The Night Before

by Lisa Jackson

  “A lot has happened lately.”

  “That it has,” she said, and it was almost a whisper.

  “And even before. Your family seems particularly prone to tragedy.”

  “Just like out of a Greek play,” she agreed as she took a swallow from her drink. “What about yours?”

  “My family? Not much of one. My father took off when I was little. I don’t remember much about him, don’t know where he ended up. My mother, brother and I lived with my grandmother until Mom died. It was sudden. A brain tumor. I was eleven at the time. My brother was sixteen. Grandma took over from there.”

  “So where’s your brother?”

  “Brussels the last I heard. In the Navy. Intelligence. We aren’t that close.”

  “No sisters, huh?”

  “None that I know of. My father could have spawned a whole sorority for all I know.”

  She felt foolish. At least she’d had parents. Siblings. A real family. Such as it was. “You make me feel like a crybaby.”

  “I don’t think that.”

  “If you don’t, you’re the only one,” she admitted. “I’m always accused of playing the victim, of not bucking up, of crying in my beer.” She flashed him a smile. “It tends to give one a complex, you know. Maybe that’s why they all think I’m not playing with a full deck. Don’t get on my case about putting myself down, I’m not. My siblings seriously think I’m losing it, or have lost it, or will soon lose it.” She smiled sadly. “It’s just a matter of time.”

  “Who says so?”

  “All of ’em. Hannah. Amanda. Troy. Even Kelly.”

  “Doesn’t your twin stand up for you?” he asked, his gaze thoughtful.

  “She doesn’t talk to the rest of the family. I thought you knew that.”

  “Why is that?”

  “Didn’t I tell you? Mom cut her off after the boating accident. Blamed her for blowing her inheritance and almost killing me.”

  Adam frowned, rubbed at a bead of sweat on his glass. “Tell me again about the accident.”

  “Why?”

  He was careful. “Because I’m trying to help you.”

  “What’s to tell? You know what happened.”

  “Okay, what about afterward? When is the first time you saw Kelly?”

  “After I was released from the hospital.” Where was this going? Why was he now so serious?

  “And when she was released, right?”

  The musician had finally stopped, and the bistro seemed suddenly quiet. No glasses rattled, no buzz of conversation; only the very quiet whisper of the overhead fans made any noise whatsoever. She hated to talk so intimately about Kelly. Even to Adam. But he was waiting. Staring at her with those intense eyes. She put down her glass and took in a deep breath. It was obviously “come to Jesus” time, as her mother had always called those moments when it was imperative that all secrets come to light. Shakily, she drew in a deep breath. “Yes.”

  “How often do you see her?”

  “Not as much as I’d like. She works out of town a lot.”

  “What does she do?” he asked.

  “She’s a buyer for a big department store.”

  “Which one?”

  “Does it matter?” she demanded. What were all these questions about her twin? “Kelly doesn’t like me talking about her personal life. She’s a private person.”

  “But she does live in the area.”

  “Yes. When she’s here. She has a place out on the river.”

  “You visit her?”

  “Sometimes, though most of the time we leave messages for each other on the phone or e-mail.”

  “What about the rest of your siblings, do they have much contact with her?”

  “No, I told you they took Mother’s side.” She felt it start deep inside, a tiny quiver that she knew would turn into a rumble, her heart beginning to race unnaturally. “They all . . . they all act as if she’s dead.”

  The world seemed to stop.

  The words hung in the air between them.

  Adam didn’t say anything, just stared at her, and she felt compelled to explain. “It works both ways. Kelly wants nothing to do with the rest of the family either. The feeling’s mutual.”

  “Caitlyn.” His voice was low. Ominous.

  She swallowed against a throat suddenly as dry as sand.

  “I read Kelly’s obituary today.”

  She closed her eyes.

  “She’s dead.”

  “No.” Caitlyn had known it would come to this. She took a swallow of her drink. Shook her head, vehemently denying his every word. “Her body . . . her body was never found. Not officially. But she survived the accident. It was a miracle . . . or maybe not.” She forced the quivering of her insides to subside, the roar in her head to quiet. “I only know what she told me.”

