What My Sister Knew

by Nina Laurin

  She considers going back to her room but she doesn’t trust herself to step quietly. They will hear the slap of her bare feet on the floor, and it’ll only be worse.

  She doesn’t know what drives her but she takes a small step forward. Then another. Then another.

  She can see through the doorway now, at least partially. Her brother comes into her line of sight. His back is turned to her; he can’t see her. Any moment now, he will sense her gaze with the back of his head, turn around, and then…

  But he doesn’t. He remains oblivious.

  Sergio’s steps thunder closer. A few more inches, and she’ll be able to see him too.

  “This is all because of you,” he says, again in the same frightening tone. “You little piece of shit.”

  And before Andrea can back away or lunge forward or stop him or even scream, Sergio backhands her brother across the face so hard that he falls over.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  I’m still dazed when I get to the car rental place. The shaky giggle I’ve been holding back for Cynthia’s sake finally escapes. That bastard, I think, and shake my head. He sure knew his timing. Opportunist to the end. Holding on to his secrets, big and small, to the last.

  Cynthia told me he had made arrangements in case of his sudden death, with instructions to carry them out as soon as possible. There would be a reading of the will later, although I know he had little to leave to anyone.

  The car keys and my credit card change hands, and minutes later, I’m at the wheel of my not-so-new vehicle. Sure, compared to my old car, this is near luxury. I try not to notice the holes in the seat with the filling spilling out or the fact that the whole car smells suspiciously of smoke in defiance of the red NO SMOKING sign dangling from the mirror.

  At least I can be reasonably sure that, unlike the trendy new startups that let you rent cute little electric Smart cars and drop them off wherever, this place doesn’t put GPS trackers in their vehicles.

  I don’t know the exact address but I have a pretty good idea where I’m going. I’ve done my share of house visits in this neighborhood when I was starting out in social work. I’d seen the picture of the house on the internet, which, along with the leaked details of the woman’s run-ins with social services, had no business being there. But people can be heartless when a story is deemed interesting enough. I should know.

  It’s not a short drive from Cynthia’s neighborhood, even this late when there’s practically no traffic. I look up the best route on the map on my phone but do my best to memorize it instead of using the GPS. I don’t know why I’m taking the precaution—I’m not doing anything criminal.

  As I drive onto the highway, I pop the audiobook CD into the player, bracing myself. The CD starts playing from the beginning, the solemn voice reciting the author’s name, publisher, and cover credits. Cursing, I mash the buttons, but I have no idea where it left off so I stop at random in the middle and let it play.

  “Chapter Ten. I spoke with Gregory Ainsworth at the school where he works as a counselor, providing support for students under duress, be it academic problems or social difficulties or, often, troublesome situations at home.”

  A memory scratches like a cat in the back of my mind. I eye the CD player, wary. What did he say the name was?

  “We met at his office after hours, after all the students and most of the teachers have gone home. The school gives off an uncanny vibe, hallways quiet and lights dimmed. Every once in a while, we’re interrupted by the bell, set to ring at regular intervals, bellowing to no one. Mr. Ainsworth’s office is a quiet, serene place with the cozy air of someone’s personal library or study. I can imagine students feeling safe here, comfortable to confide in this soft-spoken man. The following is the transcript of our interview.

  “Mr. Ainsworth, throughout your career, you’ve often dealt with students who are victims of abuse at home.”

  “That’s correct. It’s an unfortunate reality, and in defiance to any preconceived ideas people might have, it occurs regardless of status or social class. No one is safe. Truth is, we never know what goes on behind closed doors in a family, no matter what the outright appearances may be. However, there are signs one can observe when a child is a victim of emotional, physical, or sexual abuse.”

  Ainsworth’s voice is different from the other narrator’s, but it doesn’t resonate with me. It’s not his. This one is well-spoken and borderline effeminate, all traces of regional accent scrubbed from it. The real Ainsworth, I remember now, sounded like a smoker, and there was a pronounced Minnesota drawl to his vowels. Which, ironically, came across as a lot more trustworthy and pleasant. Once I remember the voice, the rest of the picture reappears in my mind, building up like pixels until it comes into full focus. The knitted sweater, the muted scent of tobacco.

