“It’s been a year and a half. And my sister’s not missing. She’s dead.”
Clare works to mask her surprise, to hold her expression steady. “How do you know that?” she asks.
“Because there’s no way she came out of this alive. She pissed off way too many people. Your boyfriend Malcolm included.”
“He’s not my—” Clare stops herself. Charlotte is trying to get the best of her. Clare withdraws the gun from her belt and inspects it, turning it over in her hands, a show of power. “Why don’t you start at the beginning, then, Charlotte? You say your sister’s dead, but you’re keeping some kind of tabs on her abandoned glass house?” Clare waves an arm about. “Do you keep cameras here? Motion detectors? You sure got here pretty fast after I did.”
“We’ve had problems with trespassers.”
“Who’s we?” Clare asks.
The question is met with a stony gaze.
“Locking the door might help,” Clare says, allowing a pause. “I’m guessing you’re playing the vigilante now, the sister dressed in black, looking to avenge? You’ve got a bone to pick with someone. Maybe I can help you. Your sister pissed a lot of people off, you say. I’m sure there’s more you can tell me about that.”
Charlotte keeps her chin up, her back straight against the wall, all signs of her tears gone. She says nothing. We are the same, Clare thinks. At war with ourselves—one part of us in pain and the other ready for revenge. Clare works to call up the details on Charlotte Westman she’d collected in the file. Younger than Zoe by barely a year. Never went to college. Married young, divorced young too. She has a daughter who, if Clare remembers correctly, should now be about ten. A lot in Charlotte’s life has gone wrong, Clare thinks. Hostility is not the right angle to take with her. Clare will try a different tack.
“Charlotte,” she says, calmer. “Listen. This was a terrible way to meet. But I think you and I probably want the same thing.”
“Yeah? What’s that?”
“I’ve read about you. I know your life hasn’t been easy. You have a daughter. But five years ago your father was murdered and everything went to shit. Then your mother dies, of what? Heart failure? And your sister vanishes three years after that. I believe you lost custody of your daughter. So now you’re alone.”
Clare pauses. Charlotte’s hands open and close into tight fists. She cracks a knuckle, breathing hard through her nose.
“Malcolm isn’t my boyfriend,” Clare continues. “I came here to find him. To figure out what happened. And when you try to tell someone’s story, you should start as close to the beginning as you can get, right? The first sign of trouble is a good place to begin? In this case, the first signs point to your family. My guess is that you were collateral damage in all this. That you paid for other people’s sins. Your dad’s maybe? Even your sister’s.”
“You know nothing about me. Or my family.”
Clare clicks open the gun and allows the bullets to pour onto the floor. She picks them up in a fist and jams them in her pocket, then slides the gun across to Charlotte. It’s a risk, but the way Charlotte had held the gun, the safety still on, Clare can assume she doesn’t have any spare bullets. Charlotte leans forward and snatches the weapon from the floor.
“Collateral damage,” Clare says again.
“That’s what my lawyer said to me,” Charlotte says, her voice low. “Four years ago. Collateral damage. My ex-husband got sole custody of my daughter and moved her across the country. I have zero visitation rights. Nothing. Everything I owned… my house, my car, was repossessed, because my father co-owned it all. This house is technically still a family asset, but it’s frozen. Because where the fuck are the owners? Jesus. You have no idea what’s happened here, Clare. I warn you, run while you can. There hasn’t just been damage to me, to my family. It’s been complete and total obliteration.”
“So what do you want, then?” Clare asks. “Why are you here in this house?”
“Let me tell you something.” Charlotte studies the card again. “Clare? Is that your real name? My brother-in-law Malcolm? He’s not the good guy in this story. If you dig a little, you’ll see what I mean. I’d warn against it, but who am I to stop you? And if you think you’re going to find him, to save him or whatever, you’re in for a big surprise. There will be no happy ending.”
It takes effort to hold Charlotte’s steady gaze.
“What about your sister?” Clare asks. “You say she’s dead. Do you really believe that?”
“You want a place to start?” Charlotte says. “Talk to the cops around here. There’s been about eight of them assigned to the case since my dad died. And nothing’s come up. Nothing. The newest detective? His name is Patrick Germain. I’m pretty sure he made detective barely a year ago. The so-called journalist who works the case knows more than the cops do. It’s all too fishy, you know?”
“I know.”
“Yeah. So you do whatever you want. It’s a fucking quagmire, Clare. Go find Germain if you want. Get yourself caught up in this mess. But leave me alone. I don’t want any part of it.”
When Charlotte hoists herself to standing, Clare does the same. Charlotte gestures for Clare to leave the room first. They descend the stairs together, the hallway lit. When they reach the front door, Clare turns to speak, but Charlotte waves her off, shaking her head no. Outside, once she’s alone again, Clare’s heart begins to race. Don’t risk your life, Somers said. And yet in only her first stop Clare found herself at gunpoint. An omen, she knows, that this place is not safe.
The bathroom mirror is fogged. Clare clears a streak across it with
