She brushes off my attempt to hug her. “Don’t try to get me to play interference. He’s pissed. You need to change,” she says with a flick of her hair. Her eyes are green like our father’s, and they roll as she glances toward his study. “You should have answered his calls. We’re already running late. Get dressed. Wear something nice. We needed to leave ten minutes ago.”
Elizabeth studies her reflection in the mirror, brushing back stray locks of hair and fixing the line of her lip gloss, so she doesn’t see me struggle to contain the rush of sadness that spears through me. When we were little, everything had been so easy. I’d loved being a big sister, watching out for her, teaching her new things and knowing absolutely everything about each other. I’d been there for every day of her life. Now, we’re more like strangers than sisters, and it’s as though I lost two people instead of one when our mother died.
“Do you want to help me get ready?” The words tumble from my lips, awkward and uncertain. The last thing I want is her scrutiny before what is no doubt going to be a long, long night under our father’s. But a part of me longs for the people we used to be before the world stamped them out.
She shakes her head, glossy dark blond waves floating around her shoulders. “No, but be quick, or he’s going to leave without you. Whoever we’re meeting must be important. He’s pacing around like there’s an alligator on his ass.”
I give her a jerky nod, not quite meeting her gaze, and take the stairs two at a time up to my room. A glance back shows her watching my ascent with an unreadable expression, and I force my eyes forward because if I don’t, I’m afraid of what she’ll read on my face.
Since Mom’s death, everything between us has been different. We haven’t been close since we outgrew the innocence of childhood, but now there’s a space the size of the Grand Canyon between us. Like we speak different languages, or are people who used to be close but haven’t seen each other in a long time even though we live in the same house. She has Father to turn to because she’s always been his favorite, but he’s always been the hardest on me.
I race through my room, stripping off my jeans and T-shirt and dressing in a long-sleeved, figure-skimming pink midi. I pair it with some basic nude heels and a nude clutch, stuffing my phone in it as I glide back downstairs. Elizabeth waits with Father, her face carefully blank of her earlier amusement. The last thing I want to do is go to some stuffy dinner so he can schmooze, but I’ll suck it up to learn more about the people he’s close to, no matter the risk or how much it pisses him off.
“If you’re determined to tag along, you could at least be on time,” comes my father’s brusque voice. “So help me God, Catriona, if you ruin this for me, I will not be responsible for the consequences.”
Sweet man, our father.
On the outside, he doesn’t seem like he’s rotten to the core, but I guess they never do. I can’t remember a time when I wasn’t afraid of him. When we were young, Mom did a good job ofshielding us from his anger and violent mood swings, but there was only so much she could do.
What makes me sick to my stomach is how much the three of us look alike. Same blond hair and general face structure, though mine is a little more pointed. Elizabeth got his dimpled chin. The only thing that sets me apart from them is my hazel eyes, which I inherited from my mother. If you didn’t look closely, Elizabeth and I could be twins.
As I bite back a scathing retort, he’s already stalking out the door to where a sleek black G-wagon waits. I frown, realizing there’s no driver as he climbs into the driver’s seat. I know better than to ask, so I keep my mouth shut as I take a seat behind him. Elizabeth slides into the passenger seat. It shouldn’t make me so goddamn lonely, but it does. It has always been the two of them, and now it is them… and me. It’s not her fault; he’s always preferred her. A fact of life that never emphasized my isolation until Mom died.
“You look perfect, as always, angel,” he tells Elizabeth, as he whips us into traffic. He takes her hand and kisses her knuckles. Why does he reserve his biting words and punishments for me? God knows, I’ve spent years of my life trying to figure it out, but there’s nothing I’ve ever done to deserve the treatment he directs my way.
“Thank you, Daddy,” she replies with a small smile. I turn away from them, studying the growing darkness outside my window and hoping the evening will pass quickly. “Did you let him know we’re running late?” Elizabeth asks, and I wonder if she’s trying to distract him from more scathing retorts.