  I can’t help but feel betrayed that he spoke to this quack.

  “Can you tell us how these signs typically present?”

  “Well, the most immediately obvious one is a significant change in behavior. A child becomes withdrawn; his or her grades drop. This is something teachers most frequently observe, which is the catalyst for a more thorough investigation into the student’s home life.”

  “And did Eli Warren present any signs?”

  “See, Jonathan, the fact is, I only got to talk to Eli Warren once, in the winter of 2002.”

  I frown. Eli never told me this.

  “Before that, I observed him, in the same general way I observed others. He was generally popular and well liked. Contrary to his sister—”

  A small tremor runs up my spine and into my hands. But “Ainsworth” goes on, moving away from this line of thought without missing a beat.

  “But he fit right in. He seemed to make a lot of friends rather quickly.”

  “Did he exhibit any signs of abuse then?”

  “Not as far as I could tell.”

  “What did you talk about in the winter of 2002? Did he come to see you on his own or…?”

  “No. He did not. His teacher sent him.”

  I have to pause the CD because I need to concentrate on driving. The tangle of streets makes no sense: one-ways that go around and around like a maze, a cul-de-sac without a warning sign. I drive past rows and rows of those little duplexes that make up most of former working-class neighborhoods that have now been appropriated by hipsters willing to pay a grand a month for a studio with a kitchenette.

  Every once in a while, I pass a gaping hole in the wall of buildings, like a missing tooth, where one has been demolished by a development company. Placards advertise the condos to come, glossy digital images of a marketing agency’s idea of a perfect life. Much like my town house. In some spots, those condos are already built, and not a single one I pass remains uninhabited. Their geometrical façades look bewildered, out of place, like they just got teleported here from some parallel world.

  Soon enough, I leave the condos behind, and the farther they recede in the rearview mirror, the more everything looks dusty and muddy, semiabandoned. This part of the neighborhood didn’t get the treatment. Yet I find myself feeling more at home here, where the sprawl hasn’t yet reached. It’s more honest.

  At last, I find the house I saw in the pictures online. When I see it, I understand why no one’s thought to sell it to the developers—and no one likely will. It’s nestled right below the viaduct, the last house tacked on at the end of its street. Grime coats the windows and once-white door. I don’t blame Adele’s mother for giving up on washing them. I’d get tired of the losing battle too. Which is a shame because up close, out of the blurry photos, it’s one of those 1920s buildings that attempts coquettishness. The façade is brick, not cheap vinyl, and there are stylish patterns around the windows and doorway. I feel sad for it.

  I have my pick of parking spots on the empty street. I look around but there doesn’t seem to be any press nearby—no doubt that’ll change once they catch my brother, I find myself thinking. And then the trial and sentencing and the who
le circus. No doubt Jonathan Lamb is already accosting the poor woman for an interview for the sequel to his true crime book.

  When I come up to the door, however, I notice that the doorbell has been ripped out, dangling on exposed blue wires. Anticipating the worst, I knock.

  After no answer comes within a couple of minutes, I circle the house, which takes a few strides—it’s a simple cube that must feel claustrophobic, especially when you’re hounded by press. Behind it, where other buildings on the street have a tiny backyard, this one has a paved-over lot in which an early-nineties car is rusting amid weeds that sprout up from the cracks in the asphalt. There’s a small patio with a plastic chair, its grooves holding water from the last rainfall. Through the curtained window of the patio door, I see a dim glimmer of light.

  I admit, in that moment, common human decency almost makes me turn back and leave this woman alone. I consider just getting back in my car, doing a U-turn, and going after someone less vulnerable, someone who could actually help me. Instead, I maneuver my way past the puddles on the pavement, onto the patio, and up to the door. Before I raise my hand to knock, the curtain moves aside, startling me.

