The Last Sister

by Elliot, Kendra

  “What is the point of revisiting it now?” Chet spread his hands as far as the chains would let him, the restraints clinking. “I’m here. Lincoln’s dead. End of story.”

  Zander had expected a low, rough voice to emerge from the large man, but instead Chet spoke in mellow tones. Not feminine, but serene and calming, as if he were settling a wild animal. Or an overstimulated toddler.

  “Everything I read says you claim you didn’t kill him.”

  “That is correct.”

  “But you pled guilty to murder.”

  “Also correct.” Indifference came through Zander’s monitor.

  Zander considered the man. “Explain.”

  Chet shrugged and averted his gaze.

  “Did you kill Lincoln Mills?”

  Chet picked at a notch in the tabletop. “It doesn’t matter now.”

  “Why not?”

  “I don’t have proof I didn’t do it.”

  “Lincoln’s bloody jacket was found in your motel room.”

  Chet said nothing.

  “You’d lived in a dozen different cities in five states over four years before landing in Astoria. Why were you in Astoria?”

  “Why are you asking questions that you already know the answer to?”

  “I want to hear you say it, so I can judge for myself.”

  “A real judge already took care of that. Who are you to pass judgment on me again?”

  “Touché,” said Zander. “Humor me. Do you have somewhere else you need to be? My contact told me you rarely get visitors.”

  Chet’s chin lifted, his eyes flat. “I got nothin’ going on right now.”

  “So . . . why Astoria?”

  He tipped his head and worked his lips, appearing to weigh a decision. “The ocean.”

  “What about the ocean?”

  “I wanted to work on a fishing boat. I like the ocean. I’d already tried in a few towns south of there with no luck.” He attempted to cross his arms, his biceps flexing. The chain stopped him.

  Zander could easily imagine him pulling ropes and throwing lines or doing whatever physical work was needed on a commercial fishing boat.

  “It smells good.” The prisoner’s nostrils flared slightly.

  “Fish don’t smell good.”

  “No. But the ocean does. And I like being outdoors.”

  Prison is not the place for an outdoor lover.

  “I don’t understand why you confessed to a murder that you now say you didn’t do.”

  “I’m pretty sure I didn’t do it,” Chet clarified.

  That makes no sense. “Then why did you plead guilty?”

  His mouth twitched, and he went back to picking at the notch. “When they brought me in, the officers told me I had done it.”

  Zander frowned.

  “I believed, because of my drinking, that it was impossible for me to remember.”

  “You were an alcoholic.” Zander had wondered if that was the case because of all the alcohol-related arrests in Chet’s record.

  “Still am. But back then I would drink until I was fall-down, blackout drunk. Don’t get to do much of that anymore,” he joked.

  “You were too drunk to remember hanging someone from a tree.” Zander struggled to believe it.

  “Yep. But in my sleep, I could see myself do it. I figured I had some weird subconscious block about the hanging and that what the police told me was truth.”

  “You confessed because you assumed you killed him?”

  “Something like that. Did you see I took a polygraph? I knew it couldn’t be legally used, but I took it because I hoped the test would tell me if I did it.”

  “That doesn’t make sense.”

  “The results of the polygraph said there was something going on in my head at the subconscious level, so I figured what the cops had told me was true. I’d had a lot of drunk blackouts before that—and people had always told me about shit I’d done that I had no memory of doing. This didn’t seem very far-fetched.”

  Zander was incredulous. “But you had never killed anyone while you were drunk before.”

  “No, but I got in plenty of fights and banged up a lot of people that I don’t remember.”

  “What made you change your mind and start saying you were innocent?”

  Chet wrapped his fingers around the table’s metal attached to his chain. Even via the video, Zander could see his knuckles were huge and dark hair sprouted from the backs of his hands. “I decided I didn’t do it.”

  “A complete reversal.”

  “I didn’t wake up one day and decide I was innocent. It took time. I got in a couple of brawls here—even when I thought I was going to die in one, I never had the instinct or desire to kill the person who was fighting with me. Never. I just wanted to live.”

