Once Two Sisters

by Sarah Warburton

  “So why call me? Because if we’re caught together now, it’ll look even worse.”

  “In Ava’s study, I found some words: ‘SERE,’ ‘Spiegler,’ ‘MK-ULTRA.’ My parents were working with a James Spiegler on psychological torture techniques.”

  “Your sister was always researching something. She toured a crematorium and read transcripts of interviews with serial killers. That’s not a clue.”

  “Okay. Someone called me in Texas, threatened me. And then knocked on my parents’ door and used my daughter’s voice. That’s when I found Ava’s watch.”

  “And the photo,” he says slowly. “That’s what I want to know. Who took it, who sent it to the news?”

  “So how do we find out?”

  Glenn changes lanes smoothly, and it’s crazy how controlled he is. I would be speeding and weaving, desperate to get ahead. With his sunglasses blocking the top half of his face, I have to watch his mouth for any hint of expression. Now his lips are tense. “I already called someone. I’m waiting to hear back.”

  Right. He probably knows all sorts of secret back channels, stuff the police couldn’t get to. I’m almost grateful the government ate our right to privacy and picked its teeth with our personal freedoms. For once in my life, exposing secrets might work in my favor.

  “So what do we do until we hear from your contact?”

  He doesn’t answer. Mentally I run through our options. There’s no way I want to sit and wait somewhere with Glenn until some mysterious guy I don’t even know finally calls. I can’t go where I really want to be, back to Texas, and I won’t go to my parents, not unless I’m desperate. I want to find Ava or learn more about her, but we can’t show up at her house again, not with the press out in force. There’s only one name I’ve come across that might bring me closer to what she was doing before her disappearance.

  “Let’s find this Spiegler. Maybe Ava talked to him.” She was investigating our parents and their past. That is the only thing I’ve uncovered about my sister, but maybe it’s enough to start.

  Glenn nods. “Address?”

  I borrow his phone to search, since mine is out of data, but the first thing that pops up is an old obituary. James Spiegler is dead. My stomach drops, but I click on the link and read that he’s survived by a son and daughter, both unnamed. What would Ava do next?

  Pulling up a directory, I search for any Spieglers in Virginia, but the nearest one is way south in Mechanicsville and the internet gives his age as sixty-eight. Too old to be James Spiegler’s son. I search again, this time for the District of Columbia. And there’s an address for a Steven Spiegler, age thirty-five. “Georgetown,” I tell Glenn. “I think I found his son.”

  We get on the beltway. The traffic thickens around us as we approach downtown. At least half my friends’ parents worked for the government, just like Glenn does. From the Senate to the Pentagon to Embassy Row, parents from just about every center of power had children in my neighborhood, trading proximity to downtown DC for larger houses, bigger backyards, and the landed-gentry feel of the Northern Virginia suburbs.

  When my friends and I used to go to Georgetown, it was for the trendy little shops or the funky bars. I never met anyone who actually lived there. In my head I imagine Spiegler, young, maybe married but without any kids, maybe a scientist like his father or a psychiatrist like my parents. Georgetown would be a great place to have a home/office combo. All those crazy politicians could see him on their lunch break.

  As we close in on the address, the streets get narrow and crowded. And of course, there’s no parking.

  My stomach tightens. Garages mean security cameras. “There.” I point to a tiny pay lot, really just a few spaces wedged between a building and a dumpster. A guy with a puffy jacket and knit hat stands at the entrance.

  As we pull in and Glenn hands over cash, I fight the urge to sink down in the seat. Police, federal agents, the government, they are all headquartered in DC, surrounding us. I should have run someplace anonymous. Kansas or Alaska or somewhere overseas.

  Once he cuts the engine, Glenn says what I’ve been thinking. “We’re more recognizable together. The last thing we need is to attract attention.”

  One tweet, a single photo, and any suspicion that we’ve been collaborating will be confirmed in public opinion, in the eyes of the police, and most importantly to Andrew. But I’m not staying behind in the car. “You’re waiting for a call. I’ll go talk to Spiegler.”

