Closer Than Blood

Deb is a whore.

My mom cheats on my dad.

Officer Hector is the devil.

All of those things might have been true. The writer, who was adding to the litany of wrath made by others who had lain there to look up at the backside of the upper bunk bed, took out an X-ACTO blade that was contraband of the highest order. Worse than drugs probably, but stupidly available in an art resource classroom down the hall. Scratch. Carve. Scratch. Particles rained down into the eyes. But the angry scribe kept scratching out a message that would be seen by only a few. Only those who’d suffered. Those were the ones who might understand. Tears, designed to give the eyes relief from the irritants that spiraled downward, only blurred the action at hand. A hard blink and then more scratching.

No one will ever do this to me again.

It was only three letters.

D-I-E.

Satisfied, the writer slipped the blade into the space between the mattress and the bed frame. It would always be there at the ready. Just in case.

The ladies of the Port Orchard Kiwanis Club donated a kit for a three-foot-tall Victorian dollhouse as a project for the teens incarcerated in juvenile detention. The concept was simple and, detractors thought, naive. Give the troubled kids something to do that was constructive in every sense of the word and just maybe they’d see that creating something for a greater cause would lead to improved self-esteem and compassion for others. The world was not always about them, drugs, hot cars, and the erratic behavior that put them behind bars in the first place. The kit for the dollhouse was prepackaged and labeled by the manufacturer. It was foolproof. The model selected by the women’s group was called “Summer Time” and featured a turret, widow’s walk, and windows that actually opened—though they were made of clear Plexiglas.

“Real glass poses a real danger,” said the administrator responsible for recreational programming at the detention center, when first approached with the idea. The woman who had been going over what would be in the kit appeared confused.

“Nothing that can be used as a weapon can be brought into the rec center.”

“I see.”

“No nails,” he went on.

“No sharp corners. Nothing at all.”

“The shingles are fish scale, so they’re rounded,” the woman said as if the design had been in sync with the agency’s concerns.

“No toxic glue. Elmer’s only. No soldering. Burns, you know.” Six weeks after she dropped off the kit, the woman returned to pick up the finished dollhouse. She planned to auction it off that weekend, with the money raised to support a food drive. The house was a marvel. Better than she thought it could be. It was painted white and blue, with a burgundy trim around the turret. With the help of a custodian, she loaded it into the back of her minivan.

“The kids did a nice job on it,” she said. The custodian agreed.

“Yeah. The girls did all the work. Guys wouldn’t touch it.” As she drove away, the woman noticed an acrid smell. She cracked the window of the van. That paint sure stinks, she thought. The next morning she noticed that the rusty trim had darkened to almost a black.

“That’s odd,” she thought. She didn’t know what the stain had been, nor did she see the message scrawled under the front porch.

I KNOW WHO KILLED JASON REED.

No one would ever see it. No one would know that the red stain had not been wood stain at all.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

Tacoma

The Hotel Murano was a hipsters’ hangout, upscale and oh-so-cool in a city decidedly short on both qualities. Scattered throughout the chic design of the hotel and restaurant was glass artwork, the equal of which could be found in some museums. In the lobby, a life-size glass sculpture of a woman’s dress and torso looked as though it had been carved from ice. Lainie eyed it, thinking the size and look might work for Tori. Cold as Tori. The pair went up the staircase to the fourth floor to Bite, where they were seated in a semicircular orange-colored booth with a peekaboo view of the Thea Foss Waterway. A waiter in a light blue shirt and dark slacks flitted from one table to the next. Flitting wasn’t easy at his age, to be sure. He was old enough to be a grandfather. He reminded Lainie of a waiter at Seattle’s venerable Canlis restaurant, which she’d profiled for the P-I the month before the paper went under. He’d had that job for forty-five years with no sign of letting up. She’d felt wistful about the man, as if working at the same place for so many years should almost be envied. I’ll bet he still has his job, she thought. As the sisters took their menus, the eyes of a few patrons latched onto them. Some might have wondered if they were sisters who merely looked similar; a few might have allowed themselves to wonder if they in fact were twins. Tori was brighter, shinier, and undeniably more alluring than her sister. It was more than her tight, stylish clothes or her shimmering blond tresses. There was something about her that transcended all the parts that created that stunning image. She had an aura of sensuality that men could not resist and women—those who chose to be honest with themselves—were envious of to such a degree that they instantly reviled her.

“Gold digger.”

“White trash.”

“Harlot.”

“Slut.” All of those words had been hurled at Tori. She’d deflected them with Teflon-coated talons. A quick flick and away they went. A new nickname was in the offing and Tori Connelly seemed to know it would take some doing to deflect that.

“Black Widow.” The Tacoma News Tribune advanced the story of the Junett shooting that day with a photo of Tori and information about her first husband’s death.

DEATH TOOK A HOLIDAY

Connelly’s First Husband

Killed in Hawaii

Despite her newfound notoriety, she was still in Tori mode. The waiter brought San Pellegrino with lime slices with dingy edges and she told him to take them back.

“You wouldn’t want that served to you. Why bring that to me and my sister?” He nodded and left the table in a blue blur.

“I hope he remembers which glass to spit into,” Lainie said. They were there to talk about what happened the night of the shooting, but Lainie had another topic on her mind. Her sister hadn’t once mentioned their father. It infuriated her.

“Aren’t you going to ask about Dad?” Tori set aside her water and poured some wine from a decanter that probably cost a week’s salary—if, that is, she still had a salary, Lainie thought.

“How is he?” Lainie looked sharply at her sister.

“Like you care.” Tori let out a breath and shook her head.

“I stayed away because I care.” The response was maddening because, as far as Lainie could see, her sister didn’t care. Couldn’t, really. It was beyond what she was able to feel.

“Don’t give me that, Tori. Remember, you and I have the same DNA. I know what makes you tick, how you feel, what you are going to wear when you go to your closet.” Tori shifted in the booth, buying time to think. Lainie couldn’t be sure.

“I’ve always loved that about you, Lainie. You were always so goddamn smug about what you thought you knew about me.” Lainie took a sip, twirling the wine in her near-empty glass.

“Don’t go there. I’m here because you needed me.”

“Right. And I do. And you, my other half, owe me.” Lainie looked at her and said nothing. Her face was devoid of emotion. Tori knew how to feed off others in a way that seemed both remarkable and scary. She could tap into a weakness and drill out whatever advanced her cause.

“You know you do. You’re my blood.” Tori sipped her wine.

“We’re probably closer than blood.” There was truth to that, but Lainie didn’t want to acknowledge it. The