The Last Sister

by Elliot, Kendra

  “Dunno. I didn’t. No one is surprised when the Osburne brothers act up.”

  “Do you think Sean’s race had anything to do with it?”

  Paul scowled. “Don’t know. I didn’t hear what was said between them.” His face cleared. “But I told you one of my bartenders always has a problem with the Osburnes—he’s Mexican. They give him shit about that.”

  Two strong guys. Possibly racist.

  The Osburne brothers were checking some boxes.

  “Did you notice when Sean left?”

  Paul thought hard. “He left right after the game. I remember he was disappointed in who won. He tossed down some cash for the beer and left. I can’t believe he’ll never be back,” Paul said in a stunned voice.

  “Can you give us some names of other people who witnessed the fight?” suggested Zander.

  Paul hesitated.

  “We don’t have to say it was you who gave us the names. There were plenty of people there who could have identified others.”

  Paul’s face cleared, and he rattled off three names, which the sheriff wrote down.

  Checking what time the game had finished would be easy enough. At least Zander knew Sean had still been alive at that point. He spoke to the sheriff. “Can we visit the Osburnes?”

  “I’ll show you where they live,” Greer said as he turned to the door.

  “Hey, Sheriff,” Paul said. “You gonna make book club tomorrow?”

  Zander gawked at Paul. Book club?

  Greer paused. “Your wife making the nacho dip?” the sheriff asked hopefully.

  “Yep.”

  “I haven’t read the book yet.”

  “You should start it. It’s a good one about a real plot to kill George Washington, but you know it doesn’t matter if you read the book. Just show up.”

  “I’ll be there.” The sheriff continued toward the door.

  Zander silently followed, reminding himself to never make assumptions.

  10

  Emily parked in the quiet clearing and hoped the ghosts would stay away.

  The pile of rubble grew smaller every year as it decomposed—rain, sun, and time breaking down the components. Small grains blew away with the wind. Ferns and wild grasses sprouted. In its death, the old house had given life to small glimpses of nature.

  After the fire her childhood home had been knocked down, but no one hauled anything away. She wondered what kind of chemicals had leached into the ground. What nonbiodegradables would still be present in a hundred years.

  No one cared.

  As she stepped out of her car—with new tires—she estimated it had been four years since she visited the spot where her father died and her home burned to the ground.

  It still hurt.

  Good memories flashed. Hide-and-seek with her sisters. The day her father put in a swing set. Lazy summer days making “homes” in the tall grass. Bug bites. Itchy poison ivy that made her cry. Her mother had tied mittens onto her hands, and Emily had torn at them with her teeth, desperate to scratch.

  Not all good memories.

  But memories of poison ivy were better than remembering the night her father was murdered.

  Flashing police lights. Fire engine sirens. Their hoses and water.

  Madison clung to their mother, her face buried in Mother’s coat. The flames lit up their mother’s face as she watched the fire grow higher and the house start to fall in on itself. Shock. Fear. This wasn’t happening. This had to be a dream. Emily hung tight to her mother’s arm. Her mother said nothing, dumbly staring at the flames, and Emily’s gaze searched their surroundings. Firemen ran and shouted. Police did the same.

  A policeman approached, his face grim. And Emily knew they’d found her father.

  It wasn’t a dream.

  Tires crunched as a vehicle approached behind her. Emily turned and her heart sank.

  Brett.

  The Astoria Police Department SUV parked, and she saw that her ex-husband wasn’t in uniform. It was Saturday. His day off. After five years she still remembered his schedule. Annoyance shot through her. Why did her brain retain minutiae of her ex-husband’s life?

  How does he know I’m here?

  He had no reason to be on this property. That meant he’d followed her.

  Rage simmered under her skin. But she displayed no emotion.

  A habit. A protective habit around Brett.

  His door slammed, and he strolled over to her, nonchalantly eyeing the rubble heap and the surrounding trees. His casualness was scripted; he did nothing indifferently. Especially when she was involved.

