Once Two Sisters

by Sarah Warburton

  “We’ll be right outside, sweetie,” my father says, and I wonder if the endearment feels as strange in his mouth as it sounds to my ears. It’s almost a relief when they are all finally gone and I am alone with Detective Davies.

  He is lean, with cheeks that are nearly hollow and angular cheekbones. One eye is slightly narrower than the other, and his chin juts just a little to the opposite side. My immediate fate rests in the hands of this man, and those strange eyes make it impossible to tell what he thinks about me.

  “Before we get started, I need you to know we’re recording this session.” He doesn’t set anything on the table, and I scan the room. There. On one of the shelves opposite me, above a double-doored cabinet that clearly holds something with a screen, there’s a black box with a light. I had thought it was a wireless router or something, but it must be the camera. It wasn’t an accident that we’re seated on this side of the table, facing it. I need to remember: just because this isn’t an obvious interrogation room doesn’t mean this isn’t an interrogation.

  My heart starts beating double time. “Are you going to read me my rights?”

  “I don’t think that will be necessary.” He smiles, but I see warmth in only one eye. The other still squints in permanent disbelief. “I read the statement you gave Detective Valdez, and we have corroboration from a few other sources.”

  Who? Felicia and Bethany and I texted and spoke on the phone. Maybe Emma’s pediatrician. I call that office every time she has a fever, just to hear them tell me it will be okay. Or maybe the detective has heard back from the airlines. But I could have taken a smaller, private plane from the Sugar Land airport. I didn’t, but he doesn’t know that. I should be relieved that he seems to believe me, but now I doubt his competence … or his sincerity.

  “Okay,” I tell him. “Record me.”

  “Thank you,” he says gravely, and I know the recording has been going on this whole time, through Glenn’s accusations and my denials. But he continues the charade by looking up at the black recorder and saying, “Interview with Zoe Hallett. October thirteenth.”

  “McPhee,” I correct him. “I’m married.”

  “Right. Elizabeth McPhee.” I know he thinks changing my name was just magical thinking. You can’t change who you really are. Screw you for humoring me I think back at him.

  He continues. “The time is five thirty and we are in Conference Room B. Zoe, will you state for the record that you are chatting with me of your own free will and are not under any coercion?”

  “That’s right.” But I am coerced. If I refuse or balk at any point, I’ll look guilty. Surely he knows this, which makes everything we are doing feel like playacting. I am acutely aware of his eyes on me, and of the camera, which could be showing this scene in real time to anyone. My face feels as hot as if there were an interrogation lamp overhead.

  “Will you tell me, in your own words, where you were and what you were doing on Saturday the eighth and Sunday the ninth?”

  I tell him everything I told Detective Valdez, in even greater detail. I don’t know if it gives my story added credibility or makes it sound like total fiction.

  If I were planning an alibi, I wouldn’t have come up with this one. When Emma is sick, she wants to cuddle, heavy and sweaty against me. We watch television, shows in bright primary colors with simple songs. We both suck on hydrating push pops full of electrolytes. We don’t leave the house. No receipts, no eyewitnesses, nothing to prove where I was or what I was doing. I wish I were there again, and time could thicken to hold us together.

  Detective Davies blurs, and I realize there are tears in my eyes. Maybe, if I am lucky, he will think they are for Ava.

  Without comment, he slides the box of tissues closer to me. “That corresponds to the statement you gave in Sugar Land. Now I have some follow-up questions, and it’s crucial that you answer me truthfully. Do you understand?”

  I reach for a tissue to dab my eyes, but my heart is hammering. “Okay.”

  “When is the last time you saw Glenn Melcher?”

  “Three years ago.”

  “More specific, please.”

  “August, three years ago.”

  “Have you had any contact with him since that time?”

  “No.”

  “Please describe your relationship.”

  “He’s my brother-in-law. I haven’t seen him for three years.”

  “And prior to that period?”

  I don’t want to say it out loud in this room to this man. It will be documented. A matter of record. My hands clench the edge of the table, but then I remember everyone will see this and I force them down into my lap. “Prior to that period, we … dated.”

  “You were romantically involved?”

  “Yes.”

  “What brought your relationship to an end?”

  “He left.”

  “Do you know why?”

  “No.” I don’t want to say anything else. I know all of this can be used against me.

  “Did anything unusual happen in the week preceding the last time you and Glenn saw each other?”

  Ava happened. Ava always happened. Under the edge of the table my hands are clenching again, my nails digging into my palms. “My sister published a book dedicated to him.”

  “What was their relationship at the time?”

  “Nothing. They weren’t dating. They had broken up.” At least that’s what I had believed. And then she reached out and took him back.

  “That must have been upsetting.”

  I shrug. He’s looking for a reaction, and I can feel it building inside me. The same fury that throws chairs and flips tables. If I had anything in my hand, I would hurl it at the camera. Instead, all this anger is vented on myself. My nails have drawn blood, and I twist my fingers against each other.

  “How long after that did they get married?”

  I will not move a muscle of my face. I will keep my voice soft and even. “A couple months.” Three. Three months.

  “Did you read her book?”

