The bottle of wine is empty and the peanuts are half gone when my data plan finally runs out and I take a break. I have read through so much information, but all I have are more and more pieces of a puzzle I don’t understand.
MK-Ultra is a declassified CIA mind-control program; Survival, Evasion, Resistance, and Escape is military training to evade capture and resist torture; and Cardinal Mindszenty was Polish, an opponent of Communism, tortured during Stalin’s regime. This must be research for Ava’s next dark thriller. It’s not a clue, just a dead end.
With the data plan used up, my phone is good only for calls and texts, so I drop it into my bag and lean my head back, closing my eyes.
Why is my sister so obsessed with darkness? What drives her to write about serial killers and stalkers, hatred and obsession and loss? And the biggest question, the one I’ve never understood: why does she keep writing about me?
The sister who was my storyteller and my refuge began to rebuff me once she started school. Little by little, books and daydreams gave her the same distant expression I saw on my mother’s face. And the more Ava retreated inside herself, the more I battled for her attention. Sometimes it worked, like the time she slapped me for tearing pages out of a library book. I had a hundred percent of my sister for about five minutes then. Other times she just walked away, like I was behind a thick pane of glass, my mouth moving with no sound crossing over.
I was a senior in high school the first time I recognized myself in Ava’s words. Her debut novel had come out in galleys and my parents had a copy. I picked it up, hoping to learn something about the stranger my sister had become.
Instead, as the story unfolded, I began to notice details about one of the main characters, a criminal profiler.
This character was named Chloe—a name so close to Zoe as to be laughable. Ava was never quite that obvious again. Chloe had the same hair color as me, the same habit of saying “liberry” and “ax” instead of ask, things I did just to annoy Ava, and she shared my then-obsession with combat boots and long skirts. In one scene after Chloe leaves the room, the protagonist, a police detective named Natalie Wilson, says, “Someone that angry, she’s a ticking time bomb. I bet she can’t make it five years before she snaps and does something horrific, something violent.” And she did. The character became obsessed with the killer, joined forces with him, and then he killed her. Stupid, angry Chloe deserved to die. Was that what my sister really thought about me?
The wine has made my body warm, almost enough to blunt the memory of that first moment of betrayal. The things Ava was researching before she went missing, information on manipulation and cruelty, are just background to another story she’s writing where I’ll feature as the torturer or the victim. They’re meaningless now, nothing to do with her disappearance.
I don’t realize I am dozing off until a sound makes me startle. I drop my phone, knocking over the empty bottle.
The doorbell rings again, and I leap to my feet. For a moment I think about Glenn’s warning, about Ava and kidnappers. Then someone knocks on the door and there’s an echo, a smaller knock. The sound of a child knocking. My heart leaps with hope.
I race to unlock the door. When it swings open, Andrew is standing there, an overnight bag over his shoulder. At his side is Emma.
I can’t move.
“Lizzie!” and she is in my arms. This is all I have wanted to feel complete. I inhale deeply the sweet smell of her baby-fine hair, keeping my eyes on Andrew.
“We didn’t have a way to reach you.” He doesn’t put down his bag, instead standing back, like he is dropping Emma off at day care. “You left your phone with the police, and your parents have an unlisted number.”
“I’m sorry.” My arms tighten around Emma until she squeaks in protest. “I bought a disposable phone today. I tried to call you from the house phone. I was going to call you again.” I should have called him yesterday, when I actually bought the phone. I was afraid.
Now his eyes are kind. “I know this is earlier than we discussed. I’ve booked a hotel, but we thought we’d stop by here first.”
Will he invite me to stay with them? My pulse leaps with the desire to be forgiven.
“I want to see your room!” Lizzie lets her body go limp and swings in my arms. She trusts me so much right now. Someday she will know better, and I want to squeeze her close while I still can.
I glance up at Andrew, and something has softened in his expression. I decide to take a chance.
“Come in. My parents aren’t home yet, but I can make you a cup of coffee and we can wait for them.”
Everything holds still for a second; then he says, “That’s really why we came. To meet your family, I mean.” Something heavy in my chest warms and starts to melt. Despite everything being so strange, he is willing to try. He wants us to be together. Why else put himself and Emma through this?
As we step into the foyer, I remember all the times he and Emma and I walked through our own front door, back from afternoons at the park or dinners out. Did I value them enough, each one another moment that proved we were a family? I would give anything to relive even one of those mundane arrivals again.
Now Andrew looks past me, right at the chaise lounge, the empty bottle of wine. Oh God. It’s not even five o’clock.
“Actually.” He takes pity on me. “Where’s the restroom?”
I use those few minutes to toss out the wine bottle and the half-empty container of peanuts. Emma reappears first, since she now enjoys “my own privacy” in the bathroom, even if one of us waits outside the door just in case she does need help. Neither Andrew nor I really want her to grow up.
“Hi, Emma bean. Do you need something to drink?” I take her into the kitchen, where I run my empty wineglass under the faucet and slip it, dripping, back into a cabinet.
“Can I have a juice box?”
“Sorry, sweetie.” I know there’s nothing like a juice box in this house, but I open the fridge to confirm. “I can do orange juice in a cup or water.”
“Water with ice?”
“Deal.” I love this kind of negotiating, seeing her push for an advantage that I don’t mind giving. I’d give her all the juice boxes in the world, a thousand glasses of water with ice.
“Lizzie, I’m thirsty now.” I realize I have been standing there staring at her, the glass of water with its ice cubes in my hand.
“Sorry.” I hand her the glass, and she drinks from it greedily. I have to be careful. Loving someone this much is dangerous. That’s why I’m always holding back. I thought I loved Glenn, I think I love Andrew, but there is no doubt how much I love Emma. It’s too late. I’m all in. My chest tightens with fear.
Loving is the first step to losing.
As I stand in the kitchen with Emma, my breath comes quickly, but I can’t get any oxygen. My lungs seem to be getting smaller and smaller and each inhale hurts. I can hear Emma’s voice say my name, coming from far away. The room is rushing around me. I reach out with a hand and clutch at the fridge. I am going down.
Then someone else’s arms are under my own. Andrew’s voice says, “Easy. Bend your knees.”
I sit on the floor. No air. I can’t breathe. Through the blur of tears in my eyes, I see Andrew come closer. Then his hands come together over my face.