Frequent events and socializing aren’t out of the norm. We’re often required to attend galas and luncheons and charity events of all kinds. But on short notice? No, something has my stomach clenching with nerves that has nothing to do with my meeting with Mr. Broussard and its harrowing aftermath.
If this were a decade ago, I would have reached for Elizabeth’s hand and squeezed it three times in rapid succession. Our silent way of saying I love you. She would have turned hers over to lace our fingers together and squeezed mine three times in return. Is it possible to mourn a person when they’re still alive? Ever since Mom died, it hasn’t felt the same, no matter how much I try to connect with her.
Because I believe there’s more to the story.
And Elizabeth believes the police and wants us to move on with our lives.
“I planned to leave earlier than expected just in case.” He meets my gaze in the rearview mirror during a momentary pause in traffic. Then it flicks over to Elizabeth in warning. “Whatever happens tonight, keep your mouths shut unless you’re spoken to.”
It’s said to me, but Elizabeth and I both respond, “Yes, Father,” although she’s not really paying attention. She’s scrolling through her feed, the light washing over her face.
Too soon, though it’s probably been a good half hour weaving through evening traffic, we pull onto Burgundy Street and park in public parking, which Father grumbles about under his breath. He makes impatient sounds as we climb out of the car and follow his ground-eating stride down the sidewalk to a sage-green corner townhome that has me sighing in… regret? Jealousy?
It has to be a recently restored, absolutely stunning historic 1800s Gallier Creole-style building. I try not to gape at the wraparound balcony on the second floor and the private fenced-in courtyard. If I were to get my own place, it would be something like this. Right in the center of the bustling city I love so much. Smaller than the estate we used to own, but so New Orleans that it makes my heart squeeze.
Elizabeth takes several deep breaths and plasters a smile on her face as we step up to the front door. She ruffles her hair and checks her makeup in her phone camera. I should probably do the same, but I honestly don’t care. All I can think about is getting home and sleeping for at least twelve hours. I do check my phone to see if there are any updates from Mr. Broussard, but there’s only a Supernatural meme from Yasmine and a request to finally let her loop Reggie into my investigation. I wish I could, but I don’t want to drag anyone else into my mess besides the ones I already have. At least not until we have something more concrete.
My father strides to the front door and knocks imperiously, his complexion turning increasingly gray, which makes me frown. What could he possibly have to be worried about? He steps into the light, and I swear he has bruises under his eyes.
Walking a few feet behind Elizabeth, I resolve to keep my cool. I won’t let anything that happens get to me. Chances are, tonight will have nothing to do with my mother. I’ll survive a boring dinner, then pore over the folder Mr. Broussard gave me to see if it contains any leads.
Soon, an older woman with soft brown hair and a round face answers the door and immediately welcomes us in. “Senator Gallagher, so glad you could make it. He is waiting for you in the dining room. If you’ll follow me?”
It’s a trap. My instincts scream at me to make an excuse and get the fuck away, but Elizabeth has a death grip on my arm, so all I can do is follow them. Legs leaden. Heart racing. Something inside me senses it despite there being no outward threat. I tell myself I’m being foolish, but I keep my guard up, just in case.
Whoever this guy is, he must be important. Pondering this and who the mysterious host could be, I follow Elizabeth as the older woman, who introduces herself as Frances, welcomes us into a small foyer. The walls are distressed plaster over exposedbrick in an aged cream color for most of the shared left wall. Directly in front of us is a narrow set of stairs, and beyond that, another doorway and what looks like a mudroom.
Elizabeth’s shoes echo on the slate flooring as we move deeper inside, passing a roomy kitchen with lots of windows, more exposed brick, and another sea of slate floors.
We march in a single file behind Frances because the tight space of the hallway doesn’t offer room for much else. I, naturally, fall in line at the back. Father disappears through the open double doors to our right, behind Frances, and then Elizabeth. I hesitate in the hall, something forcing my steps to a halt, somehow knowing that if I step over the threshold, something terrible waits on the other side.
