Read My Sister's Voice Online

Authors: Mary Carter

My Sister's Voice (25 page)

BOOK: My Sister's Voice
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“See the woods,” Monica said, pointing it out on the screen. “I used to play on a blanket at the edge of them.”
“In that first memory,” Lacey said. “How old were you?”
“Four?”
“No memories before the age of four?”
“No. You?” Lacey shook her head no. “No memories before Hillcrest,” she added.
“We should get hypnotized,” Monica said. They fell silent. Parents. Grandparents. Aunts. Uncles. Cousins. Lies.
“Hey,” Kelly said. “Let’s get out of the house. Go shopping. See a movie. There’s a new foreign film playing at the mall.”
“Ugh, I hate foreign films,” Monica said. “Always so dramatic. Let’s see a comedy instead.”
“Foreign films are captioned,” Kelly said. “Just-released movies at the theatre are not.” Monica felt awful. Kelly did know her sister better than she did. Monica knew nothing.
“I didn’t know,” Monica said. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s all right,” Lacey said. “There are a few theatres that have special nights where you can get a captioning device. And if it’s an action film, I can enjoy it without all the dialogue.”
“We could rent a movie,” Monica said.
“You two need to get out of the house,” Kelly said. “From the looks of it, you’re trying to barricade yourself in here.” Kelly stared at Monica. “What about your job?” she asked. “Don’t you have seminars to give?”
“My sister is more important,” Monica said. “Nothing is ever going to come between us again.” She didn’t like the look Kelly and Lacey exchanged after that. Monica might have a million questions for her family, her entire life had been a lie, and she no longer knew up from down. All of it, she could handle. Kelly Thayler, on the other hand, was definitely in the way.
Chapter 26
I
t wasn’t a cabin, or even a lodge. It was a freaking mansion. This was the summer home? So much for the parents not being able to afford both girls. Lacey’s heart was pounding out of her chest. It had been a whirlwind—first the flight to Portland, then renting a motorcycle and riding all the way out here. The grass looked greener than any grass she’d ever seen. It was so crisp she could smell it down to its original seed. Competing scents hung in the air: grass, apples, hay, lilacs, and the pungent earth beneath her feet; and the humidity clung to even the little hairs on her arms, or was it sweat? She could feel everything vibrating around her. She should have come at night; she was overexposed in the daylight, like a piece of film snatched out of the darkroom and paraded into the sun. There was an apple tree standing guard to her left, heavy with fruit. She wanted to crawl underneath it, unseen, and sleep until evening.
If anyone spotted her, they would think she was Monica. At least from a distance. So, for now, she could hide in plain sight. But what would happen if someone called out to her and she didn’t respond? People may have “eyes in the back of their head” but they certainly couldn’t lip-read through the back of their head.
It’s the other one,
someone might say behind her back.
What does she want?
What did she want? She wanted to look them in the eye, she wanted to let them know that she knew. She knew what they had done. And now, Monica knew what they had done. She wanted them to know that they knew. She knew she should’ve had a better plan than “I want them to know that we know,” but what did she know about stalking and plotting revenge? She was an artist, not a fighter. And her plan was pretty good for an amateur, if she did say so herself. Monica would hate them. The only problem was, now Monica would cling to her, and Lacey didn’t want to have to deal with that either. Who started this mess? Who left that letter in her mailbox? It was too late, it had been done. Now she had to see it through.
I’m back,
she wanted to say.
I’m back.
Lacey looked at the woods, a dark canopy stretching into the distance. And that’s when it hit her. She’d been here before.
 
