26
Life in that small Indiana town had been tough for Bianca.
She grew up in a rundown house with little money and a mother who didn’t love her.
It was an indisputable fact, like her mom’s green eyes flecked with gold or the slight gap between her front teeth that made her look like Lauren Bacall.
(According to her mom. Bianca didn’t even know who Lauren Bacall was.) Bianca was aware that her mother’s indifference was unusual, that her upbringing would have been a lot more pleasant had Yvonne Richards been able to summon some maternal feelings, but Bianca didn’t dwell on it.
She knew it had made her strong. A survivor.
Her existence wasn’t completely devoid of love.
When Bianca was ten years old, her mom brought her baby sister home from the hospital.
Bianca was full of excitement, jumping around with new-puppy exuberance.
Yvonne laid the tiny bundle on the sofa, and Bianca knelt on the floor next to it.
She stroked the downy head, gazed into the dark blue eyes.
The baby’s fingers were so small, her nails so tiny but so sharp.
Bianca tickled her hand, and the baby gripped her pinky tightly.
“Hello, baby sister,” Bianca whispered.
“Half sister,” her mom corrected, sitting heavily on the end of the couch. “Her name’s Lyric.”
The baby and Bianca had different fathers.
Lyric’s dad, Darrel, was currently in the kitchen, heating up a lasagna that one of the neighbors had dropped off.
Bianca’s dad was in Texas. He’d gotten a job in the oil fields when Bianca was just three.
He’d come home to Indiana twice a year for visits for a while.
Bianca remembered the presents: Texas-branded T-shirts and key chains from the airport gift shop, packets of pretzels or cookies from the plane.
And she remembered the fights. Screaming, yelling, bottles smashing on the floor or against the wall. Eventually, her father stopped coming.
Yvonne Richards was movie-star beautiful, but men treated her badly.
They fell hard for her, but they didn’t want to deal with the reality of life with her.
And her kids. After Bianca’s father left, there was a string of boyfriends and a second husband.
None of them lasted. “It would be a lot easier if I’d never had you,” Yvonne said.
“If I’d known your dad was going to be such a deadbeat, I would’ve had an abortion. ”
Darrel and Yvonne weren’t married, but with the baby here Bianca was sure Darrel would stick around. He’d fall deeply in love with Lyric. How could he not? She was so tiny and perfect. Even if they were only half sisters, Bianca felt a powerful, familial bond. And she liked Darrel well enough.
But when Lyric was four and Bianca fourteen, Darrel left.
He took Lyric with him, storming out with his daughter on his hip.
“Sorry, kid,” he murmured as he passed Bianca.
She was devastated to lose her sister, afraid to be left alone with her mom, but even then, she knew this would be better for Lyric.
Darrel was a decent guy. He wasn’t smart or hardworking or particularly stable, but he wasn’t toxic and cruel like Yvonne.
Darrel wouldn’t taunt and control and manipulate his little girl.
“I’ll get your sister back,” Yvonne promised, “if I have to kill that motherfucker.”
Bianca wasn’t sure why Yvonne wanted custody of Lyric. She didn’t have the time or energy for a small child. It was Darrel or Bianca who took the kid to daycare, who made her meals and gave her baths. But her mom liked to win.
Yvonne began dating a lawyer, and she asked him to help her get custody.
Darrel had his own lawyer, who claimed Yvonne was dangerous, mentally unstable, and an abuser of substances.
Darrel Bentley would go to court to protect his child if necessary.
A trial would be time-consuming and expensive, and Yvonne didn’t have the resources.
She sobbed and wailed and drank herself into oblivion for a week or so.
And then she stopped talking about Lyric. It was almost like she’d given up.
One night, Darrel was driving home from after-work beers when he apparently fell asleep at the wheel.
His car veered off the road and down a steep embankment, crashing into a large tree at the bottom.
He was killed instantly. No one was suspicious, no one questioned it, but Bianca knew better.
Darrel Bentley was not just a drunk driver who got what he deserved.
Yvonne was behind this. Lyric came home then.
She was confused and traumatized, but Yvonne acted like it was a celebration.
They had cake and presents. She played loud music and drank sparkling wine.
Bianca grew up knowing her mother was a killer, a person who would take what she wanted by any means necessary.
It shaped Bianca, obviously, made her hard and cold and afraid to trust people.
And it made her fiercely protective of Lyric.
She didn’t want her sister to be corrupted by their mom’s malignant influence.
A couple of months before graduation, Damian Walsh came into the chicken shack where she worked.
She basically ignored him. He’d hooked up with half the girls in town, and Bianca wasn’t even sure she liked guys.
She’d had a thing with a girl in eleventh grade, but they’d kept it private, hadn’t labeled it.
But once Damian set his sights on her, he was relentless.
He needled her into going out with him, and eventually she agreed, hoping it would get him off her back.
One-on-one, he was different: sweet, open, and vulnerable.
His troubled past almost rivaled her own (almost).
He wormed his way under her protective shell, got her to talk about her dad’s abandonment, Darrel’s death, her mom’s cruelty.
It didn’t take them long to recognize that they were two bright lights who’d found each other in their dark hole of a hometown.
Damian wasn’t built for a traditional life, and neither was Bianca.
The expected trajectory of college, marriage, children was so trite, so banal.
They both craved adventure and new experiences that their hick town could never provide.
Damian introduced her to foreign films. She shared her love of art and historical biographies.
When school finished, Damian suggested they go to Europe.
Bianca wanted to, but she couldn’t abandon Lyric.
Not until she was old enough to take care of herself. He agreed to wait for her.
But a decade passed, and they didn’t leave.
They got stuck in their routines, trapped by their circumstances.
Bianca wonders if they’d have stayed in Indiana forever if not for the phone call that came in the dead of night.
It had ripped her heart out, left a gaping hole in her chest, and it had sent them to Spain.
When they arrived, that wound became infected—with rage, and hate, and a thirst for vengeance.
She was her mother’s daughter after all.