I manage a weak smile. “I won’t. I’m grateful to you for helping me with this.”
He pushes to his feet and gives me a nod, mustache twitching. “I’ll be in touch when I’ve gone through the rest of this. I wanted to keep you apprised of my progress so far.”
I get to my feet as well, relief swamping me at the thought of finally having someone else on my side. “Thank you again for meeting with me. I appreciate it.” I tuck the folder under my arm, already dying to pore through it like I would one of my textbooks.
“No, you keep it. Let me know if any of it jogs your memory. Take care of yourself, Ms. Catriona.”
“You too, Mr. Broussard.”
Stay positive, I tell myself as I order and wait for my Uber. The good news is we’re making progress. He has accomplished more than I was able to in the past six months. There’s a strange number as a lead, and he’ll finally get access to the police reports and evidence. I couldn’t very well ask for it without my father throwing an apoplectic fit.
The driver makes awkward small talk once I fold into his car. He tries to hint about my identity, but I deftly evade his questions. Thank you, media training. Finally, he falls silent, and I let my eyes slide closed, then immediately they snap openas the flashbacks hit, and panic surges through me. Digging my hand into my chest, I try to ease my thumping heart.
I bang my forehead on the window, trying to get ahold of myself, and then realize the time. I’ve missed my trusts and wills class. Because of course I did. I’d say that was an uncommon occurrence, but it’s not the only time I’ve missed it this week. I make a mental note to email my professor as I check my location and estimate the distance to our house.
The blare of my cell phone interrupts my thoughts, causing my heart to slam against my ribs, and I nearly jump a foot in the air.
It’s Elizabeth, finally returning my dozens of calls. I answer it and press the phone to my ear, forcing my voice to remain calm so I don’t draw undue attention from the driver, who’s already studying me in the rearview. Maybe it’s a good thing she didn’t answer my attempts to reach her. Perhaps I should keep this little investigation to myself.
“Why were you blowing up my phone?” she says without so much as a hello.
“Bethie, hey,” I say, thinking fast for an excuse. “How are you?”
There’s a long pause. “You called to ask how I am?” Elizabeth’s disbelief bleeds through the line. “And don’t call me Bethie. I’m not five.”
“I called because I’m heading home in time for dinner, believe it or not. I wanted to see if you’d like me to pick you up anything from Antoine's.”
“You’re being weird.” There’s a rustling of clothes and the sound of lips smacking like she’s checking her lipstick. “Besides, I have dinner plans with one of Dad’s friends tonight.”
Red flags go up in my mind. “Which friend?” Could it be someone who knew something about our mother?
“How the hell should I know? I don’t keep track,” Elizabeth asks, drawing my attention back from my exhaustive mental list of suspects. Father’s friends. His staff. Her known associates. Father.
“You know what? I’ll be home in a few minutes. Why don’t I go with you guys?”
“Is something going on with you? You’re starting to freak me out. It’s a stupid family dinner with one of his old friends. It’ll probably be boring. You’re lucky you don’t have to go.”
But those old friends may have insight into my mother, and with so few clues, I can’t let an opportunity to gather more information pass me by. I lament the traffic in front of me, sending my Uber driver mental signals to hurry the hell up.
“We never get to spend time together anymore,” I babble with fake laughter. I’ll go with you to keep you company. Don’t let him leave without me. I’ll be home in a few minutes.”
“We’re about to leave, you don’t have to?—”
“Two minutes. Stall for me!”
***
“That was longer than two minutes,” Elizabeth says when I rush through the door. “He’s about to lose his mind. You know how he despises being late. Where have you been?”
Elizabeth latches onto my arm, and I shove all thoughts of Mom and my meeting with Mr. Broussard to the back of my mind. The last thing I want is for her to ask more questions—or to have to reveal where I was and who I met. I concluded the rest of the ride over here that it’s best if I keep her out of the loop regarding my investigation until I have concrete proof. I want the sister I used to have when we were kids, and springing this on her won’t win me any favors.
I note her blue Alexander McQueen A-line dress with an asymmetrical hemline for the first time. In it, she looks every bit a beautiful girl of eighteen, and I stifle the knot in my throat atthe wish that things could have been different. In an alternate reality, she’d be a normal girl, excited about college and the future. But with Rory Gallagher for a father, she was doomed from the start.
“I had a meeting with an advisor.” That is the story I concocted when I first met Mr. Broussard. The perfect excuse to see him whenever I need to go over anything regarding the case. “I didn’t know you cared so much. Aww, Bethie, I love you, too.”
“I don’t get what your deal is. You never come to these kinds of things. You hate anything to do with Dad’s campaigns or his friends. Why do you even want to come with us anyway?”
“I’m starting to get offended that you don’t want to spend time with me,” I say, surprised to find the statement rings true.
