Once Two Sisters

by Sarah Warburton

  “Maybe they were having an affair.” Hearing the words makes me flinch, and I can’t believe I said them. After our time together, he must have wondered if Ava fully forgave him, if she’d ever try to get even. I thought I’d left all this spite behind, but Glenn brings out the worst in me.

  His mouth twists. “Bitch.” Turning away, he wrenches the car door open. I’m still standing, frozen by my own callousness, as he slides into the driver’s seat. “Get in.”

  I’m so relieved he’s not ditching me that I don’t care when he adds, “I’m not getting caught here with you.”

  CHAPTER

  27

  ZOE

  I CAN TELL HOW angry Glenn is when he, the world’s most careful driver, peels rubber out of the parking lot. There’s only one place we can go now, and it’s scarcely preferable to the cops. My parents’ house.

  They’re our only other lead. Ava was investigating their research. They worked with the father of the man who sent our picture to the police. And the article they wrote together was about SERE, the same word I found pinned up in Ava’s study. The best way to learn if there’s a connection is to interview my parents. Or we could just beat our heads against a brick wall. Ultimately, that might be as profitable and hurt less.

  As we pull onto the Key Bridge, heading from Georgetown to Arlington, rust and gold trees with flashes of green line the Potomac. I can imagine how lush they were in the spring and how bare they’ll be in a few months, but these autumn trees are somewhere in between. Staring out the window as Glenn drives makes me dizzy. I settle back against my seat. I can still hear the way Spiegler tossed out the words: “It’s always the husband.”

  If Ava were ever done with him, there’d be no marriage counseling, no second chances, not a cent of alimony. She would annihilate Glenn, just like she did Beckett. Who cheated on her. Which I know Glenn is capable of, because he slept with me. But surely if Glenn knew what happened to Ava, we wouldn’t be running around investigating as a team. Every second we spend together makes him look more guilty. And if he really is guilty, he ought to be acting innocent.

  By the time we reach my parents’ neighborhood, my whole body is tense, like every nerve has been replaced with metallic wires, and yet my heart is open and raw. It was so much easier to be angry with Ava than it is to worry about her, or worse, to be afraid for her.

  I glance at Glenn. From what I saw back in the police station, his relationship with my parents is not much better than mine. This encounter will be easier if we remember we’re on the same side. But the longer we continue without speaking, the harder it is to say anything.

  He turns onto my parents’ street, but then we drive right past their house. “Smarter to park around the corner.” Glenn offers the explanation like an olive branch. Good enough for now.

  We get out of the car. Our shadows are long on the sidewalk, arms and legs stretched like aliens. By this time of day, my parents should be home from work. What will we do if they aren’t?

  Without realizing it, I’ve stopped moving. The fear is back in my stomach, drumming its heels, stirring up all my insecurities. What if they are home? What will I say? Will they answer me? Dismiss me? Call the police?

  Glenn’s almost two houses ahead before he notices and turns around. “What’s wrong?”

  If I admit my weakness, even a little bit, Glenn will leave me and keep going by himself. But it’s my responsibility too. I owe this to Andrew and to Ava. “Nothing,” I tell him. Nothing but my personal issues.

  As I hurry to catch up, I swear to myself I’ll stay focused. In my head I’ve gone over and over the information we need: SERE, Spiegler, an unidentified blueprint. I cannot be distracted by questions like Why did you even have children? Did you ever love us at all?

  Finally, my insides churning, I stand beside Glenn on the front step. My father answers the door so quickly, I know he must have been in his study. He has his reading glasses on, and he squints at Glenn.

  Neither of them speaks, so I push forward. “Dad. We need to come in.”

  My mother approaches the door. Her glasses are on her head and there is a smudge of ink on her cheek. She puts a hand on my father’s arm and draws him back into the hallway. “Walter, get out of the way.”

  Once we are in the living room, I sit on the love seat opposite my parents, each in their leather club chairs. I study their faces, but I’ve never been able to read their expressions well. Are they curious, worried, bored? It all looks the same from here.

  Glenn stands at an angle where my parents will have to crane their necks to see him, in a corner by the crazy modern sculpture. Even the metal angles and spikes seem unthreatening next to his bulk.

  For once, my parents’ lack of interest in small talk is a relief. I leap right in. “Mom, Dad, we’re looking for Ava, and I need to ask you some questions about your work.”

  “Our work?” My mother sounds astonished. “What does our work have to do with anything?”

  “I found some clues in Ava’s office—”

  “Glenn told us about the break-in.” My father taps my mother’s knee. “He thought the two of us should be aware.”

  Glenn gives me a half shrug, a kind of apology, but it doesn’t matter. Too much has happened since then.

  “Just telling us about your experience with SERE or a man named Spiegler would be helpful.” If I admit how little we know, they’ll lose all respect for me. And I can’t get sucked into answering their questions or defending my intellectual position.

  My parents share a long look. Considering whether to answer, or whether to trust me? My heart seems to beat higher and higher in my chest, until my throat is choked as I ask, “You know I’m not involved with Ava’s disappearance, don’t you?”