  I’m braced for Glenn to argue, but he just nods. He probably thinks talking to Spiegler is a waste of time anyway and he’ll be the one to find Ava and save the day, thanks to his secret contact. He says, “Keep your phone out. I’ll text if I hear anything.”

  Walking out of the parking lot, I duck my head, but the attendant doesn’t pay me any attention. Guess I’m not that infamous. Not yet.

  As I round the corner, my body buzzes with adrenaline. Not knowing is scary. A faceless, nameless omnipotence is scary. But in this house is a person. I can deal with a person.

  More than some generic person. Steven Spiegler. A son, about my age, with an academic father. One who used to research torture. So we have that in common. I wonder if he’s closer to his sister than I am to mine.

  The house is a narrow, detached Victorian with whitewashed brickwork and wrought-iron railings framing the steps leading to the front door. Next to it is a brass intercom set into the wall. All I have to do is press the buzzer.

  But I hesitate.

  What will I say? If Spiegler doesn’t recognize me from the news, telling him I’m Ava’s sister will snap it all into context. And although I’ve been lying for three years about who I am, it’s not like I’m some master of disguise.

  Glancing down, I confirm my outfit isn’t business casual but straight-up casual-casual and my shoulder bag in no way resembles a briefcase. I can’t pretend to be anyone official or imposing. I can’t pass for police or a professional reporter. But I need an excuse to ask questions about Spiegler’s father, just like Ava might have done.

  I can feel the bulge of the phone in my hip pocket, but I’m not going to text Glenn for advice. Instead a memory surfaces, triggered by the phone. After dropping Emma at school, I would put on my headphones and take long walks, listening to podcasts. I favored ones about “living your best life,” but Felicia was always trying to get me to listen to true crime. The only podcaster I’ve ever seen in person is that bitch who ambushed me at the hotel. There’s no dress code—a podcaster could look like anyone; that’s the whole point.

  I push the buzzer. All I need to find out is whether he knows anything about his father’s research and if Ava came here to ask any questions.

  No immediate answer, so I buzz again, then bang the heavy door knocker.

  Finally, a faint voice comes through the intercom. “Hello?”

  “Can I speak to you for a few minutes?”

  “No solicitors.” The speaker goes silent.

  “It’s about Spiegler. James Spiegler. Your father?” I don’t think anyone is listening anymore.

  Stepping forward, I bang on the door with a clenched fist, finding some relief for my nerves in the action, the pounding, the pain. “Mr. Spiegler, I have to talk to you.”

  The silence could be rejection, but I hope it’s consideration. Maybe the person on the other side is like me, unable to resist curiosity.

  And then the door swings open. The guy standing there looks younger than thirty-five. He’s wearing those wire-rimmed glasses that look smart or ironic, depending on the rest of the outfit. Given his canvas shoes and the sixties color palette of his burnt-sienna corduroys and the mustard-and-olive paisley shirt he’s rocking, I’m thinking ironic.

  “Steven Spiegler?” Without waiting for an answer, I start lying my ass off. “I represent Behind the Crime, a podcast from the Chasm Network.”

  Bemused, he says, “I thought you had questions about my dad?”

  I’m going to have to tell him some truth, because eve
rything’s happening too quickly for my brain to generate lies. “We’ve been looking into the disappearance of the author Ava Hallett. Did you know she was researching your late father’s work?”

  “That writer, the missing one? No, I had no idea. Why?”

  He doesn’t seem defensive, mostly curious. I don’t think he’s acting guilty, but maybe his nonchalance is all an act. I have to hook him.

  “I’d love to tell you more, but … can I come in so we can really talk?”

  There’s a second, just a flash, where he’s appraising me, and I feel a flutter of danger. Behind the lenses of his glasses, his eyes are sharp, the corners crinkled with something approaching suspicion. But then with a stylized flourish that breaks the tension, he beckons me into a pocket-sized sitting room just off the entryway.

  I perch on a supremely uncomfortable velvet settee, while Spiegler folds himself into a wicker chair facing me.

