I call Mark, but the call goes straight to voice mail.
“I can’t meet you today at Bridgeways. Artie Zucker called. There’s a warrant for my arrest, and I have to turn myself in tomorrow morning.” My voice cracks on that last word, and I take a deep breath. “I’m sorry, Mark. I’m meeting him at his office at five, if you want to meet us.” I pause. “I’d like you to be there if you can.”
I tuck the phone in my back pocket and wander upstairs and into my bedroom. I’ll need a suit or something presentable to wear in court when I am arraigned tomorrow. I open my closet, searching for an outfit that says not guilty.
My cell phone rings, and I lunge for it. It’s not Dustin, though, it’s Krystle. “Finally,” I say. “Where the hell have you been?”
“With a lawyer. Allie, I’m in big trouble. It doesn’t look good.” The words come pouring out. “The account in Queens? The one under my name where the mortgage company sent the check to? It’s been emptied out. The money’s gone.” Her voice catches. “Allie, I think I might go to jail. And I swear I didn’t take the money.”
“It’s okay. It’s going to be all right,” I say, but even as I say the words, I know it’s not. My mother’s been poisoned, my sister’s under suspicion for mortgage fraud, and I’m about to be arrested for murder. Someone is trying to destroy my whole family.
“No, it’s not.” Krystle’s voice catches, surprising me. I can count on one hand the times I’ve seen her cry, and it was always because she was bleeding or had a broken bone. She was the one to go get my superball back from the tough boys on the corner or kick Colin MacDougal in the shins for calling me flat-chested.
“You’re right. It’s not.” I tell her about what’s happening with me, how I have to turn myself in tomorrow morning. “I’m leaving soon to meet with my lawyer to discuss the details.”
“That’s insane! We will fight this. If your lawyer’s not good enough, we’ll get you a better one. We won’t let you go to jail.”
“But I am going, Krystle. That’s where they put you when they arrest you for first-degree murder. I may not make bail.” My eyes well up.
“Why is this happening to us?” I go to the window and peer out into the dark. The rain has started up again. Across the street, at Leah’s house, I see movement in the top window. I squint hard, but I cannot tell if it is a person or just my eyes playing tricks on me.
“I don’t know. Is this why you were calling so many times?” Krystle asks. “In your messages, you said something about Sharon.”
“I don’t want to upset you, but Sharon’s in the hospital.” I explain everything to her—what the doctor said, the antifreeze, the gummy candies. “She was convinced some woman was out to get her, but today, I learned that the name she used was actually the relative who left her the house in Westport, so Sharon was clearly confused.”
I feel a slight pang of guilt knowing that I won’t be able to visit my mother at the hospital tomorrow, but I dismiss it. She’s in good hands.
“You still there?” I ask Krystle.
“Who did Sharon say was out to get her?”
“She said it was Margaret Cooper. You know, her aunt?”
“And she said this woman was trying to hurt her?” A note of coolness has crept into her voice.
“Yes.” I sit on the bed. “But she has dementia, Krystle. Margaret Cooper died in 2005, right after she gave the house to Sharon.”
“No, she didn’t.”
“What on earth are you talking about?” The radiator clinks, startling me.
“I need to tell you something.” Her voice quakes when she speaks. “Remember how you thought that maybe Paul Adamson was behind all the crazy things that were happening to you?”
“He’s not, Krystle. He’s dead.”
“Fine. But what about his wife?”
“What about her?”
“Her name was Margaret Cooper.”
52
The room seems to fall away from me. I have to dig my nails into my thigh to stop from screaming.
“Why did Paul Adamson’s wife sell us her house for five dollars?”
“She didn’t sell it to us. We stole it.”
“What do you mean, stole?” I feel sick, betrayed. That my own sister would orchestrate an elaborate scam out of my own suffering.
“Oh, come on, Allie. You never suspected just once?” Her incredulity is a slap in my face. “Like Sharon has some distant relative who lived in Westport? Give me a break!”
“No, I trusted you guys. I didn’t question it. You’re my family.” I feel queasy and confused. The news sits heavy on my chest, making it hard to get my breath.
“I mean, seriously, didn’t you ever wonder? How did we, how did Sharon, who couldn’t even scrape enough quarters together for the laundromat some weeks, how did she have some distant relative who left her a million-dollar home in Westport?”
“I don’t know. I wasn’t in Connecticut anymore. I was only seventeen, Krystle.” I am furious at the way she has pivoted from her deception to my gullibility. “You lied to me. For years.”
“Because you didn’t want to know, that’s why. You never thought, gee, what a coincidence! A month after rape charges are dropped against Paul Adamson, who lives in Westport, my mother inherits a million-dollar house in … wait for it … Westport!”
Her nastiness is palpable, and her sobs and pleas have been replaced by cruel, cutting remarks. I rack my brain trying to recall some hint of this scheme, some clue that this was going on. But I can’t come up with anything. “I don’t remember if I knew that Paul lived in Westport.”
“Give me a break. You knew
