Chapter 2 #2
“I called because I’m heading home in time for dinner, believe it or not. I wanted to see if you’d like me to pick you up anything from Antoine's.”
“You’re being weird.” There’s a rustling of clothes and the sound of lips smacking like she’s checking her lipstick. “Besides, I have dinner plans with one of Dad’s friends tonight.”
Red flags go up in my mind. “Which friend?” Could it be someone who knew something about our mother?
“How the hell should I know? I don’t keep track,” Elizabeth asks, drawing my attention back from my exhaustive mental list of suspects. Father’s friends. His staff. Her known associates. Father.
“You know what? I’ll be home in a few minutes. Why don’t I go with you guys?”
“Is something going on with you? You’re starting to freak me out. It’s a stupid family dinner with one of his old friends. It’ll probably be boring. You’re lucky you don’t have to go.”
But those old friends may have insight into my mother, and with so few clues, I can’t let an opportunity to gather more information pass me by. I lament the traffic in front of me, sending my Uber driver mental signals to hurry the hell up.
“We never get to spend time together anymore,” I babble with fake laughter. I’ll go with you to keep you company. Don’t let him leave without me. I’ll be home in a few minutes.”
“We’re about to leave, you don’t have to—”
“Two minutes. Stall for me!”
***
“That was longer than two minutes,” Elizabeth says when I rush through the door. “He’s about to lose his mind. You know how he despises being late. Where have you been?”
Elizabeth latches onto my arm, and I shove all thoughts of Mom and my meeting with Mr. Broussard to the back of my mind.
The last thing I want is for her to ask more questions—or to have to reveal where I was and who I met.
I concluded the rest of the ride over here that it’s best if I keep her out of the loop regarding my investigation until I have concrete proof.
I want the sister I used to have when we were kids, and springing this on her won’t win me any favors.
I note her blue Alexander McQueen A-line dress with an asymmetrical hemline for the first time.
In it, she looks every bit a beautiful girl of eighteen, and I stifle the knot in my throat at the wish that things could have been different.
In an alternate reality, she’d be a normal girl, excited about college and the future.
But with Rory Gallagher for a father, she was doomed from the start.
“I had a meeting with an advisor.” That is the story I concocted when I first met Mr. Broussard. The perfect excuse to see him whenever I need to go over anything regarding the case. “I didn’t know you cared so much. Aww, Bethie, I love you, too.”
“I don’t get what your deal is. You never come to these kinds of things. You hate anything to do with Dad’s campaigns or his friends. Why do you even want to come with us anyway?”
“I’m starting to get offended that you don’t want to spend time with me,” I say, surprised to find the statement rings true.
She brushes off my attempt to hug her. “Don’t try to get me to play interference.
He’s pissed. You need to change,” she says with a flick of her hair.
Her eyes are green like our father’s, and they roll as she glances toward his study.
“You should have answered his calls. We’re already running late.
Get dressed. Wear something nice. We needed to leave ten minutes ago. ”
Elizabeth studies her reflection in the mirror, brushing back stray locks of hair and fixing the line of her lip gloss, so she doesn’t see me struggle to contain the rush of sadness that spears through me.
When we were little, everything had been so easy.
I’d loved being a big sister, watching out for her, teaching her new things and knowing absolutely everything about each other.
I’d been there for every day of her life.
Now, we’re more like strangers than sisters, and it’s as though I lost two people instead of one when our mother died.
“Do you want to help me get ready?” The words tumble from my lips, awkward and uncertain. The last thing I want is her scrutiny before what is no doubt going to be a long, long night under our father’s. But a part of me longs for the people we used to be before the world stamped them out.
She shakes her head, glossy dark blond waves floating around her shoulders. “No, but be quick, or he’s going to leave without you. Whoever we’re meeting must be important. He’s pacing around like there’s an alligator on his ass.”
I give her a jerky nod, not quite meeting her gaze, and take the stairs two at a time up to my room. A glance back shows her watching my ascent with an unreadable expression, and I force my eyes forward because if I don’t, I’m afraid of what she’ll read on my face.
