“It sounds like your father wants to protect his brother no matter what,” I said, trying not to sound as bitter as I felt. “If your father won’t take this to the police,” I said, “I will.” I didn’t mean it to sound like a threat, but it probably did.
“I understand,” Abby said. “And I agree the police need to know. But Dad…” She shook her head. “Would you consider talking to him?” she asked.
I thought of how unwelcome that conversation would be to Ethan. “It doesn’t sound like he wants to talk about it,” I said. “And you said he’d be angry that you came here.”
“He won’t be angry,” Abby said. “He never really gets angry. He’ll just be…upset. I’ll tell him I came. But then, if you could call him, maybe you could persuade him.You have the biggest personal stake in this.”
She didn’t understand how the thought of revisiting the summer of 1962 made my palms sweat and my stomach burn. I thought about George Lewis’s sister, Wanda, and the personal stake
She took the letter from me, wrote Ethan’s number on a corner of it and handed it back. Slipping her sunglasses on again, she stood up.
“Thank you,” she said, returning her pen to her tiny pocketbook. She looked at me. “I hope…well, I don’t know what to hope, actually. I guess I just hope the truth finally comes out.”
“I hope so, too, Abby,” I said.
I watched her walk down the sidewalk and get into the white Beetle convertible. She waved as she pulled away from the curb and I watched her drive up my street, then turn the corner and disappear.
I sat there a long time, perfectly still, the letter and all its horrible implications lying on my lap. Chapter Four was forgotten. My body felt leaden and my heart ached, because I knew that no matter who turned out to have murdered my sister, the responsibility for her death would always rest with me.
CHAPTER 2
I was still sitting on the porch half an hour later, the letter on my lap, when I was surprised to see Shannon walking toward our house. She was a distance away, but I would have recognized her at a mile. She was five feet nine inches tall with long, thick, nearly black hair. She’d been a presence from the day she was born.
I was worried about her. When Glen and I allowed her to skip the third grade, I’d never thought ahead to how I would feel watching my seventeen-year-old daughter go off to college, moving into a world outside my protection. I liked to have at least the illusion of control over what happened to the people I love. Glen said that’s why I wrote fiction: it gave me total control over every single character and every single thing that happened. He was probably right.
But there was more that worried me. Something had changed in Shannon during her senior year. She’d never been shy about her height; she’d had an almost regal carriage, a haughty confidence when she’d jerk her head to toss her hair over her shoulder. Recently, though, she seemed uncomfortable in her own skin. I was certain she’d put on weight. A few nights earlier, I’d found her in her room eating from a bowl of raw cookie dough! I’d lectured her about the possibility of getting salmonella from the raw eggs in the batter, but I’d really wanted to ask her if she had any idea how many calories she was consuming.
I would sometimes catch her staring into space, an empty look in her almond-shaped eyes, and she rarely went out with her friends anymore. She’d had one boyfriend or another—all the artsy, musical types—since she was fourteen, yet I didn’t think she’d been on a date for at least six months. Her new homebody behavior made it easier for me to keep an eye on her, but I couldn’t help but be concerned by her sudden transformation.
“I just want to end my senior year with a bang,” she’d said, when I’d inquired into the change in her social life. “I don’t want to be a slacker.”
I knew Glen had talked to her about how important it was to keep her grades up during her senior year, in spite of her early acceptance into the Oberlin Conservatory of Music. No problem there. She’d ended her high-school career as senior class president with a 4.2 grade point average, but still, something seemed wrong. I wondered if she was afraid of leaving home. Or maybe she was having a delayed reaction to the divorce. It had been nearly two years and I thought she’d handled it well—aside from the fact that she seemed to blame me for it—but perhaps I’d been kidding myself.
She spotted me as she turned onto the sidewalk leading up to our house.
“Hi!” She waved. She was wearing a white-and-lime-greenprint skirt today, the sort of skirt my sister Lucy liked to wear—long and flowing—and I liked the way it looked on her. That was another change: Shannon seemed to have traded in her low-rise pants for this more feminine look.
“What are you doing home?” I called from my seat on the rocker.
“I have some time before the next lesson,” she said. “Thought I’d take a break.”
We lived in a neighborhood of turn-of-the-century houses near Westfield’s downtown. It was an easy walk for her to and from the music store, as well as to the day-care center where she spent two afternoons a week as an aide, caring for the toddlers.
She climbed the porch steps, carrying a can of Vanilla Coke.
“Love that haircut,” she said as she settled into the rocker Abby Worley had vacated only a short time before.
I’d had my hair cut to my chin a few days earlier in preparation for a photo shoot for my next book jacket. My hairdresser had added blond highlights to the auburn shade I’d worn for the past decade, and Shannon commented on it every time she saw me. Even my mother had noticed, telling me the cut-and-color looked “sassy.” I knew she’d meant it as a compliment.
Shannon leaned forward to get a good look at me, her own hair falling away from her face in a thick dark curtain. “I think you need some new glasses, now,” she said.
I touched my rimless frames. “Do I?” I asked. I thought my glasses were stylish, but I was usually three or four years behind the trend.
“You should get some cool plastic frames,” she said. “Like in a bronze color.”