  “Hey,” he said. More indifference.

  As if it weren’t odd that they’d crossed paths a mile out of town at the edge of the woods.

  Where no one went.

  “Hey.”

  “Saw you drive past me in town. I waved, but you didn’t see me.” He stopped three feet in front of her, his brown eyes locked on hers.

  Her stomach twisted. At one time she’d melted when those eyes were turned on her. She’d longed for him to notice her, and when he finally did, she’d believed her world was perfect. Now it meant he was analyzing her, searching for nuance, hunting for subtext in every move she made and every word she said. Studying her like a bug under a microscope.

  She held very still.

  “You’re right. I didn’t see you.”

  “I saw where you turned and knew there could only be one destination.” Concern shone on his face. “Don’t tell me you come up here a lot.”

  “I don’t.”

  At one time he’d been everything she thought she wanted. Strength. Maturity. Love. He was six years older than she, and she’d adored him since she’d been ten. When she was eighteen, he’d finally looked her way, and he’d liked what he saw. He became the foundation of her life.

  And then the ruler of her life.

  They married two years later, and it started with small things. Questions about where she had been. Wanting immediate answers to every text. Warnings about her male friends: guys have only one thing on their minds. Asking her to stay in with him instead of attending her regular girls’ night.

  She’d done what he asked, flattered he craved her full attention, a result of his deep love for her.

  But then the requests slowly tightened around her neck.

  Why shouldn’t he have her email password? What was she hiding?

  Why did she talk to male friends? Wasn’t he enough?

  Why couldn’t he tag along when she went out with her girlfriends? They were his friends too.

  When she refused anything, he’d question and calmly engage her for hours, trying to convince her to see his side. He loved her, he treated her like a queen. Why shouldn’t she do some little things to help him feel more secure in their relationship?

  It became easier to do as he asked to avoid the emotionally draining, hours-long conversations. Over time she learned to walk on eggshells around him, trying to keep him happy and content.

  The constant scrutiny drove up her stress levels and wore her down. She realized she could no longer live under the same roof with him and asked for a divorce.

  He was insecure. It wasn’t her responsibility to cater to it.

  He moved to the debris pile and kicked at an old roofing tile. “I hate this place,” he said. “I don’t like what it represents. Your life turned upside down that day.”

  “It did.” As if I’m not fully aware. An acidic taste of anger filled her mouth.

  He looked back at her, his eyes dark. “I worry about you.”

  She controlled her shiver. “I’m fine. I like the quiet here.”

  “You can find quiet in a place where your dad was murdered and your house burned down?”

  Jerk. He’d said it deliberately, wanting to twist the knife in her heart under the guise of concern.

  “It’s true.” Keep answers short.

  “Your whole life went down a new path. Your sister left and then your mom died.”


  He sank the knife to its hilt.

  She silently counted as she inhaled and exhaled, pacing her breaths, keeping her calm.

  “I assume you still haven’t heard from Tara.” He turned back to the house as he spoke.

  “No. Have you looked for her?”

  At the police station, Brett had access to search tools that the average citizen did not. But during their marriage, she’d never asked him to look. They’d rarely talked about Tara.

  He and Tara had dated for several months during her senior year, breaking up only weeks before their father was murdered.

  “No, I’ve never looked for her,” he said. “It’s none of my business. She broke up with me, remember? And she always talked about getting out of this shit town. She had her eyes on bigger things, so I’m not surprised she left us all behind.” He shrugged.

  Emily didn’t believe that. Brett didn’t like that Tara had left without a backward glance at him. His insecurity kept him from understanding how that could happen to him.

  She suspected he’d searched for her and failed.

  But his ego wouldn’t allow him to admit it.

  “Madison has researched extensively,” Emily stated, watching him. She’d learned to read him as carefully as he read her. During the last months of their marriage, they’d tentatively circled each other, each constantly guessing what the other was thinking, their verbal communication in the toilet. All trust gone.