  Zander listened, and a slow chill started at the base of his spine.

  “Lincoln and I got in a bar fight that evening. That’s the first time I’d met the guy. I remember bloodying his nose—which is another reason I thought I mighta killed him—but nothing happened beyond me ripping off his jacket. That’s why they found his jacket in my hotel room.”

  Chet’s gaze was steady. He wasn’t trying to sell Zander on his innocence. He was simply telling his side.

  Dammit, I believe him.

  “Does the name Cynthia Green mean anything to you?”

  Chet thought. “No. Should it?”

  “She disappeared two weeks before Lincoln Mills was hanged. We recently found her remains near Bartonville.”

  Annoyance wrinkled his features. “Do you know how many times cops have been in here to ask if I committed another crime simply because of the Lincoln Mills case?”

  “A lot?”

  “Yeah. It’s ridiculous. They come from all over the US. Talk about desperate.”

  “She was a teenage African American girl who disappeared from a beach near Gearhart.”

  “Telling me what she looks like doesn’t prod my memory because I’ve never done shit like that.”

  He seemed insulted.

  “Did you know there was another hanging in Bartonville a few days ago?”

  The surprise on Chet’s face seemed genuine and then faded into contempt. “Hadn’t heard. At least they can’t convict me for that one.” He scowled. “Who’d they hang?”

  “A young man in town. Schoolteacher.”

  “That sucks.”

  “You don’t know anything about it?”

  His brows shot up. “Seriously? Didn’t we just cover this? Fuck off.” He snorted, derision in his eyes.

  Zander considered asking more questions about the hanging, but Chet’s reactions felt natural. He wondered if the man had had any recent visitors who might have talked about the Fitch hanging—before or after it happened.

  Zander wrapped up the video session and again called his buddy at the state prison, requesting the name of anyone who had visited Chet Carlson in the last five years. He specified a long period, hoping to get an idea of whom the man associated with. The prison employee promised an email within a few minutes.

  He idly tapped his fingers on the desk in his hotel room, craving an omelet from the Barton Diner. His stomach made him fully aware he hadn’t eaten breakfast yet. He refreshed his email for the third time, spotted one from the state prison, and immediately clicked.

  Over the last five years, Chet had had a single visitor. But she had come twice.

  Both visits had been within the last twelve months.

  Terri Yancey.

  Zander stared at the name for a long moment. Who is she to Chet Carlson?

  She hadn’t visited enough times to be family.

  A suspicion formed, and he accessed the state DMV records, immediately finding a driver’s license for Terri Yancey. She was thirty-nine, brunette, and lived in Beaverton, a few miles west of Portland.

  He caught his breath at the photo. Madison.

  Terri Yancey looked like Madison. Emily and Madison shared family similaritie
s, but if Madison had been run through an age-progression app and been given dark hair, she would look exactly like Terri Yancey.

  Terri. Tara.

  Could this be Tara?

  The resemblance was there.

  Why did she visit Chet Carlson?

  The bigger question was why she had never contacted her family.

  Plugging Terri’s address into his phone, he saw he could be at her front door in less than two hours.

  Do I tell Emily?

  Emily’s stomach convulsed. “Are you sure?” she whispered to Zander as they stood on the mansion’s porch.

  Zander pulled up an image on his phone.

  Emily clutched the phone, staring at the picture. Tara looked back at her. She was older, her hair was dark. But it was Tara.

  “How?” She forced out the word.

  “I had a video interview with Chet Carlson this morning.”

  Her gut twisted and spun again. “Jesus, Zander. Any other shocks for me?”

  He paused. “No.”

  Emily wasn’t sure she believed him. She focused on Tara’s face again, her heart trying to beat its way up her throat.

  “After I talked to him, I checked his visitor records. Your sister has been to see him twice in the last year.”

  She blinked hard, trying to keep Tara’s face in focus. “Maybe you don’t consider that to be another shock, but I do. Why did she do that?”

