’d take back her car. Brock will drive me home from there.”
She took an Uber here in the expectation of drinking too much champagne. But we never got more than a sip. So much for the exorcism. Even in death, Paul is going to be a problem.
“Ana.”
But she’s already out the door.
There’s a very strong urge to call her back and interrogate her. But the kids are here, and there’s something about their
presence that makes it impossible for me to focus on Ana and whatever mess she’s in. My brain has shifted to the checklist
of what must be done for the week ahead.
“Be ready in the morning,” I say on the stoop. I glance at the bare flower bed; soon it will be time to plant for spring.
“I’ll pick you up and go to the station with you.”
She nods, gives me a quick squeeze, then leaves. I watch her pull away in Iggy’s shiny blue electric car, cheap but decent.
I feel a twinge of regret; maybe I should have been more comforting. But then I notice that she turns right, instead of left.
Away from, rather than toward Iggy and Brock’s.
My phone dings. Oh, great. It’s Lisander. I don’t answer to her, but I often feel like I do. My Aunt Agnes’s mentee, she occupies
a position of quasi-authority in our circle. And I owe her. Or Ana does. I’m used to shouldering Ana’s debts.
I’m assuming that you’ve heard the news about Paul Hayes.
Well, I think but don’t type, I have heard because the police came to my door.
How did the news make its way to her? I don’t answer.
I doubt I have to tell you that if this is Ana’s mess, we won’t be able to clean it up.
I feel a pulse of fear, of defensiveness for Ana, and it impels me to thumb out a response.
She didn’t do this.
Are you sure, Vera?
Am I sure? When it comes to Ana, the only thing I’m sure about is her unpredictability.
I open the app that tracks all my family members, LifeWatch, and stare at Ana’s pulsing blue dot. Nowhere near Brock and Iggy’s,
she winds down a rural road, then gets on the highway. She’s speeding, a little flame next to her dot.
Lisander again: We need to talk.
Again, I decline to answer.
I stare at the screen on my phone. Where are you going, Ana?