Since Mom’s death, everything between us has been different.
We haven’t been close since we outgrew the innocence of childhood, but now there’s a space the size of the Grand Canyon between us.
Like we speak different languages, or are people who used to be close but haven’t seen each other in a long time even though we live in the same house.
She has Father to turn to because she’s always been his favorite, but he’s always been the hardest on me.
I race through my room, stripping off my jeans and T-shirt and dressing in a long-sleeved, figure-skimming pink midi.
I pair it with some basic nude heels and a nude clutch, stuffing my phone in it as I glide back downstairs.
Elizabeth waits with Father, her face carefully blank of her earlier amusement.
The last thing I want to do is go to some stuffy dinner so he can schmooze, but I’ll suck it up to learn more about the people he’s close to, no matter the risk or how much it pisses him off.
“If you’re determined to tag along, you could at least be on time,” comes my father’s brusque voice. “So help me God, Catriona, if you ruin this for me, I will not be responsible for the consequences.”
Sweet man, our father.
On the outside, he doesn’t seem like he’s rotten to the core, but I guess they never do. I can’t remember a time when I wasn’t afraid of him. When we were young, Mom did a good job of shielding us from his anger and violent mood swings, but there was only so much she could do.
What makes me sick to my stomach is how much the three of us look alike.
Same blond hair and general face structure, though mine is a little more pointed.
Elizabeth got his dimpled chin. The only thing that sets me apart from them is my hazel eyes, which I inherited from my mother.
If you didn’t look closely, Elizabeth and I could be twins.
As I bite back a scathing retort, he’s already stalking out the door to where a sleek black G-wagon waits.
I frown, realizing there’s no driver as he climbs into the driver’s seat.
I know better than to ask, so I keep my mouth shut as I take a seat behind him.
Elizabeth slides into the passenger seat.
It shouldn’t make me so goddamn lonely, but it does.
It has always been the two of them, and now it is them…
and me. It’s not her fault; he’s always preferred her.
A fact of life that never emphasized my isolation until Mom died.
“You look perfect, as always, angel,” he tells Elizabeth, as he whips us into traffic.
He takes her hand and kisses her knuckles.
Why does he reserve his biting words and punishments for me?
God knows, I’ve spent years of my life trying to figure it out, but there’s nothing I’ve ever done to deserve the treatment he directs my way.
“Thank you, Daddy,” she replies with a small smile. I turn away from them, studying the growing darkness outside my window and hoping the evening will pass quickly. “Did you let him know we’re running late?” Elizabeth asks, and I wonder if she’s trying to distract him from more scathing retorts.
Frequent events and socializing aren’t out of the norm. We’re often required to attend galas and luncheons and charity events of all kinds. But on short notice? No, something has my stomach clenching with nerves that has nothing to do with my meeting with Mr. Broussard and its harrowing aftermath.
If this were a decade ago, I would have reached for Elizabeth’s hand and squeezed it three times in rapid succession.
Our silent way of saying I love you. She would have turned hers over to lace our fingers together and squeezed mine three times in return.
Is it possible to mourn a person when they’re still alive?
Ever since Mom died, it hasn’t felt the same, no matter how much I try to connect with her.
Because I believe there’s more to the story.
And Elizabeth believes the police and wants us to move on with our lives.
“I planned to leave earlier than expected just in case.” He meets my gaze in the rearview mirror during a momentary pause in traffic. Then it flicks over to Elizabeth in warning. “Whatever happens tonight, keep your mouths shut unless you’re spoken to.”
It’s said to me, but Elizabeth and I both respond, “Yes, Father,” although she’s not really paying attention. She’s scrolling through her feed, the light washing over her face.
Too soon, though it’s probably been a good half hour weaving through evening traffic, we pull onto Burgundy Street and park in public parking, which Father grumbles about under his breath.
He makes impatient sounds as we climb out of the car and follow his ground-eating stride down the sidewalk to a sage-green corner townhome that has me sighing in… regret? Jealousy?