  “I don’t know. I thought I’d go ask her.”

  Emily’s head jerked up, her pulse pounding. “You’re going to see Tara?”

  “She goes by Terri now. Terri Yancey. She lives in Beaverton.”

  Emily sat in one of the heavy metal chairs on the porch. Her brain was spinning; Tara was close by.

  “Would you like to come?” He crouched beside her, his gaze even with hers. Substantial concern radiating from him.

  “I don’t know.” She couldn’t process his request. Her mind was locked on the fact that Tara lived two hours away. And had never called. Why?

  “Chet Carlson still claims he didn’t kill your father.”

  “Yes,” she said woodenly. “He’s said that for several years. Did he try to explain why it wasn’t him?”

  “A little. He doesn’t have any proof.”

  “What did he say about Tara?”

  “I didn’t find out about Tara until after the interview.” He had a hopeful look in his eyes.

  He wants me to go with him.

  She could think of worse things than to spend a few hours with Zander.

  In her heart she was dying to see her sister, but her emotions were all over the place.

  Am I ready to find out why Tara abandoned us? Will she talk to me? What if she refuses?

  She had to decide now.

  “I’ll go.”

  30

  It was nearly noon when Emily and Zander stopped in front of a beautiful house.

  A tiny bit of envy sprouted in Emily’s heart—an unusual sensation—as she bit back a gasp. Tara’s home was in a well-to-do neighborhood where the lawns were perfectly manicured, and a German luxury vehicle sat in her driveway.

  Emily compared her totaled Honda to the Mercedes. She could barely afford to keep her car in tires. Soon she’d find out how little money her insurance company would pay for her now-totaled old car. It wasn’t going to be pretty.

  She felt Zander study her.

  “I can’t believe Tara lives here,” she muttered. “The mansion is falling to pieces around our ears.”

  “You don’t have to come in.”

  Surprise made her choke. “I came all this way. You bet I’m coming in. Especially now that I see Tara’s been living here while I struggle to take care of three elderly aunts, my sister, the mansion, and the diner.”

  Emily yanked on the car door handle and stepped out, embarrassed at how bitter she had sounded. She waited for Zander, and they walked the brick-lined path to the front door, where he rang the bell.

  A young girl opened it, and Emily caught her breath.

  She looks exactly like Tara as a child.

  The girl appeared to be nine or ten. Emily hadn’t thought to wonder if Tara had children. Or a husband. It had been shortsighted of her.

  “Can we speak to your mom?” she finally managed to ask.

  “Moooom!” the girl yelled over her shoulder. Her long, blonde hair was in a single braid, and she wore black jeans with ripped knees.

  I have a niece.

  The thought hit her like a semitruck, making her lungs seize, the oxygen gone.

  Behind the girl the house had high ceilings and white wainscoting. An elegant staircase curved to the second level. The wood floors gleamed.

  Footsteps sounded.

  The woman who arrived was not Tara, but she looked at Zander and Emily expectantly.

  “We’re looking for Terri Yancey,” Zander said. “Is she home?”

  The woman’s face shut down. “She’s not feeling well.” Her manner was guarded, and suspicion hovered in her tone. She was twenty years too old to be Tara. “Can I give her a message?”

  Emily and Zander exchanged a long look, and he nodded encouragingly. The decision was in her hands.

  Should I?

  I have a niece.

  “Tell Tara her sister Emily is here,” she stated calmly, defying the drumbeat in her chest.

  The woman took a half step back, her hand rising to her chest, her mouth in an O.

  She knows.

  The girl tilted her head, studying Emily with intelligent eyes. “Who?” She looked to the older woman. “Who is she?”

  Emily said nothing, and the woman visibly pulled herself together. “Why don’t you come in?” With one hand on the girl’s shoulder, she stepped back and opened the door wider.

  Emily caught Zander’s surprised expression. She shrugged at him. They’d come this far, she wasn’t about to stop now.

