A small part of my brain issues one command after another: run, shout, demand answers, plead. But I am chilled and weary and afraid. And the futility of that small rebellious voice would bring tears to my eyes if there were a drop of moisture left in me.
“Poor thing.” The woman studies me dispassionately. “You look dead on your feet.” There is the strangest disconnect between her tone and the words she is saying. My brain struggles to reconcile them as my body struggles to stay standing. Then she says, “Okay now, let’s move.”
When I only stand there, swaying, she pokes me with the prod, and I flinch away before I realize she hasn’t armed it. Not yet.
“That’s it.” Again the encouraging words are delivered flatly, and she looks at me as if the prod isn’t long enough. “Zeus, fuss.”
The dog comes to her, a handbreadth from her knee, and the two of them move in unison around me. Then the woman pokes me in the back. “Keep walking. I’ll tell you where to go.”
A whirligig of fear spirals in my stomach, and I resist walking toward what could very well be my own death. But no. All she had to do to kill me was leave me out here alone, and starvation or dehydration would have done the job. I try to speak, to ask what she wants, but my dry throat fails and I produce only a rough cough.
“Zeus, brummen,” she says, and the dog starts a low, rumbling growl.
Painfully, I force out the words, “What do you want?”
In answer Zeus growls louder, no longer a rumble but a revving engine, as if he is building to action. Another brisk command—“Ruhig”—and the sound stops abruptly. This dog is so big, so well trained, like a hundred-pound extension of the woman’s body.
I don’t have the strength to do anything except walk.
Without another challenge, I let the woman and her wolf-dog force me through the forest. Perhaps I don’t have much of a choice, but I choose to allow this.
Moving takes all my energy, so I couldn’t argue or fight with her even if I dared. But my mind is churning, trying to solve this puzzle. She knows my name, and the mere thought makes me stumble against a tree trunk. My hand is already scraped up, and it stings.
She says, “Careful,” but I can tell she doesn’t mean it. She just wants me to keep moving forward.
I go as slowly as I dare, picking my way across the slippery mix of moss and pine needles and fallen leaves. The pain has cleared my mind like a jolt of caffeine, and I pluck the most likely story from the swirling possibilities. Money. If Glenn pays, or my parents, I can go home. If money can solve this, I’ll pay anything, do anything, sign any papers, sell any assets, even spin straw into gold.
But panic pinwheels faster and faster in my gut.
My brain isn’t interested in false comfort or fantasy. This woman striding through the forest with her gray wolf-dog isn’t making any effort to disguise herself, and she hasn’t covered her face with a mask. Maybe she hasn’t hurt me, maybe she doesn’t want me dead, but she’s not afraid I’ll identify her.
Like a bird in a snare, I’m trapped, and she doesn’t intend to let me go.
CHAPTER
8
ZOE
I’M A SLOW reader, and I’m only a fourth of the way into Bloody Heart, Wild Woods when we land at Baltimore/Washington International airport. As I pull my carry-on from the overhead compartment, an idea hits me. International. I could walk up to any ticket counter and be gone.
Despite the people streaming off the Jetway and veering around me, I stand still and look up at the arrival and departure boards.
In less than an hour, I could be on a plane to London or Prague or Mexico City. If I had a valid passport. But Los Angeles and Anchorage and Honolulu are still options. I could fly away from all the shame about lying, all the fear about being framed, and all my mixed-up feelings about Ava. That’s what I want, so badly. To slough off Zoe and go where I can’t be found.
I would leave, if I didn’t have Andrew and Emma wrapped around my heart. Wherever I flee, I’ll bring my love and longing for them with me. Houston, that’s the only place I want to go. Home.
I won’t be here long. I’ll tell these new detectives the same thing I told Detective Valdez. And if there’s any doubt, I’ll hang out just long enough for Ava to get tired of this stupid game. If she isn’t back in a week, swear to God I’ll find her myself.