  “Which is?” If he was skeptical, he managed to hide it.

  “That she was in and out of consciousness, that she floated downstream, that she was fished out of the river by a drug runner who saved her life, but wanted to remain anonymous as there was a warrant out for his arrest. So she built a new life for herself. But the family . . . when I tried to tell them she was alive, they wouldn’t hear of it. As you know, they think I’m suffering some kind of mental disorder . . . no, wait, a ‘condition,’ I think that’s the term my mother used.”

  “I see.” He leaned back in his chair and the music started again, a slightly different version of what sounded like the same song.

  “You don’t believe me.”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “You didn’t have to. No one believes me. Or they don’t want to. My family’s pretty greedy and with Kelly dead, there are fewer people to divide the spoils, or split the estate, or pick my grandfather’s bones, whatever you want to call it.”

  “Caitlyn—”

  “I know this sounds far-fetched, but anytime she’s recognized, she pretends she’s me. She has her own identity now, a new one. She goes by K.C. Griffin. K for Kelly, C for Caitlyn and Griffin, as it was her middle name.”

  “As well as your friend’s name, the boy who lived on the neighboring estate,” he prodded.

  She understood where this was going. “Yes.” Studying the burn marks on the table, she whispered, “I know what you’re going to say, that there was no Griffin, no childhood friend. But you’re wrong. He existed.” She blinked hard, remembered those long, lonely years growing up. “He existed for me.”

  Adam reached across the table. Took both her hands in his. Rubbed the back of her knuckles gently with his thumbs. “If he was real to you, he did exist. Then. But now?”

  She shook her head, fought the tears. “Now I know he was imaginary.”

  “But necessary then.”

  “Oh, yeah.” She sniffed and bit her lip as she thought of the nights she’d slipped out of her window, climbed onto the roof and sat staring up at the stars, Griffin beside her, ready to catch her if she fell, ready to tell her everything was going to be all right, never letting her down, not like the other people in her life, not like her older brother who had crept the halls, slipping into her room, into Kelly’s room, brushing foul kisses across her cheeks, smelling of beer as he’d slid a hand beneath the covers to touch her. Not like her mother who doubted her and suggested that she was making up tales. Not like her father who was rarely around, never took the time to know her or any of his children. “Griffin was real necessary,” she admitted.

  “Just like Kelly is now?” he asked gently, but she shook her head, wouldn’t go there. He didn’t understand, but then, no one did. Not when it came to her twin.

  “Kelly’s real, Adam,” she insisted. “As real as I am.”

  Twenty-Eight

  Reed leaned back in his La-Z-Boy and tried to pay attention to the Braves’ game playing on his new 36-inch flat-screen TV. The thing had cost him an arm and two legs, but he loved it. He figured he’d finish his “Man-Sized” microwave meal that tasted like shit, then hit the street
s again, taking a swing by Caitlyn Bandeaux’s home. He’d asked Morrisette to watch the place, which she had agreed to even though her daughter was in the throes of a “major case of chicken pox.” Reed needed a break. He’d been working the Bandeaux case round the clock and it was time to step back and gain some perspective.

  Before Caitlyn Bandeaux slams the door on your face again.

  Hell.

  The Braves were down seven to one in the bottom of the eighth with two outs. It didn’t look good. The Mets were on a roll.

  Reed washed the remains of his meal down with the rest of his beer, did his dishes by tossing the plastic plate into the garbage, flicked off the set and was out the door just as his cell phone chirped. He answered as he climbed into the El Dorado. “Reed.”

  “Hey, it’s me,” Sylvie Morrisette said from her cell phone.

  “I’m on my way.”

  “About time. The sitter’s called twice.”

  “Where are you?”

  “On the side street catty-corner from a little bistro called Nickleby’s,” she said and gave him the street number. “Get this. Our widow seems to be on a date. Her and that shrink of hers. Having drinks together. Real cozy.”