  “Oh. Good for her. Nothing, though?”

  He’s too casual. He wants to know.

  Does he still want her after all these years?

  Emily was always second. Second sister. Second choice.

  Deep down she’d known he didn’t love her enough—she was just another infatuated woman to bolster his insecurity—but she had chosen to ignore it. Instead she’d naively hoped to replace Tara in Brett’s heart.

  Later she’d realized he didn’t hold Tara in his heart; he just couldn’t accept that she had dumped him. It turned into an obsession.

  “Madison hasn’t found her. She thinks Tara changed her name.”

  He nodded. “Makes sense.” He turned back to her, his gaze probing. “Want to get a cup of coffee?”

  She stiffened. Nothing would be more uncomfortable. “No, I need to get back to the diner.”

  “Okay. I’ll follow you out.”

  Like hell you will. “Go ahead. I’m going to spend a few more minutes here. Memories, you know,” she said, scrambling for a reason to make him leave.

  He studied her for a moment.

  He was still attractive. Her brain recognized it even if her heart screamed for her to get away.

  “Emily . . . we weren’t that bad together, were we?” He sounded apprehensive, but curious.

  She couldn’t speak. Had time erased everything she’d explained to him?

  His insecurity had turned her into a shadow of the independent woman she’d been. It’d taken over a year for her to find her confidence again.

  “It’s been five years, Brett. I’m not going to start this discussion again. We said everything that needs to be said.”

  He frowned. “I know, but—”

  “No buts. Why waste time examining something that is long over?”

  “But when we’re together—like now—it feels—”

  “Wrong. It feels very, very wrong.” She glared, her eyes begging him to stop.

  The corners of his lips sagged, and his brows came together, sending mild panic up her spine. Emily knew the signs. He was preparing to argue his point until she simply gave in, exhausted.

  But they weren’t married anymore.

  “Go home, Brett.” She turned away and raised one hand in farewell, hoping he’d take the hint. Not waiting to find out, she headed toward the tree line, passing through what used to be the backyard of the home. She walked blindly, her hearing attuned to the sound of his car door.

  Relief swamped her as his door finally opened and closed. A moment later the engine started.

  Thank you, God.

  She hadn’t spoken to him in months. What on earth had prompted him to attempt a possible reconciliation today? Short-term memory loss?

  Occasionally she’d see him drive through town—he still lived in Bartonville. She hated that her heart seized every time she saw an Astoria police SUV, and her head turned to see if it was him.

  Their breakup had been ugly.

  She slammed to a stop, and Brett vanished from her thoughts as she stared at the short tree trunk.

  Years ago, after Chet Carlson was put away for her father’s murder, someone had cut down the tree. She’d never known who. She’d never asked, and no one ever brought it up. The destruction felt justified, and no doubt it had been a healing moment for someone. She’d long suspected one of her great-aunts had cut down the tree.

  But seeing the stump was always a shock.

  She passed the stump and walked into the firs. Wind rustled through their branches, making the colossal trees gently sway. The ground was soaked. Weeks of continual rain had turned this entire tip of the state into a sodden site. She stopped and rested a hand on a trunk, feeling the vibrations in the bark as it swayed. Out of habit she scanned the ground around the trees, looking for cracks, signs the wind had loosened the root ball of one of the giant trees. It was rare for one of the trees to fall, but a strong windstorm after weeks of rain could cause a disaster.

  She’d seen homes crushed by the immense trees. Her mother had always worried about falling firs when they lived in the little house. She’d often walked the woods, looking for cracks after heavy rains and wind.

  Firs hadn’t been the end of the home.

  Her throat grew thick, and she couldn’t swallow. Tears threatened, and she let them roll. No one was here to see her. No prying eyes or pointed questions to answer. She leaned against a fir and allowed herself to feel. Feel the pain and loss and rage at the destruction of her family. It erupted, swamping her, and she bent at the waist, wrapping her arms around her abdomen. She’d lost her father and her home, and then Tara, and then her mother. A domino effect that had started with her father’s violent death.