  My father says, “Of course,” and my mother waves a hand dismissively.

  “Why are you so sure?” Glenn asks, and I kind of hope my parents won’t answer.

  “Planning,” my mom says. “Although I suppose maybe in a fit of passion …”

  “Not a chance,” says my dad. “No organization. No follow-through.”

  Only my parents could make innocence sound like a character flaw. “What do you think happened to her?” I ask.

  “Well …” My mother speaks slowly, as if plucking each word and examining it first. “Initially we thought this might be a misunderstanding.”

  “Misunderstanding?” That’s a dirty word in this family.

  She nods. “It wouldn’t be inconceivable that Ava decided to take an unannounced sabbatical, a break.”

  My father waves the idea away. “Speculation. Then we did think that her husband—”

  Leaning over, my mother shakes her head at Glenn. “But there wasn’t any money for you. She left it all to various charities. And, as far as we could tell, you both seemed …” She searches and falls short.

  “Happy,” Glenn snaps. “We’re happy together.”

  My parents consider the word and nod, at a loss for any other.

  Only a few days ago, knowing Glenn and Ava have a happy marriage would have pierced me with jealousy and grief. But to my surprise, I really have changed, and it’s easy to stay focused. Leaning closer, as if I can peer past my father’s cool exterior, I ask, “What kind of things did you and Spiegler work on?”

  My dad answers simply. “We studied the most efficient ways to get accurate information from enemy combatants.”

  Sucking in a deep breath, I ask the question: “You tortured people?”

  He shakes his head before he even starts speaking. “Absolutely not. We never physically harmed anyone. We worked with volunteers who understood the importance of the work they were asked to do. And we never caused them physical pain.” There’s a sharp edge to his words. Have I hurt his feelings?

  “But that’s what the government wanted. To break people down.” I study the gray at his temples, the vertical lines between his brows. Lines of concentration.

  Now he purses his mouth. More lines, and n
ot the smiling kind. “In World War II, the fascist French police force, the Milice, found that threats to family could extract information from a resistance fighter who might never break under torture. Physical torture is ineffective.”

  “And cruel,” I insist. “All torture is cruel.”

  “Of course.” But the dismissive way he answers makes me wince. He doesn’t understand that psychological suffering is real pain too.

  My mother leaps to his defense in her own way. “This should all be done in a professional setting. One has to be certain that the subject believes loved ones are actually in danger, and it helps if the subject is already stressed by discomfort—no more than might be experienced by a delayed meal or sleepless night. This method gets information without actually causing pain or violating ethical guidelines. Any emotional distress is an unfortunate side effect of gathering information.”

  If I ever needed proof that my parents prioritize intellect over emotions, this is it. But I don’t feel vindicated, I feel heartbroken.

  My dad is talking past me, like he’s trying to get Glenn to understand. “We needed a means to produce information without violating ethical concerns. What? There was no actual torture. Theoretically, our experiments were humane.”

  Mom puts a hand on his arm. “And efficient. What we study, it’s about understanding all the stimuli that affect neural stability. We found interpersonal relationships were the best way to extract actionable intel.”

  Dad looks at her, and the lines in his face relax. “We never tortured people. We tortured a visual representation of a social relationship, the idea of a person.”

  They are falling back into their private conversations, their life of the mind. A glance at Glenn tells me he’s as lost as I am. “I don’t understand.”

  Mom turns to me, her blue eyes so much like my sister’s. “The government project we worked on with Spiegler was designed to get reliable, actionable intel from prisoners of war without violating the Geneva Convention. Subjects who believed their loved ones were subjected to physical distress were more compliant than those who underwent the same distress themselves.”

  “You tortured their families?” I feel sick and confused. Dad explicitly said they didn’t torture anyone, but I’m not sure he understands what torture means.

  “No!” My mother’s voice is strong. “Subjects suffered mild disorientation due to lack of sleep or erratic meals, then watched videos of a hooded figure undergoing simulated torture. The greater the disorientation, the more a subject believed the torture was real and personal. We were trying to help our country without hurting people.”

  My father braces his hands on his knees, leaning in like he’s willing me to understand. “But none of this has any bearing on Ava. She was never involved with our research. We kept both of you isolated from it.”

  I can’t even imagine he wanted to protect us. It sounds like he wanted to keep “feelings” from contaminating his work. The same work that twisted a person’s love of family into an instrument of torture. Now, more than ever, I wish Ava were here, sitting beside me, confirming how crazy it all sounds. All I say is, “Ava was investigating your work. She knew about SERE and about Spiegler.”

  At the same time my father says, “James is dead,” my mother says, “Cristina?” He frowns at her. “You didn’t tell me Cristina ever worked with you.”

  My mother presses her lips together and doesn’t answer. I always thought they were a team. How often does Mom keep secrets from Dad?

  Glenn asks, “Who is Cristina?”

  My father answers, but it is my mother he addresses. “Cristina is the daughter of our former collaborator, James Spiegler. Twenty years ago, our research was more … involved. James was instrumental in designing the framework of the experiments we used. When he passed away, we had to scale back.”