  The woman led them to a formal living room and indicated for them to take a seat. “I’ll get her.” She vanished through the glass double doors, and her footsteps tapped up the arced staircase.

  Tara’s daughter—Emily assumed—stayed, her expression watchful. She’d picked up on the unease among the adults.

  “I’m Emily. This is Zander.” When the girl didn’t reply, Emily continued. “And you are . . .”

  “Bella.”

  Was Tara a Twilight fan?

  Emily used to be.

  “How old are you, Bella?” Zander asked.

  “Why are you here?” Bella asked bluntly. “Why is Grandma upset?”

  Zander leaned closer to Emily. “She’s definitely related to you,” he whispered.

  “You’re being rude.” Bella tossed her braid over her shoulder and raised her chin.

  “You’re right, and I’m sorry,” Zander said. “You remind me of someone.”

  “Who?”

  “You don’t know her—but you will soon.”

  Bella wrinkled her nose and rolled her eyes at his nonanswer.

  Emily lost her breath. The movement was like looking into a mirror. She’d trained herself not to use the eyeroll except around family, but the wrinkling of the nose was too hard a habit to break.

  Female voices sounded. People were coming down the staircase. Bella left the room, but her question was audible. “Mom, who are they?”

  Then Tara was in the doorway, one hand gripping the jamb for balance, shock opening her mouth. “Emily.” The name was faint.

  Tara’s appearance jolted Emily. Her sister was now a brunette with chin-length hair. Emily had seen the brown hair in her license photo, but seeing the dark—and short—hair in person was a shock. As a teen Tara had always made a big deal over her long, blonde hair. Her sister was now bone thin and had deep circles under her eyes. She looked on edge, nervous.

  That’s my sister.

  All her confusion and questions evaporated. After twenty years they were in the same room. Nothing else matters. Emily stood and rushed across the room,
enveloping her sister in her arms, her heart breaking at the sensation of the bones just under her skin. She pulled back to look Tara in the eye and struggled to see through tears. Emily wiped one eye, and Tara did the same.

  “I’m sorry,” Tara cried. “I’m so sorry,” she repeated over and over.

  Zander watched the reunion, glad Emily had come with him. Once the sisters had gotten past tears, both talked nonstop. Madison. The aunts. Bartonville.

  He’d noticed Tara had a slender face on her driver’s license, but in person the woman’s thinness looked unhealthy. She was unsteady on her feet, but that could be from the roller coaster of emotions the women were experiencing. The two finally moved to the couch and continued to talk over each other’s sentences.

  “Wendy,” Tara said to the older woman, “can you take Bella in the other room so we can have a bit of privacy?”

  “I want to know what’s going on,” the child stated firmly.

  “I promise I’ll tell you later.”

  “She said she’s your sister. You’ve said you don’t have any family.”

  Tara paused and briefly closed her eyes. “It’s a long story. I’ll get to it, I promise.”

  The girl shot Emily and Zander suspicious glares but reluctantly left with Wendy. Emily watched her departure, a hungry look in her eye.

  The room went silent. Tara’s and Emily’s emotions had crested and fallen, and the awkward moment stretched. Unanswered questions wove between them. Why had Tara left? Why no contact?

  They faced each other on the couch, and Tara knotted her hands, twisting and clenching. Emily saw them and separated her own clenched hands.

  Zander took pity on the quiet women. “How old is Bella?” he asked. A neutral question.

  “She’s nine.”

  “She looks like you,” he told Tara, noticing she didn’t wear a wedding ring. “Is her father still around?”

  Tara paled. “No. He died in an automobile accident five years ago. Wendy is my mother-in-law, and she took us in after that.” Her voice wavered.

  “Tara, I’m so sorry.” Emily touched her sister’s arm. “How horrible for you and Bella.”

  “Everyone around me dies.” The statement was flat and lifeless; the emotional woman had vanished.

  Zander flinched. “Are you all right?” he asked cautiously. He didn’t know exactly what he referred to . . . her health, her current emotions, her living situation, her dead husband.