  Interesting. “I’ll be there in twenty,” he said as he pulled out of his drive and headed into town. He turned on the police band and was slowing for a red light when his phone jangled again. No doubt Morrisette’s sitter was pressuring her. He hit the talk button. “Reed.”

  “This is Deputy Bell, down at St. Simons. You said you wanted to know when we got a positive ID on the Jane Doe we pulled from the water on the north side of the island.”

  Reed tensed, hung a left. “That’s right.”

  “Rebecca Wade. The M.E. got her dental records and matched ’em up.”

  Reed was beginning to get a bad feeling about this.

  “Any idea on the time of death?”

  “She’s been in the drink a while. Weeks. Maybe months. Hasn’t been determined yet.”

  “Cause of death?”

  “Still workin’ on it. I’ll have a copy of the autopsy report faxed to you the minute I get one. But there is something odd about the case,” he added and the tone of his voice had grown heavier, a precursor of more bad news. “Something you probably ought to know.”

  Reed took a corner a little too fast. His tires screeched. “Shoot.”

  “Well, her body was pretty decomposed as I said . . . but one thing the M.E. noticed, and it’ll be in the report. It looks like her tongue was cut off. Clean out of her mouth.”

  Reed’s jaw clenched. His hands tightened over the wheel. “You’re sure that it wasn’t some kind of animal, a predator that got to her?”

  “Don’t think so. According to the M.E., the tongue was sliced off clean as a whistle and found wrapped in plastic in a makeup bag in her purse. The only thing in the little case. Just her tongue wrapped up like a goddamned ham sandwich.”

  She let him kiss her on the doorstep.

  That was Caitlyn’s first mistake.

  The second was inviting him in for another drink.

  And the third was the fact that she wanted to make love to him. Right here in her house, while the rest of the world crumbled around them, Caitlyn wanted to feel Adam’s strong arms around her, needed to know that he cared, was desperate to find some meaning in life, to feel alive when so many people were dying.

  “I don’t know if this is such a good idea,” he said as they sipped drinks—a Cosmo for her and whiskey over rocks for him—on her couch. “He’s not going for it.” Adam hitched his chin in Oscar’s direction. The little dog was lying beneath the arch separating the living room from the foyer and he never took his eyes off Adam.

  “He’s not used to strangers coming here.”

  “But he does recognize Kelly?”

  Caitlyn sighed; second-guessed telling him about her twin. “Would you like to talk to her?”

  “That would be a great idea.”

  “Hang on.” She walked into the kitchen with Oscar tagging behind, found her purse and dug out her cell phone, which she carried back to the living area. Adam was seated in one corner of her floral couch, half sprawled over the cushions. A hint of beard shadow was darkening his jaw, his hair was mussed from their walk from the bistro to the house, his long legs stretched beneath the coffee table. Serious eyes watched her every move as she took her spot next to him, punched out Kelly’s number and waited. “She might not be home.”

  “I’ll bet.”

  “I’m serious . . .” Caitlyn listened to the phone ring and the answering machine pick up. At the tone she said, “Hey, Kelly, I’m home. Give me a call back, would you? I need to talk to you and no . . . don’t worry, I’m not going to try and coerce you into going to Mom’s funeral. Okay? Call me.” She clicked off, glanced at Adam and saw the doubt in his eyes. “You still don’t believe me, do you? Well . . .” She dialed Kelly’s number again and handed the phone to Adam. “You listen to her voice, you leave a message. Tell her you want to talk to her, for crying out loud.”

  Adam’s eyes never left her face. It was irritating that no one, not even her shrink, believed her. Even though the receiver was pressed against his ear, Caitlyn heard the phone ringing and Kelly’s answering machine pick up. Adam didn’t so much as flinch. “Yes, this is Adam Hunt. You probably know that I’m working with your sister Caitlyn. Would you give me a call back? I’d appreciate it.” He left his number and pressed the end button on her cell, then sat holding the phone for a long time.