Some asshole wheels his stacked bags—a bulky carry-on topped with a laptop bag and a rolled coat—right over my foot. I yelp, but he doesn’t even turn around. My own suitcase isn’t heavy enough to bother pulling the handle out. Maybe I’m tempting fate, but I hope I won’t be staying long enough to need a bigger suitcase. I’m traveling light. At least when it comes to luggage.
Then I see an older man in a suit jacket with a gun on his hip watching me, and I recognize him as the detective who’s been sent to meet me. Despite how chill and trusting Detective Valdez seemed, she escorted me all the way to my departure gate. Now her counterpart is here at Arrivals to pick me up. Andrew might know Sheriff Bob, I might have a sort-of alibi, but that just meant I got to fly alone. It doesn’t mean I have an opportunity to flee.
This policeman has gray patches at his temples and the kind of crow’s-feet that come from smiling. He looks like someone’s grandfather. As he raises his hand in a wave to me, I see a well-worn wedding ring on his finger.
“Zoe Hallett?” he asks, as I bow to the inevitable and approach him.
I nod, and he holds his hand out to shake mine.
“Detective Davies. Any luggage?”
“Just a carry-on and a personal item.” I heft my trim black suitcase to illustrate, like I’m trying to prove that every word I say is true. Ava’s book makes my shoulder bag feel heavier than usual.
“I’ll be taking you to the station. We’ll go over your story again on this end.” He motions for me to follow him and we make our way through the airport, his gait somehow a casual stride that moves quickly.
I’m hustling to keep up. I don’t want this man to think I’m afraid or to know how angry I am with Ava. At this point, I can almost believe her disappearance is simply some publicity stunt and those emails and calls were just Ava dragging me into her drama. Trying to conceal my breathlessness, I ask, “Has there been any news?”
He doesn’t turn his head to look at me. “Nothing new.”
I don’t know if this is the truth or if that’s all he can say to someone who may be a suspect. I asked about my sister, didn’t I? That’s what an innocent person would do. And I am innocent … of Ava’s disappearance, anyway.
Detective Davies loosens up a little as we approach the exit. Maybe he’s also relieved to be leaving the noise and chaos behind. Maybe he wants me to relax. “I’m not sure you’re going to be warm enough in that little jacket. It’s gotten cool early here. What’s the weather like down there in Texas?”
“Hot,” I tell him. “Sometimes it’s eighty degrees, even in January.” I’m not going to relax, but he doesn’t need to know that.
He’s left his car right in the loading/unloading passenger lane. A perk of law enforcement. It’s not a cop car with a cage in the back, and the detective holds the front passenger door open for me. “Well, if you get cold on the ride over, I might have an extra sweat shirt in back. Throw your suitcase there too. After we finish at the station, you can always pick something else up. You’ll be going home with your folks?”
“I guess so.” Actually, my parents and I haven’t discussed it. After I went to college, my parents moved into an elegant townhouse in the historic district. That place is not my home. My mother and father have never known how to make one, and the thought of staying with them makes me feel small and uncertain.
I slide into the front seat and keep my shoulder bag by my feet. Detective Davies shuts the door, and as he walks around the car, I think he must be a very, very good detective. I’ve known him for ten minutes, and he’s managed to make me feel like he’s on my side. But I’m not an idiot. I know his “Let me
take care of you, little lady” routine could all be a calculated act.
He gets behind the wheel, and we pull away from the airport. We maneuver past the tangle of traffic quickly, too quickly, and approach downtown Arlington. I am afraid to reach the police station, but at the same time I wish we were there and it were all over. Waiting is almost as bad as fear.
I clench the strap of my shoulder bag like a tether to Texas. This is the bag I bring with me when playgroup goes to the zoo or when Andrew, Emma, and I take a family trip to the ice cream factory in Brenham. It holds up to four library books, plenty of snacks, and a change of clothes for Emma. Now it has my wallet, a cardigan, and Ava’s novel. And probably some leftover ziplock bags of stale cereal.
But it holds nothing that can slow the inevitable. Detective Davies has put on the turn signal to bring us into the parking lot of a municipal building.