Lacey flattened herself against the side of the cabin, hoping the logs would be enough to hide her. The lodge was located at the end of a winding dirt road, hugged along the front and the back by long stretches of manicured grass and ending in the woods behind her. The motorcycle Lacey rented was parked in the woods at the entrance to the road, underneath a tall pine tree.
Someone was definitely home; a Range Rover was parked in the driveway. Lacey wasn’t sure what she was going to do if and when she got into the house, but she had to see if Monica was telling the truth about their mother collecting lace. She didn’t turn it around any further in her mind, she let it sit, untouched, like ambiguously dipping a toe in a swimming pool you were afraid to dive into. No matter what else, she just had to see a little piece of lace.
But it wasn’t until she was flattened in broad daylight against the side of their summer cabin, that she remembered Monica said “the Colonel” was a gun collector. The Colonel. What kind of ridiculous name was that? Every time she thought of it, a bucket of fried chicken and a heavily mustached man floated in front of her. Monica said he’d never even been in the armed forces because of a bum leg. Hey, maybe he’d get along with Kelly Thayler. Her father, “the Colonel,” air-gun manufacturer. Lacey had never shot a gun, but it was something she could picture herself doing. Especially now.
She edged along the side of the house, opposite the driveway. She should have asked Monica about dogs. Or an alarm system. But that would have raised suspicion. If Monica could see her now. She thought Lacey was visiting Alan at his work-site, and even then she was texting her twelve times a day. Lacey wasn’t texting back; she needed a break.
She reached the back of the house by scooting over like a suicidal maniac on the ledge of a twenty-story building. There she encountered an enclosed porch. Lacey reached for the door before she could talk herself out of it, reasoning that breaking and entering, from the force of the word “breaking” alone, should be quick and decisive.
The door opened. If any kind of alarm went off, Lacey couldn’t hear it. Maybe her deafness made her braver; sound, it seemed, went a long way in scaring people. The porch was adorned with wicker furniture, yellow-flowered cushions, and potted trees. Not plants, trees. They looked like palm trees, but it wasn’t warm enough for palm trees, was it? If they put a large sandbox back here and the Hollywood sign, they’d be in LA.
A broom and a dustpan were propped up beside the outside door. Directly across from it was the door leading to the inside. The three windows behind the wicker couch were sealed with shades. So much for peeking in. Other than the wicker couch, settee, and chairs, there were three end tables. They were all wiped clean except for the smallest one next to the couch; on it lay
The Architect of Your Soul.
Lacey wished she had a Sharpie marker with her. At least she knew she had the right house.
Now what? This was not a well-thought-out plan. Did
The Architect of Your Soul
have any advice? Don’t hesitate!? She didn’t have a lot of time; she didn’t want to leave the motorcycle there for long. What if a teenage cow from a nearby field got bored, wandered in, and tipped it over?
Someone could come out of or into the porch at any moment, from either door. She’d actually be safer in the house. Most likely the door to the inside would be locked anyway, and she had no intention of actually breaking the window, nor did she have any credit-card or bobby-pin tricks up her sleeve. It would be locked and she would go home. Or into the woods. Something about them felt so familiar. She remembered Monica saying she was afraid of the woods, yet another thing they didn’t have in common.
Again, fast, so she couldn’t change her mind, Lacey snuck up on the door, turned the knob, and gently pushed. It opened. Stunned it was that easy, Lacey stepped inside with a sense of giddiness she hadn’t felt since she was a little girl up to no good at Hillcrest. Lacey entered a small mudroom. It was crammed with coats, and shoes, and boots, and caps, yet there was a clear order to the chaos. A stacked washer and dryer combo sat to her left. The dryer was on; the flipping clothes looked like children jumping up and down in a bouncy hut. A sleeve waved at her, and she couldn’t help but wave back. She started laughing, then slapped her hand over her mouth, remembering hearing people could actually hear.
Were dryers loud? Hopefully, loud enough to mask any noises Lacey was inadvertently going to make. But the flip side was that someone, most likely her mother, would be back soon to check on the laundry. They didn’t seem like people who abandoned warm clothes. Just daughters. A single shelf ran along the entire wall close to the ceiling. It was neatly jammed with products: laundry detergent, softeners, mosquito repellent (no long-lost-daughter repellent, a purchase they were going to soon wish they had made?), WD-40, dish washing liquid, paper towels, toothpicks, BBQ lighter—
Lacey, darling. Someday this will all be yours.
Lacey felt her stomach rumble. She hadn’t eaten in over fifteen hours. She was suddenly starving. She didn’t want to pass out. Hell, who didn’t come to their parents’ house to raid the fridge? There was nothing edible on the shelves, and Lacey had no inclination to swallow the lighter fluid. Now, where did that come from? She actually pictured herself uncapping the bottle and drinking. Hunger was turning her pea brain into mashed peas.
The expansive kitchen was right off the mudroom. Where did these people get off calling it a “summer home”? The entire kitchen was bigger than the home Lacey grew up in. Okay, not quite, but definitely nicer. It had granite countertops, slate floors, subdued orange walls interspersed with ornate taupe tiles. Obviously a “professional decorator” had been hired for the little summer cabin, or Snow White had learned a thing or two about sprucing up other people’s places.
There was no food sitting on the counter, not even an obligatory bowl of fruit. She had to open either the double-decker stainless steel fridge or the cherry cabinets. There had to at least be a package of cookies or chips. Which would be quieter? Things from the fridge most likely had to be cooked. So even though she was in the mood for some big fat steak, she wasn’t about to fire up the grill. She wished Alan were here to see this, but since he wasn’t, she snapped some pictures with her BlackBerry. Lacey opened the fridge. It was jammed with Tupperware.
Lacey was standing in front of the refrigerator with her mouth full of the best potato salad she’d ever tasted, when a tall man with broad shoulders entered the room. But instead of a gun, her father was carrying a large shrub and a shovel. She turned toward him with a fork still sticking out of her mouth and the refrigerator door open.
“Monica,” she was pretty sure he said. She waved. He waved back with his rake. He wasn’t intimidating at all, this Colonel. She liked his energy. She looked like him around the mouth, and they had the same thin nose.
“Does your mother know you’re here?” Lacey nodded. He nodded back and held up the shrub. She gave him a thumbs-up. He started across the floor, stopped, turned. “Why skeicd sleid iekd that?” She was pretty sure he was looking at her clothes. She looked down at her ripped jeans, and tank top. She shrugged, rolled her eyes. He squinted at her. Then he blabbed some more. She didn’t catch a word of it. She winked. He laughed, shook his head, shook his finger at her. Then, he held up his shrub again and left.
 