  “You still don’t believe me.”

  “I didn’t say that.” He handed her the phone.

  “You didn’t have to. I can read it in your eyes. Your name should be Thomas, you know. Doubting Thomas.” She took a long sip of her drink, felt her anger rise. Why should it matter so much what he thought? Just because he was her shrink . . . no, it was more than that. She wanted him not as her psychologist, but as a man, her confidant, her friend, her . . . lover? to have some faith in her. Even if the reason she was with him was because she was mentally screwed up.

  “You must see where I’m having trouble with this,” he said slowly. “No one but you, that I know of, deals with Kelly.”

  “Wrong. Kelly’s somewhat of a recluse, but she does hold down a job. She does see clients. She does fly all around.”

  “Has anyone else in your family talked to Kelly since the accident?”

  “No, but . . . Oh, for the love of God, why would I create an imaginary sister? I mean, she’s real. Look at the birth records.”

  “It’s not her birth that worries me,” he said. “It’s her death.”

  “Supposed death. Supposed. She’s alive. You know, I’m going to insist that she meet with you. When she calls back, you can talk to her, and if that isn’t convincing enough, we’ll go see her at her house.”

  “Which is where?”

  “Out of town on Sorghum Road . . . I have the address somewhere in the den, I think, but she doesn’t get her mail there, she picks it up at the post office—all part of her secret life, I guess—but her place is this little funky cabin right across the river from Oak Hill. Isn’t that ironic? She never goes there but she can see what’s going on from her spot on the river. I don’t think my family is even aware the cabin is there.”

  “Why not?”

  “Well, maybe my father or his father knew about it, and my brothers probably have seen it as they used to fish around there, but it’s pretty tucked away in the trees. No one suspects Kelly lives there.” She finished her drink. “And that’s just the way she likes it.”

  “Doesn’t that strike you as odd?”

  “A lot of things about my family strike me as odd,” she said and felt a sadness for those she’d lost so recently, a sadness so cold that no amount of alcohol could warm her, an ache so deep she didn’t know if she’d ever get over it. And behind all that was something else, the niggling fear that she was involved, that, as the police suspected, she might have caused pa
in and suffering for those she’d cared about. Had she gone to Josh’s house that night? And what? Brought back buckets of blood? Had, as he’d accused, been negligent with their child? Mother of God, no . . . She shivered. Had she climbed the steps to her mother’s bedroom on the evening she’d taken ill and, while no one was looking, replaced the nitroglycerin pills with placebos, and when that attempt on Berneda’s life had failed, had she snuck into the hospital and finished the job? Images, faint, teasing and oh, so deadly, darted in front of her eyes, and though she didn’t realize it, she began to shake. Had she, during those periods of her life she couldn’t remember, have become a killer? Like Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde? No . . . please . . . no . . .

  “Caitlyn?”

  Adam’s voice brought her up short. Back to this room with its fading flowers and familiar wallpaper, to the cold grate of the marble fireplace and the piano with Jamie’s picture upon its polished surface. To the man staring at her with concerned eyes.

  “Are you all right?”

  She nodded, but he must not have believed her for he pulled her into his arms and drew her near. They were half lying on the couch, she atop him, snuggling close. “Things will be better.” He kissed her lightly on the forehead and she melted inside. His arms were strong. She let her head fall against his chest and heard the steady, comforting beat of his heart, smelled a faint scent of some aftershave.

  “How do you know?”

  “I know.”

  “Oh, yeah, right,” she teased.

  “Trust me.” He kissed the top of her crown. “Some things have to be taken on faith.”

  She chuckled at the irony of it. “You’re a good one to talk. You don’t even believe me about my sister.”

  “I’m trying,” he said and she wanted to believe him, turned to look into his eyes and couldn’t help brushing a kiss against his lips. He tasted of whiskey and wine and all things male. Groaning, he kissed her hard, his hands coming up to tangle in her hair, his eyes closing.