We are at the police station, closer to my parents than I have been in three full years. Driving straight past the crowded rows of parked cars, Detective Davies pulls around the side of the building and parallel-parks the car, quickly and efficiently, between two identical sedans lined up by the concrete wall of the building.
“Have enough room to get out?” he asks.
I really want to run, but Detective Davies has shut the driver’s side door and is taking my suitcase out of the trunk. My door is bounded by the municipal building. And I have nowhere to go. There’s at least a foot and a half of space, so my door opens. I squeeze out and drag my shoulder bag after me.
Carrying my suitcase instead of rolling it, Detective Davies leads the way to a squat building, boxy and blank. Just like at the Fort Bend County Sheriff’s Office, the lobby has echoes of a waiting room, with chairs and magazines and an officer at the front desk behind glass.
This time we walk right past to the security door. Detective Davies offers the woman at the desk a cursory nod and waves his ID badge across the electronic lock. He holds the door open and waves me through. On the other side, he sets the suitcase down. “Remember to pick this up on your way out,” he tells me.
I guess he doesn’t intend to book and jail me yet, anyway.
Everything is glossy white, a nightmare corridor of doors. Anything could be behind them—a murder board with pictures of Ava’s dead body, an interrogation room where I’ll be handcuffed and dragged off to jail. And when Detective Davies opens the first door on the right, the nightmare is real. Because the three people getting to their feet are my mother, father, and my brother-in-law, Glenn.
I bump into Detective Davies and realize I’ve taken a step back. His hand lands on my shoulder, and I am steered through the door and into the room.
This isn’t an interrogation room, it’s more like a conference room. In addition to the table, big enough to seat eight, there are cushioned office chairs, and the walls are lined with cabinets all shut tight. I don’t want to look at the people in here with me.
“Let’s have a seat,” Detective Davies says. “We have a few things we’d like you all to know, before we ask Zoe some questions separately.”
Nobody sits down. My parents are side by side, holding on to the backs of the chairs in front of them. Glenn is coming toward us, his fists balled. He is still handsome, so handsome, like an action figure, all sharp, defined edges. But now his muscles aren’t sexy; they’re scary. He’s a big guy, way more built than Andrew, and he’s angry at me with all the force I once mistook for love.
“Ask your questions right now,” he insists through clenched teeth. “She’s obviously behind this.”
My heart hurts like he’s punched me in the chest. “Excuse me? I’ve been living my own life. You’re her husband. You probably did it. I haven’t even seen Ava for three years.”
“Whose fault is that?” Glenn’s looking at me with real hatred, something I’ve never seen on his face before, and it feels like I’m being sliced open.
My mouth was snapping out retorts, but my feelings have finally caught up with me, and I turn my back on him. I imagined our reunion so many times—him apologizing, desperately explaining, coming back to me. Never this. I can’t let him see how I care.
I turn toward my parents, their faces perfectly composed, ignoring all my drama. There’s no help here. I’m drowning all by myself.
Expressionless, my mother says, “You must feel overwhelmed. Do you need to sit down?”
My parents never have to worry that their faces will betray an emotion, as they clinically identify “anger” or “grief.” Now that I’m taking care of Emma, I use those techniques when she’s having a tantrum. I mirror her distress, affirm it, and distance myself from it. Because it’s never about the cookie she can’t have or the juice that spilled. The problem is too big for her to articulate. The problem is being a small, powerless thing in a world full of rules you didn’t make and don’t understand.
I feel like Emma now, like everyone is trying to blame me or pry me open or get me to confess and I don’t know what is going on or what the rules are. Like one of those dreams where everyone has been talking about you behind your back, except that in this case, they really have.
At the risk of seeming defeated, I do sit down in the chair Detective Davies has pulled out for me. He sits down right next to me. His techniques are transparent. We’re the only two people seated, right next to each other, on the same side of the table. But I’m not stupid. He’s not really on my side.
Ignoring everyone else, he looks at me. “Let me bring you up to speed. We’re monitoring the phone lines and Ava’s email, as well as going through all the correspondence she has received in the last few weeks.”