  “No.” My answer must be more forceful that I intended, because he raises an eyebrow and that squinty eye on the other side almost closes. “No,” I say more gently. “I don’t really care for thrillers.” At this I remember the copy of Bloody Heart, Wild Woods in my shoulder bag, and my face grows hot again. Do I look guilty or like a bitchy younger sister?

  “How would you describe your relationship with Ava?”

  “Distant.”

  “Because of Glenn?”

  I’ve been holding my breath, and a huge sigh finally breaks forth. “God, no. Glenn was just a symptom.”

  Detective Davies tilts his head to one side, as if his skeptical eye is heavier than the other. “Then why?”

  “We don’t have much in common.”

  “Would you say you have an adversarial relationship with her?”

  “No, not necessarily.” Did my parents tell him that? Did Glenn?

  He slides a few sheets of paper across the table to me. At a glance, I see the hateful emails. “Did you write these?”

  This is just a test. “No. Like I told the other detective, I haven’t used that email address in years. I don’t even remember the last time I emailed Ava. Maybe never.” And then I can’t help myself. I ask, “Did you show these to my parents?” Did he show them to Glenn?

  He purses his lips and shakes his head. What does that mean? I can’t tell if he believes me or not. He folds the papers in half, and I am suddenly sure he knows more than he is telling me. He taps them with a finger and asks, “Do you know anything about Ava’s disappearance? Or about her movements and activities over the last few days?”

  “No. My sister and I haven’t spoken in over three years.”

  “Any other contact?”

  “No.” I put all the sincerity I can muster into the words. “No calls, no emails, no postcards, nothing. I haven’t seen, spoken, or heard from her in all that time.”

  “But you didn’t have a
bad relationship?”

  I push my chair away from the table and cross my arms.

  “We didn’t have a relationship at all.”

  CHAPTER

  9

  AVA

  AS THE STRANGE woman and her dog herd me through the woods, I keep my head down, enduring rather than marking time as it passes—an hour or two, maybe more. Then one by one, gray and white-flecked stones appear in the thin grass and mossy earth. A few steps farther and the forest floor gives way to gravel with the occasional scrubby plant poking through it. I am so tired I could fall asleep on those sharp-edged stones, but I look up.

  We are approaching a wood cabin, not the kind where hunters rough it or a cunning little cabin for dwarves, but instead the luxe contemporary kind Oprah would use for a weekend away. The rich brown beams of the walls are glossy and the windows are spotless. I can almost feel the soft thickness of the beds and the soapy heat of a shower.

  I veer toward this sanctuary, but the woman gives me a hard rap on my hip. “Not yet. Stay to the left.”

  At the side of the house stands a small shed, metal like a shipping container, and I can’t help it. My feet stop moving. It’s smaller than the back of the van. I will not be confined, helpless, in another box.

  Behind me, Zeus growls again, low and steady.

  “I can’t.” My scratchy voice sounds weak.

  “You will.” The woman gives me another solid poke with the goad, but my muscles are locked and frozen.

  This isn’t a child’s playhouse, a cute plastic cabin with little windows or even a rickety pile of sticks that might let some light in through the cracks. This metal box with a padlock on the door might serve as an innocuous place to dump lawn equipment, but to my eyes it’s an oversized coffin, a little too big to bury.

  I don’t have enough strength to argue with myself, to explain that the poking stick could become an electrified bolt of pain, that the growling dog could bite and rip. I am deeply, viscerally opposed to going in that shed. My body is delivering an unequivocal refusal that my mind cannot override.

  The shock of the cattle prod steals all thought and breath. The world is bright, harsh pain. Then it is gone and my muscles spasm. I stagger forward, shaking on limbs I can barely control, until I’m right in front of the shed.

  I balk again, turning to scramble away, but Zeus’s jaws clamp around my arm. His teeth don’t break the skin, but his grip is inexorable, unyielding.

  The woman steps over me and unlocks the padlock. She swings the metal door open. “Fass,” she says, and he gives me a firm shake. “He will release you and you will go through the door.” Her voice is calm. “If you do not, I will have him attack. Do you understand?”

  She keeps looking at me until I nod; then she says, “Aus.”

  Zeus does release my arm, slick and bruised. Shaking, I wipe it off. “What do you want?” I ask.

  “You’re wasting time.” She wants me to go into the shed. That is the only thing she wants right now.

  So I stumble over the threshold.

  The door closes behind me, and there is total darkness. When I close my eyes, I can picture the afterimage of the interior—empty, metal, small—and stretching out my hands, I can touch each of the four walls without moving my feet.

  There has to be a way out. Methodically, tamping down my rising hysteria, I turn to one side and then another, patting and pressing each wall, searching for anything, a gap, a weakness, but find none. When I follow the wall down to the seam where it meets the floor, I collapse, wrapping my arms around my knees. My body shakes and I can’t control it. I can’t control any of this.

  No light. No air. No space. I try to force my rapid breathing to slow down. Tiny muscles in my body are still spasming. I groveled. I pleaded and cried in front of that woman, that stranger. This is not who I am.