  The face I’d seen on TV doesn’t look nearly as bad in real life; I blame societal expectations of what women are worthy of gracing a screen. She’s been crying, clearly, but there’s no makeup to run and bleed into every crevice in her skin. She considers me with surprising shrewdness. Then I hear latches turning, and the door opens a crack. With a clink, the chain holding it in place tightens.

  The woman evaluates me with a quick once-over. Her gaze lingers on my neck, and my hand shoots self-consciously to cover the waxy pink-white flesh there.

  “I know who you are,” she barks hoarsely. “Come in.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  “How did you find the address?”

  “Online,” I say. Beyond the door, I find myself standing in a tiny kitchen space. It surprises me with its cleanness: no pile of dishes, no empty pizza boxes or beer bottles. Maybe I’ve misjudged her. Then again, my work experience suggests that such people rarely change before it’s too late, and once the irrevocable has happened, the change doesn’t last because whatever they had to lose, they already lost.

  “My neighbors,” she says dryly, by way of explanation, as she follows my gaze. “Helped me clean up. Ana from two houses down brought me groceries and wouldn’t take any money when I offered. Beer?”

  Bringing beer to a grieving mother seems dubious to me. So she’s well enough to hit the liquor store, at least. But after the AA meeting, I’m a bundle of nerves so I agree. She fetches two bottles of cheap lager from the fridge and opens them by wrapping her hand in the hem of her wrinkled pink top and twisting the caps. That isn’t enough to deter me; I take a sip. It’s weak and watery and tastes like stale bread.

  “How do you know who I am?” I try cautiously.

  “Your neck.” She nods at it. “We’re in the same boat, you and me. He killed your mom and dad, right?”

  “Stepdad,” I correct, more out of reflex than anything. And I realize with growing incredulity why she thinks I’m here, the only reason she opened her door to me. Unwisely.

  For her, I decide I’m willing to play the part. “I don’t know what to say. You must be devastated.”

  She heaves a sigh and takes a long swig from the beer bottle. “Look, the things I said on TV—you did see that, didn’t you?”

  I nod.

  “They’re things they told me to say. That woman, Figueroa.” The mention of her name makes me suppress a tiny shudder. “But that doesn’t mean I didn’t mean them, right?”

  “I’m sure you meant every word.”

  “But let me tell you, she’s a horrible woman. A bad person.” She lingers on the last two words, the hoarseness of her voice deepening as if for emphasis. “She has no compassion. Treated me like garbage. I could tell she didn’t believe me, even when I said the exact words she told me to say. Can you imagine having such a cold heart? I did love my girl. I did.” She nods her head to punctuate each word. “I wasn’t always perfect, but who is? Your mom, the one who died. She can’t have been perfect either, not all the time.”

  She stares me straight in the eye as she says that, her gaze suddenly clear and sober. Her eyes are a wishy-washy light brown, as if they couldn’t decide what color they wanted to be.

  I try to think of my mother but all I can conjure up is that grave, the flat tombstone and dying flowers. I try to remember her face. She was young—only in her early thirties, although at twelve, that seemed old to me. Her chestnut mane was beginning to sprout gray hairs ahead of its time but she covered them obstinately with hair dye. She was reasonably pretty in a practical way; the only makeup she troubled with was mascara and lipstick. But the specifics, the features, are lost to me. Hopelessly blurred. I realize I don’t remember our last conversation, the last words she ever said to me.

  “You weren’t a bad mother, Colleen,” I say, even though it’s not true. And since I can’t have her continue with the self-reflection much longer, I decide to jump in. “Did Adele live here? With you?”

  Colleen nods absentmindedly. “Over there. Her room. The police went over every inch though, messed it up. Me and Ana put it back together.”

  “May I?” But she’s glassy-eyed, staring off into space at the area just above the kitchen sink, like she forgot I was there. I move across the room, into the short hallway with two doors.