Email. Heat rises inside me. Did Detective Valdez tell him my email was hacked? Do my parents know? Does Glenn? The vicious words—words I didn’t write, but ones I could have. I have been that angry at Ava; I have wished her dead and gone.
As if he can see everything inside me, Glenn says, “This is a waste of time. We know Zoe was involved.”
“I wasn’t!” I protest, but there’s no point. Whatever he felt for me once has soured, and I feel that acid pain inside my own gut. Maybe the only way he can justify our affair is to blame it all on me. I have to ignore him. I don’t want anyone to see how much his words hurt, and not just because it might make me look even guiltier. Beside me, Detective Davies is watching, taking everything in. He’s a little closer to me than I find comfortable, but I don’t think I can scoot away without looking defensive.
I ask him, “What really happened? I only know what I heard on the news.”
Mom sinks into a chair opposite me. There’s a box of tissues on the table near her, but I know she won’t need one. “We must have been on the phone with Ava just before it happened,” Mom says. “She called and sounded quite distressed that we didn’t have time to talk. Your father and I were trying to get out the door to the annual JJJ Gala.”
My mother’s eyes are a deep, vivid blue, the same color as Ava’s, with a darker ring around the iris. Her reading glasses hang from a slim gold chain around her neck. She still wears her hair in a swingy bob, the same silvered gray it’s been as long as I can remember.
“What did Ava want to talk about?” I search her face for a sign that three years have passed since we’ve seen each other, but my mother is ageless. She looks exactly the same.
She reaches across the table and captures my hands, holding them as if she’s trying to warm me. From someone else, this gesture would be comforting, but this is my mother. I can’t tell whether she believes I’m innocent or is just trying to establish “rapport.” Not something you need to do if you really have a relationship.
“I’m afraid I wasn’t giving her my full attention. Something about research for her book. I told her we’d talk later.”
Dad remains standing, one hand resting on the back of her chair. His glasses and tweed sport coat give him a professorial air. I can see more lines than I remember around his eyes and mouth, and there is a slight added weight to his jo
wls, as if his thin face is giving in to gravity. I know that by standing silently above us, he’s trying to establish dominance. Glenn’s hypermasculinity, his shouts and threats, are amateur compared to my father’s glacial control.
I risk a glance at Glenn. His face is impassive, he’s rigid, and his fists are clenched by his sides. I’m pierced again by the loss of our time together, the softness of the rumpled bedsheets, the smooth bulk of his muscled arms and the tender places behind his ear and on his throat that I loved to kiss. “Where were you?” I ask him, more softly than I mean to.
He leans over the table, slapping his hands down with a sound that shoots right through me. “I was at a conference. My flight got in the next morning, and when I got home, the front door was open, the phone was on the floor, and Ava was gone. But you know that, don’t you? You crazy jealous freak!”
I’m out of my chair now, shaking off my mother’s hands, trying to get away from the hate in Glenn’s eyes. My father puts a hand on his shoulder in one of those beautiful gestures that’s both a comfort and a restraint. “Now Glenn, let’s give the detective a chance to talk.”
“Yes, well.” Detective Davies clears his throat. I can’t see his face. Why did he let Glenn shout at me? “We’re waiting for confirmation from Houston, but right now it’s not clear in what way, if at all, Zoe was involved.”
“I wasn’t!” He knows that. “I was in Texas. I had nothing to do with it.”
As I tense up, my mother’s hands tighten around each other on the table, and I remember the last time we were together. There is a reason my parents and even Glenn might think I planned my sister’s disappearance. In fact, there is a reason they might fear I have even planned her death. A chill spreads through me. Even though I didn’t do this, maybe I do deserve the blame.
“Okay, everyone. I think Zoe and I need a few minutes to ourselves,” Detective Davies announces. “Please return to the waiting area, and we’ll meet you back out there when we’re done.”
Glenn storms out, clearly angry he isn’t allowed to beat the answers out of me. My mom reaches out like she’s going to grab my hand again, and I flinch. She shakes her head, and I can almost hear her thinking typical Zoe as she stands and smooths the wrinkles from her skirt.
Once Two Sisters Page 6