  What would a real investigator do? I pull out my phone and set it on an ornately carved end table. “It would be best if I could record our conversation. Would you mind?” Although I don’t have any recording apps, Spiegler doesn’t have to know that. And this way I can keep an eye out for any messages from Glenn.

  A smirk plays around Spiegler’s lips, and he pulls out his own phone. “Not at all. In fact, why don’t we both record?”

  Of course I agree. But once these preliminaries are over comes the real test. I have to think of questions, professional questions. Stammering a little, I ask, “So, about your father. What kind of work did he do?”

  “Something for the government, very hush-hush. We weren’t close.”

  “And Ava Hallett, the author, did she contact you about your family?”

  He shakes his head. “Why would she? Do you know something about my father, something a mystery writer would find interesting?” I don’t like him asking me questions. Lying is easier if the other person isn’t already suspicious. Not that Spiegler is calling me on my story, but he’s acting like this entire interview is some kind of game, a joke we’re both in on.

  “Would you mind telling me a little about yourself? Did you grow up in this area?” I need to focus everything I have on the man in front of me. I’m trying to feel the conversation, sense when Spiegler’s about to stop speaking so I can slide a question into each gap to make a gentle bridge to the next answer. It makes it really hard to actually hear what he’s saying—that he did grow up here, but moved to this house a few years ago.

  Stifling the internal panic that insists I’m learning nothing, I ask, “And do you work for the government like your dad?”

  He laughs with a surprised bark. “God, no. I do system designs and integration.”

  I must look as lost as I feel, because he adds, “First I figure out what a company needs, then I design a custom computer program and make it work with any systems they already have.”

  I should be in the flow, letting the conversation unfold, but I can’t shake how icky this makes me feel, trying to draw him out while hiding who I really am. And then I realize exactly why this feels so awful. It’s like my first date with Andrew. Creating a false history was easy on the dating app, but not in person. When I sat opposite him over sliders and microbrews on a patio, the fading sunlight fell on his face like a sign from heaven. I couldn’t lie, so I had to encourage him to do all the talking. Just like now.

  And I can’t stand it. There’s only so long you can keep a foot on the neck of your true self before it breaks free. I ask point-blank, “Did you know your father was studying torture?”

  Spiegler stiffens for a mere blink, then laughs. “You’re kidding? My father? That’s the most interesting thing anyone’s ever said about him. Is that what the mystery writer was into?”

  “Maybe.” Any minute now he might kick me out, and there won’t be a thing I can do. “Do you know anything about her? The writer, I mean. Anything at all?”

  He wrinkles his forehead, his eyes still amused, like he’s doing a bad impression of a person thinking. “Never read anything by her. I’ve seen a couple of the movies, I think. When I’m working or traveling, I usually have something playing in the background. This whole disappearance … it’s just crazy.”

  His phone vibrates with an incoming call, and both of us look at it. Spiegler reaches out to pick it up, but before he does, I can see the number on the screen. Glenn’s number. Shit.

  I grab my own, like maybe it’s a mistake, maybe Glenn’s trying to warn me. But it’s just an inert lump in my hand. Glenn’s calling Spiegler, and I don’t know why, but it can’t be good. Every instinct tells me to run before I’m busted. I’m already on my feet when I ask, “If you had to guess, what do you think happened to her?”

  Spiegler holds the phone in his hand, watching the call go to voice mail. Without raising his head, he says, “At first I thought it was a publicity thing. On the news they said something about Agatha Christie having a lost weekend. But if not …”

  He looks at me and grins. “Well, isn’t it always the husband?”

  * * *

  I come out of Spiegler’s house at a run, and I’m breathless by the time I reach the parking lot.

  Glenn is pacing beside the car, and he starts talking when I’m still a few yards away. “I got the number, but I don’t have a name.”

  “You called Spiegler.” Between my panic and the sprinting, I don’t have the oxygen to say more.

  “What?” He’s staring at me, and his gaze isn’t just uncomprehending, it’s impatient. Because if he doesn’t understand, it’s definitely my fault.