  It’s going to be useless at this point, I think. If, like she says, the police combed through everything…

  The room is tiny, like I expected, but neater than I thought. Probably thanks to this Ana person. Maybe because of that it looks impersonal, unlived-in. Like it was just a place to crash for a night, not the room of a girl in her early twenties. There are clothes folded on top of a shabby dresser. A beaded curtain serves as a closet door, violent pink, the only splash of color. When I pull it aside with a soft clinking sound, I see a couple of stray hangers, no clothes, and old shoes piled up on the floor. Mostly empty tubes of makeup sit lined up on the bedside table.

  Colleen has followed me and is standing in the empty doorway. I ask whether the cops took the door off its hinges.

  She shrugs. “No. Never had a door when we moved in.”

  “When did she leave?” I ask.

  “She’s always been coming and going but the last time she left was ’bout six months ago. It’s not like what they’re thinking.” Colleen doesn’t specify who but I understand, from experience. People like me, social services, police. “I didn’t throw her out. She was always welcome here. She could keep living with me till she was forty—I wouldn’t’ve minded. It’s like when she was a kid, even if I brought a boyfriend home, I’d always tell her in advance, you know? And we didn’t have a fight or anything. She came to visit once in a while.”

  “Did she tell you why she left? Did she find a new place to live?”

  Colleen’s look speaks of utter powerlessness and despair. She can only shrug. “I asked but she wouldn’t tell me. I figured it was with that boyfriend of hers.” Her face contorts with grief and horror that she can no longer struggle against. She clasps her hand over her mouth. Boyfriend? She must mean Eli.

  I can’t resist. “Did the police find anything?”

  Colleen shakes her head. “I don’t know. I wasn’t here. They told me to leave so I was over at Ana’s.”

  “That must have been hard for you.”

  “You have no idea.” She takes another sip—more like a gulp—of her beer. “They’re horrible people. Horrible.”

  “I know.” I can’t imagine there’s any love lost between this woman and the forces of the law.

  “No empathy. At all. Heartless. You think I don’t know what they were doing here? Did they think I’m dumb?” She’s becoming agitated, her words slurred. “When it’s clear as day that he did it. That he killed her. Why search her room? They think I’m too stupid to figure it out.”

&nb
sp; “What do you mean?” A little icy shiver races up my spine. I pretend to turn my attention to the makeup tubes on the bedside table.

  “They think they’ll find something to make it all look like it was her fault,” Colleen says, her voice quavering. “You know, they find things, and I’ve seen other murdered girls in the news, and—” She cuts herself off and takes a deep breath. “I thought—if they find drugs or something like that—they’ll just say it was a gang thing and won’t look for him. The person who did it.”

  My heart starts to beat awfully fast.

  “That’s all they need,” I say in agreement. “An excuse. Nobody wants to bother. To do their job.”

  “Yeah.” She nods eagerly. Her face is turning red, from agitation or alcohol or both. “Because we’re not rich, and she was— She had problems…It’s like her life don’t matter, you know?”

  “I know.”

  “Are you going to try to defend him? Because let me tell you, there’s not a thing on earth that—”

  “No. Why would I defend him, of all people? Think about it, Colleen.” I compose my face into a softer, mournful look that’s supposed to be relatable and trustworthy. “He killed my family. I haven’t even spoken to him in fifteen years.”

  That’s because he was not allowed to contact me under any circumstances. But she doesn’t need to know that.

  Looking lost, she drains the last of the beer and sets the bottle down on top of the dresser. I wonder how many beers preceded it before I got here.

  She sighs. “They found money,” she says, hanging her head, her gaze straying from mine like a guilty dog’s. “The police. Lots of it, hidden all around the room. I have no idea how she got it.”

  I nod encouragingly, my mournful smile stiff on my lips. I have a pretty good guess how she got it.

  Her look is pleading, almost desperate. “It wasn’t anything—anything bad, you know what I’m saying?”

  “I’m sure it wasn’t. She was probably just saving up,” I assure her.