  Twenty years ago, Ava and I were latchkey kids, doing homework at the kitchen table in an empty house. Maybe every teenager feels awkward, like an experiment gone wrong, but our parents really were running experiments, straight-up studying psychological torture techniques. And they worked. All these years later, I’m still doubting myself, still an outsider, and still searching for something my parents are incapable of giving.

  Dad continues, “Your mother ran a streamlined version of our previous research while I handled the clinical side. Several years afterwards, we were approached by James’ daughter. I didn’t think she had the necessary experience or the temperament. I thought that was the end of it.”

  My mother’s voice is tight. “If I ran all my hiring choices by you, I’d have a cadre of white rats in lab coats twitching every time I spoke to them. I needed someone strong enough to do the work, and smart enough to know I was the boss.”

  “Oh, she was smart enough.” My father laughs, but there’s no humor in it. “She knew how to be just the thing you wanted. But stable? That girl had a perfect Electra complex.”

  “You think I didn’t see that? There are no humans without clinical issues. This was one I could use. She believed in her father’s work, and so she believed in me. Transference served my purposes.”

  I almost feel sorry for this mysterious woman, a pseudo-daughter vying for my mother’s attention. And with a pang of jealousy, I wonder if her skill as a scientist earned her some love Ava and I never merited.

  My father sits forward in his chair, but he doesn’t stand up or raise his voice. “You were reckless, inviting someone so volatile into the lab.” He must think he’s demonstrating control over his emotions, but I know anger. I see it now.

  “No.” My mother’s thin hand trembles. “No. She was intelligent and driven.”

  “You were looking for a protégée. You were blind.”

  I’ve never seen my parents argue like this; it’s something that must have happened behind closed doors. Even now, it’s the quietest argument I’ve ever heard. Maybe the more heated my parents become, the better our chances of getting to the truth.

  But while they bicker with each other, Ava’s in real danger. I ask sharply, “Are you still in touch with Cristina?”

  My parents turn their heads in unison, even when they disagree. My mother says, “No. The funding dried up, and we—I’d had enough. It was time for a change.”

  “What happened to her?” I ask, my fingers laced together because I have to hold on to something, even if it’s just myself.

  My mother gives a little shrug. “We didn’t need a team anymore.”

  “How did she feel about that?” My eyes are fixed on my mother’s face.

  “I have no idea.” She’s incredibly still, her lips hardly moving as she speaks. The more she shuts down, the more I can see how truly agitated she is becoming.

  My father says, “That girl was unstable, fixated on the research and on you.”

  “You don’t know that,” my mother says tersely.

  I pull out the piece of paper from Ava’s study, the one with the blueprint of a building. “How about this location? Does it look familiar?”

  My mother starts shaking her head, but my father pulls the paper closer. “Where is this?” he asks.

  “Do you recognize it?”

  “It’s just a floor plan, but …” His voice trails off as he rotates the scrap one way and another. “This part.” He indicates the large circle off to one side. “It reminds me of a place James owned. He must have put a couple million into it.”

  My mother reaches over and takes the paper from him. “The missile silo?”

  “What missile silo? Where is it?” I ask, with an urgency that makes both my parents study me with piercing intensity.

  “You’re worried.” My mother sounds surprised. “You think all this has something to do with Ava, that she might be here?”

  My father squints at me. “That is what she thinks. Look at the micro-expressions.”

  I glance at Glenn for confirmation. My parents’ reaction isn’t normal. It’s somewhere between a hole in my gut and a relief to see him meet m
y eyes with pity and understanding. There’s no point in expecting human behavior from them. They study it like it’s an alien response. But now I need more from them, even if it’s only more information. “We just spoke to Steven Spiegler, and it was his phone that texted our photo to the news. He’s been watching us, watching me, and now you’re saying his sister is obsessive and you worked with their father on torture? There’s too much going on to be a coincidence.”

  Glenn leaves the corner by the sculpture, coming to stand behind me. “Do you know where this building is?” he asks, and I add, “Please.”

  My father answers. “Somewhere in West Virginia?” He eyes my mother for confirmation, and she nods. “We drove about an hour and a half, but I couldn’t tell you the way.”

  “James was driving,” my mother explains. “He always drove. He liked the control.”

  “We certainly couldn’t leave until he was ready.” My father’s expression darkens. “A ridiculous place for a research facility.”

  An isolated lab. Owned by a straight-up evil scientist. Whose daughter is fixated on my mother and obsessed with research on torture. Whose son has been stalking me, photographing me, framing me for the disappearance of my sister. My missing sister, who was investigating these torture-based experiments.

  I’m ready to leap into action, to leave this awkward conversation behind and rush out to find Ava. But I let the silence draw out a little longer. My parents are good at silence, and it fills the room with a weight I still find suffocating. That heaviness contains all my unanswered questions about their culpability, their lack of love, why we still pretend to be a family.

  Then Glenn puts his hand on my shoulder, as if to bolster me. “One last question,” he asks. “If Cristina’s involved, what do you think is going on?”

  My father looks at my mother, and I think there’s blame in that gaze. “If your speculation is correct, I would assume Cristina is continuing her research.”