  Fifteen seconds later, the avalanche of emotions was gone, leaving her drained, with sweat at her temples and gasping for air. A headache threatened at the base of her skull, and her legs felt like weak twigs. This wasn’t the first time she’d fallen apart in this place.

  It was one of the reasons she stayed away.

  She shuddered and looked about, spotting the stump through the firs.

  The rest of the forest faded away as she stared at the blemish among the wild growth.

  Something happened here, the stump said.

  Something deadly. Something final. Something irrevocable.

  Chet Carlson had received a life sentence for her father’s murder, and the punishment was a small bandage on her damaged heart. It helped. But it didn’t heal.

  There was no one to punish for her mother’s suicide. Emily blamed Chet Carlson, but she knew her mother and the adults who had claimed to love her mother shared a bit of the fault too. The passage of time had applied tentative protection around her pain. Sometimes the protection held fast; other times it let pain seep through.

  Right now the pain seeped, inflamed by the sight of the home’s pathetic remains.

  And the resurgent memory of Tara’s betrayal.

  11

  A phone call from Seth Rutledge, the medical examiner, delayed Zander’s plans to pay a visit to the Osburne brothers.

  Dr. Rutledge caught Zander in the parking lot of Patrick’s Place. He said he had preliminary findings from the autopsies of Sean and Lindsay Fitch. Zander joined Sheriff Greer in his county SUV, squeezing under the computer and monitor that stuck out over half of the passenger seat—a typical annoyance for the front of a law enforcement vehicle—and put his phone on speaker.

  “Go ahead, Seth. Sheriff Greer is here too.”

  “Morning, guys.” Dr. Rutledge’s voice filled
the vehicle.

  “Don’t tell me you’re done already,” Greer said.

  “I start early,” answered Dr. Rutledge. “A typical autopsy takes me about two hours. Sometimes more, sometimes less.”

  “I trust you were extra thorough with this couple,” said the sheriff.

  “I’m thorough with each body.”

  Zander bit the inside of his cheek at Seth’s pointed comeback. “We just found out that Sean was in a bar fight the night he was killed—or the night before he was killed, depending on your time of death,” he told Seth. “The bartender witnessed kicks to his stomach and some blows to his face. I assume you found supporting evidence?”

  “Definitely. And that answers a question of mine,” answered Dr. Rutledge. “At first I’d assumed Sean’s abrasions and scrapes were from fighting with his attackers. Then I got his preliminary blood results.”

  Zander and the sheriff exchanged a glance.

  “Both Sean and Lindsay had large doses of GHB in their system. I doubt he was conscious enough to fight his attackers. It makes sense if he received the injuries in an earlier fight.”

  “What’s GHB?” asked Zander.

  “The type I found in the Fitches is basically homemade Ecstasy. There’s a euphoric high and then a crash, making people sleep heavily—or die. The homemade stuff can vary in potency, especially when the makers get sloppy. It’s flat-out dangerous.”

  “Holy shit,” muttered the sheriff.

  Zander was stunned. Had the couple taken the drug themselves? Or had they been drugged to facilitate the attack? “Did the forensics techs say they’d found drugs in the house?” he asked the sheriff. Greer slowly shook his head, his countenance grim.

  “We’ll notify forensics to watch for it in the evidence they took from the home,” Zander told Dr. Rutledge. “What would they be looking for, Doc? Pills? Liquid?”

  “Judging by their stomach contents and the drug levels in their blood, it was ingested in liquid form. So take special care with any used cups, bottles, or mugs. Check the liquids in their refrigerator. It’s colorless and tasteless.”

  The sheriff scribbled a note. “We need to go back through the home. I know the refrigerator contents weren’t taken for examination. Same with dirty dishes.”