Katherine and Richard Bowman pulled into their driveway and parked behind the Range Rover.
“John’s here,” Katherine said.
“I don’t see why we need another bush,” Richard said. “We’re surrounded by woods.”
“He gets them at a discount,” Katherine replied.
“He always leaves our back porch unlocked,” Richard said. They got out of the car and walked around to the back, each taking grocery bags out without saying any more. They headed into the house.
“I have to get the laundry out before it gets wrinkled,” Katherine said, setting the bags on the counter. Richard didn’t answer; he simply went about putting the groceries away. Katherine stopped short just before entering the mudroom. The clothes from the dryer were folded and sitting on top of her antique dry sink.
“Richard,” Katherine said. “I think John folded our laundry.” Richard was standing in front of the refrigerator, holding it open.
“He also wrote
HELLO
in the Jell-O,” Richard said.
“What?”
“He wrote
HELLO
in the Jell-O.”
“You’re joking.”
“Come see for yourself.” Katherine stood beside Richard and stared into the fridge. Sure enough,
HELLO
was clearly visible in the red pan of Jell-O she’d made just the other night.
“Is everything okay with him and Barb?” Katherine wondered out loud.
“Hello, folks!” Richard and Katherine turned to see John, sprinkled in dirt, carrying a shovel.
“I planted the bush just outside the porch, Mrs. B.,” he said.
“Thank you, John.”
“It’s going to grow like a weed.”
“Are you hungry, John?”
“No, no. The Mrs. and I are going out for brunch. Whatever that is. Personally I prefer lunch or dinner. I think she just uses it as an excuse to have a cocktail in the middle of the day!”
“John,” Richard said. “Did you fold our laundry?” John’s smiling face morphed into a pool of confusion. He glanced behind him at the folded clothes.
“Nope,” John said. “Must have been Monica.”
“Monica?” Katherine said. “Monica’s here?”
“She was. Found her standing in front of the fridge like you two are—”
“Oh, thank goodness,” Katherine said.
“Stuffing her face with potato salad.”
“She hates potato salad,” Katherine said. John shrugged.
“She’s a great woman,” John said. “You know, I didn’t think she really liked me. But today, we had a great little talk. I thought maybe all that fame would go to her head, but she’s a real down-to-earth girl, isn’t she?”
“She’s our joy,” Katherine said. “She wrote
hello
in the Jell-O.”
“I’m going up to the office,” Richard said.
“Where is Monica now?” Katherine said. “I didn’t see her car in the driveway.”
“You know,” John said. “Neither did I. Last I saw her, she was standing right where you are.”
“I hope she didn’t leave,” Katherine said. “I haven’t seen her in weeks.”
“I’m sure she’s around,” John said. “Otherwise wouldn’t she have written
good-bye
in the Jell-O?”
 
“Where are you?” Monica looked down at Rookie and Snookie, as if they could answer her mother’s question. Instead, they looked back up at her, whined, and then tugged on their leashes. She was walking around downtown Philadelphia. They’d already passed Lacey’s art studio several times. If Mike was up there, he certainly wasn’t popping out for lunch, or anything else. Why did she answer the phone? Her mother’s voice sounded full of panic as always. Had Monica forgotten some kind of family gathering?
BOOK: My Sister's Voice
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