by Scott, Kylie
“I actually used to like the guy,” she says. “Always seemed like a straight shooter, but I guess I read him wrong. Still, I would have taken you to see him if I knew you wanted to go.”
“I’m a big girl, Frances. I can get a cab.”
She rests her head back against the couch, staring at the ceiling. “He wasn’t involved in what happened to you. I checked him out. Photos of him at a tattoo convention in Chicago were all over social media.”
“Why would you even think he was involved?”
“Just being careful.”
“Another woman was attacked and robbed in the same area as me the week before. The police officer who interviewed me at the hospital said there’s a good chance the attacks are linked.” The words come faster and faster, until they start to run into each other. “It was random. Not directed at me personally.”
“Don’t get worked up. Like I said, just being careful.” She shrugs. “It’s part of the job description. As a cop. As your sister. No harm in that.”
“Was he ever … ” I swallow. “Was he violent with me? Or anyone?”
“Tattoo parlors are not the most peaceful places in the world, in my experience.” She frowns. “But no, violence was not one of Ed’s faults.”
“From what I’ve seen on daytime TV, people screw around on each other all the time. It’s not that uncommon and it rarely leads to trying to kill the other person.”
Frances squeezes her eyes shut for a moment. “I realize your knowledge is limited, but trust me when I tell you that life is not accurately reflected by daytime TV. And I’ve seen enough victims of domestic violence to be wary of situations involving a recent breakup. Though, as I said, he never gave me those kind of vibes.”
She has a point. Two, actually.
The pained look on her face is familiar. Same goes for her favorite wide-eyed and mouth slightly open expression. That one is used for shock or surprise. My sister is a pretty dominant-personality type. And I’m guessing previous me was quieter, less prone to speaking her thoughts regardless of consequences. Doctor Patel warned me it could be a problem.
On the screen, a crocodile drags a zebra into the water. Lots of thrashing and blood. At least it’s not pointless violence, since the crocodile needs to eat. I like to think whoever assaulted me was desperate, starving, and alone. Out of their mind on drugs, maybe. It’s still no excuse for the ferocity of the attack, but it helps a little. I can’t spend the rest of my life in hiding, afraid of everything, and hating on civilization.
“He bought me a small can of mace,” I say.
“How romantic.” My sister grabs a pillow, stuffing it behind her head. “Actually, that’s a pretty good idea, now that you’re going out again. Same with getting you a phone. Things have just been so hectic, I hadn’t gotten around to it yet.”
“You’ve done enough already. I need to figure out how to look after myself.”
She doesn’t speak for a moment. “Did he pay for the cell too?”
“No, I did.”
“Hmm.” She sighs. “You would have had to find out about him eventually. Your name is still on the mortgage for the condo you two shared. He owes you half the down payment back.”
“Really? He didn’t mention anything about that to me.”
“It can be hard for people to remember that you don’t remember.”
“True.”
She says nothing for a moment. “So far as I know, he was in the process of getting the paperwork sorted to take your name off the deed, and I think you were giving him time to pay you back the money. But you’d have to ask him what the actual agreement was. It’s what you sank your half of Mom’s life insurance into.”
“So, I’m a homeowner … sort of. Not that I’d be welcome there.” I stare at the TV, letting all of the new information settle inside my head. “I’ve never had anyone look at me with such animosity before. He really doesn’t like me.”
“And how do you feel about that?”
It always makes me smile when she tries to play therapist. Like I haven’t spent a good chunk of my second life around the real thing. “I feel very little regarding him, Frances. Why would I? The guy’s a stranger. And before you ask, no, nothing looked familiar.”
She just nods.
“You should have told me about him.”
“I would have gotten around to it eventually.”
No apology is offered for her lie of omission. For not telling me about Ed. This is why I need new sources of information. My sister can’t be allowed to pick and choose what I know. To try to dictate who I was, or the person I might become.
Whatever her reasons for keeping things from me, it can’t be allowed. We’re family, but sometimes I’m not exactly sure we’re friends.
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