Dead Ringer

10

"You look terrible."

I glared at Clarissa across the greasy table as a waitress set two plates of French toast down in front of us.

"Of course I look terrible," I said as she walked away. "I was up until two getting accused of sabotaging my own car and then finding a new mechanic who wasn't a total creep."

She ignored the silent And it's all your fault that I threw in. "Sabotage? What do you mean?"

I snorted, taking an obnoxiously large bite of toast. "Please, like it wasn't all your plan to have me meet Donovan and Ciar in one night."

Clarissa froze, a syrupy square of bread dangling from her fork halfway between her plate and her mouth. "You met Ciar last night?"

"Yeah, and don't tell me you didn't take my starter...thingy, knowing the garage he works at was the closest one to the gallery."

"I didn't," she said. "I would have rather you never met Ciar at all."

"Why?" I leaned forward without waiting for her answer. "It's because he's dangerous, isn't it?"

"It's because this investigation has nothing to do with him."

"Well maybe it should."

Clarissa sat up straighter, eyeing me keenly. "Why? Did he say something?"

"No, he's just creepy as hell. And it was his boat you caught the signal from out in Provincetown."

"I already told you he wasn't on the boat," Clarissa said sternly.

"Yeah, but you can't even tell me if Tilda was," I shot back.

"That's different," she said immediately. "Ciar had an alibi. Your sister didn't."

"But she wouldn't do something like that," I insisted, unsure who I was trying to convince as Donovan's words from last night flitted through my mind. "Would she?"

I felt like a specimen under her analyzing gaze as she put down her fork. "What's this really about, Maisye?"

I bit my lip, my knuckles whitening around my knife. It shouldn't matter. Tilda obviously hadn't cared about me, not even enough to mention me to her fiancé. Why should I care about her?

But I knew why. It was because we'd been through everything together. She was the only person who understood why I was the way I was, and I'd always thought she'd be there for me when I needed her. And then she wasn't—that night on the Golden Gate Bridge, she wasn't.

I'd tried to contact her, I'd yearned to hear her voice so badly that I'd almost thrown myself into the bay—and she had the nerve to pretend I'd never existed?

"Why didn't you tell me she changed her name?" I burst out. "Why didn't you tell me no one here knew who I was? Why didn't you tell me anything?"

She pursed her lips at my volume. The waitress glanced our way as she stopped at a nearby table, but I ignored her.

"You knew. I know you did. You know everything. You even knew how I met Mark. Don't tell me you didn't know about Tilda." I narrowed my eyes, trying to channel all of the accusatory arrogance Ciar had last night.

"Maisye...." She sighed, watching the line at the counter inch forward. "Be honest. If you'd known, would you have accepted?"

"Yes," I said immediately.

"Think about it," she returned.

Would I have leapt on board an investigation into my sister's potential murder—not to mention the disappearance of three women who looked remarkably like her—if I'd known she hated me enough to strike me out of her entire life?