  “The number you called, it’s Spiegler. I saw your number come up. You called twice just now.”

  “That was the number that texted our photo to the news. The number my contact gave me.”

  “Spiegler? Spiegler did that?”

  “You were talking to him. What did he say?”

  “Nothing.” Nothing that matters. Nothing that could help us find Ava.

  “But you asked him about the picture? You confronted him?”

  I shake my head. “I didn’t know that’s why you were calling him.”

  “Why did you think I was calling? I would have told you if I knew him. Come on.”

  And Glenn’s striding back to Spiegler’s house.

  “Wait!” I scramble to catch up, but he’s already rounded the corner. By the time I can see him again, he’s banging on Spiegler’s front door.

  “Open up!” He puts his thumb on the intercom speaker and mashes it down. “Open the damn door.” Then he grips the handle and shakes it.

  Spiegler would have to be dumber than I think he is to come out now. There has to be a better way. The street is lined with houses full of listening neighbors. Even the parking lot attendant can probably hear the din. It’s only a matter of time before someone calls the police.

  But even as my mind is telling me our time is running out, my blood is running hot. Spiegler is the one who sent that picture. He’s the reason Andrew left. And I was in the same room with him. I could have confronted him, found out why he did it and what he knows about Ava. Stupid. Why didn’t I put it together faster?

  Instead of hitting the door or shouting for Spiegler, I turn and punch Glenn in the arm. “Glenn, stop it!”

  “What?” he hisses, wheeling around so fiercely that despite myself, I fall back a step.

  “Calm down. People are going to call the police.”

  “Good idea.” He mashes down the intercom button again and shouts, “Do you hear that, you prick? I’m calling the cops.”

  Without waiting for an answer, he pulls his phone out, but I knock it out of his hand. “Are you crazy? You think they’ll believe us?”

  Glenn swears and bends to retrieve his phone. I’m not hanging around to be scooped up by the cops, especially not with this asshole. Andrew doesn’t need any more reasons to doubt me.

  But Glenn is right behind me, grabbing my shoulder and yanking me backward. I stagger, trying to keep my foo
ting. His hand feels like iron and he spins me around, gripping me by both shoulders. Then he shakes me. I can’t breathe, I can’t focus, I can’t break free. The world narrows around me, until he lets go and I run.

  The only thing that matters is moving, getting off this street. Now I remember all the bad parts of being with Glenn. Not just the horrid mix of guilt and spite I felt whenever Ava crossed my mind, but the way the qualities that seemed sexy—decisive, strong, intense—so easily turned dark. Bossy, aggressive, moody. Everything Andrew would never be.

  When I hear Glenn behind me, I speed up, but I’m not fast enough. He catches up to me, but before I can scream, he passes me. As we enter the parking lot, I’m practically chasing him.

  The lot attendant in his puffy jacket watches us with an impassive face. Maybe he thinks this is some kind of lovers’ spat. Maybe he thinks Glenn was making a ruckus out of jealousy. Or maybe he’s already called the cops, he’s got our license plate number, and he figures his job is done.

  Glenn unlocks the car, but he doesn’t get in. He wheels around, his face still contorted with fury. “What’s the matter with you? The guy was right there and you did nothing!”

  “I didn’t know—”

  “Don’t you want to find her? We need to report this guy.”

  “Stop!” This time I push him hard, right in the chest. He doesn’t budge. “We don’t know anything.”

  “We know Ava was researching the stuff your parents worked on with Spiegler’s father.”

  “And?” I ask. He’s too close, too loud, but even a step back might look like fear. And I’m not afraid of Glenn. Not now. I need to keep him from calling the police, to make him think.

  “And he sent the picture of us to the news.”

  “But why?” I insist. “Why would this guy care about Ava?”

  “I don’t know. His father was studying torture and he wants to keep it secret? No.” Glenn shakes his head and slumps. “His dad is dead. And that’s on the internet anyway. Maybe he’s a deranged fan? She gets crazy letters sometimes. The publisher doesn’t forward all of them.”