  I have never known fear like this, fear that could make me break. It fell out that the woman was captured by a wicked witch and she thought that all was lost. But it wasn’t; the story never ends this way. Every fairy tale starts with a person who undergoes trials and struggles, before reaching a triumphant conclusion where virtue is rewarded and evil punished. Without her dog and her weapon, that woman won’t have any power over me. Right now I may be weak and scared, but I’m remembering how it feels to be angry. That will be the thing that saves me.

  I close my eyes and focus. Breathe in. Breathe out.

  Time passes, and I spend it huddled up, conserving my waning strength. My body is weak, but I feel my mind getting sharper. I am an ascetic, fasting in the desert, waiting for a vision. First I will determine who this woman is and what she wants; then I will figure out my escape.

  When the door finally opens, I’m not prepared. It’s painfully, blindingly bright. Before I can recover and hurl myself forward, something has been dropped inside and the light is gone again. The lock snaps shut.

  I grope along the floor and discover a rectangular shape in a wrapper. Food.

  Against the wall I find a smooth plastic bottle. Almost frantically I unscrew the top, a distant part of my mind registering the comforting snap of the plastic seal being broken. I gulp the water down, feeling it slosh in my empty stomach, until the last drop is gone.

  There isn’t enough—I should have saved some, made it last. I am beyond hungry, but eating whatever is in this packet will make me thirsty again. I have made a mistake. These people have made me so stupid.

  I turn the bar over and over in my hands, considering. The water has cleared my head enough for me to start forming a narrative. First, food and water mean this woman isn’t going to kill me yet. Second, she knows my name, so this is not a random crime. But finally, she’s a stranger, and I have to believe she’s working with someone else, someone closer to me.

  One of the worst things about being a writer is looking at your life like a story. If this were a story and a rich woman had been kidnapped, I’d think the husband had done it. Everyone would. My cheating first husband Beckett could be taken as proof that I’m not good at reading men. But Glenn knows I would give him a divorce the second he asked for one, because I wouldn’t want him if he didn’t want me.

  Plus, my cold inner voice adds, surely there are easier ways to get rid of me. My heart twists. I love Glenn more than I let myself believe, and I long to curl back into a ball of self-pity, but I refuse and stamp those feelings of weakness down hard. There’s productive thinking and then there’s obsessive thought, and I choose the former.

  Now I’m composing a plan for survival. There’s nowhere to hide my bar of food, but I am going to save it. If there is more water, I’ll eat the bar before I drink anything. And I promise myself I will save some water too. The empty bottle and the bar go beside me, so I can grab them.

  The next time that door opens, I am going through it.

  Time passes. Minutes or hours. The darkness makes it all the same. Asleep is the same as awake. My mind throws out images like a projector on a screen: Glenn backlit by the sun. The window over my own desk. Even the cover of my last book with its glossy green leaves. And Zoe facing me in a frame of jagged glass shards.

  The last time I saw Zoe, she hated me, and I have a scar on my forehead as proof. Maybe I deserved it. Maybe I even deserve this.

  The darkness is everything. I blink to make sure my eyes are still open. Now my stomach twists with hunger. I grope for the bar and pull back the paper. The first bite overwhelms me. The darkness is full of sounds, gulping and tearing. Clutching the torn wrapper, I bow my head. I have nothing. No reserves. An empty water bottle and an empty food wrapper. I am failing.

  Zoe probably still hates me. I can imagine a scenario where she wanted me afraid and weak, but not one where she methodically planned all the details of a kidnapping. This plan isn’t like her; any plan is not like her. Zoe is all impulse and attack. And it’s been three years since we’ve seen each other, three years she’s been living in Texas. Of course I found her; I’m the queen of research. If she were the o
ne who’d gone missing, I could have found her. After all, she wasn’t in any trouble at all and I tracked her down. I could have rescued her, even if she didn’t deserve it, but now I’m the one who’s been taken, and even if she wanted to find me, she isn’t equipped. It’s just not who she is.

  I drift in and out, my dreams and thoughts all mixed up. I am conserving my strength. I have no strength.

  When there’s a noise, the door banging open, I’m not prepared and I don’t run. Instead someone stands, silhouetted in the door; then it is slammed shut. Now we are together in this too-small space.

  A blow to my cheek. Pain lighting up the dark. An elbow in my side. My nails against skin. We are battling against nothing. Against each other.

  Panic makes me flail and punch. He is fighting too. He is bigger than me. I slam against a wall.

  “Stop!” My throat hurts. “Stop!”

  And he does. We are still too close. I can smell sweat and something else, something I remember on a visceral level. “Who are you?”

  “Who are you?” he asks. “What do you want?”

  Maybe this is a crazy trick—someone put in my cell to gain my trust, someone to use as leverage, someone to tell all my secrets to—but nobody’s even asked me any questions.

  I press myself into a corner. “Sit down.”

  But he is still standing. “I’ll sit down if you sit down.”

  “Who are you?”

  “Who are you?” he asks again, more desperately.

  We are both here, two of us, locked in this tiny space, and there’s something about him, something so familiar. I have nothing to lose by telling the truth. “Ava.”

  Then he reaches out and finds my shoulder. “Ava?”

  And I recognize this man.

  My first husband. Beckett.

  CHAPTER