“Positive.”
“Dad, how much? Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Because I didn’t want to upset you.” He shook the paper in his hand. “But this check…this check honors the exact dollar amount. Down to the last penny.”
Well. I sat with that information for a few days, going over it in my head. It didn’t take long for me to reason away Mel’s thievery.
So, she’d stolen from my dad? It was wrong, but I was sure she’d had her reasons. I was sure she wouldn’t have done it unless shereallyneeded it. I mean, Mel never really had a job growing up, except a brief summer she worked at a grocery store making minimum wage. And she returned the money, didn’t she?
Instead of alienating me like it probably should have, the check renewed my faith in my sister, which admittedly had been waning as the years passed with no contact. I knew she must have had a good reason for leaving. Hell, just getting out of Green Haven, the town with zero opportunities and way too many judgmental faces, was reason enough in my book. So, I filed away the return address—128 West Palm Lane—and my plan to leave town after graduation was formed. Nothing was going to stop me from finding my sister.
Which brings me to my current predicament—standing on Mel’s supposed doorstep, staring at the imposing wooden door, pleading and praying with whoever might be listening that she answers.
She has to be here. She has to be. I don’t have a plan B.
I ring the doorbell one more time, trying to ignore the way my hands are shaking. I tuck them behind my back, squeezing my fingers together until they ache, and wait.
Then it happens. Past the narrow windows on either side of the front door, a light flicks on. My heart slams against the inside of my chest,thump-thump-thump-thump-thump,and I hold my breath becausethis is it. This is the moment I’ve been dreaming of.
The door swings open, but it’s not my sister who stands in the doorway. Nope.
It’s a man.
An extremely pissed-off-looking man.
His eyes rake over me, and I can tell immediately that he’s not impressed by whatever he sees.
“It’s eleven-thirty at night,” he snaps. “Whatever the hell you’re selling, I’m not buying.”
And then, without warning, he starts to close the door in my face. There’s no time to talk myself out of it, so I throw out my hand, effectively preventing it from shutting. His mouth twists, but I beat him to whatever he’s about to say.
“I’m so sorry, Sir,” I say in a rush. “But my name is Violet James, and I’m looking for my sister, Melanie James? I was told she lives here…kind of. I’ve driven fourteen hours to find her, and it would be so disappointing if I got the address wrong. So, does she? Live here, I mean?”
I have no idea if any of what I said got through to the guy because his expression remains the same—annoyed—and there’s zero sign of recognition on his face at the mention of my sister’s name. That tiny, baby bit of doubt in my brain evolves into something much more intrusive.
His eyes scan my face and then slowly move down the rest of my body. When he works his way back up, I give him my most endearing smile, the one that gets me out of speeding tickets and makes men give me things. Only instead of melting like intended, he appears even more suspicious of my behavior.
He’s going to tell me to fuck off, I think, but hold my smile until my cheeks ache and my eyes water.
That’s probably why I’m not at all prepared for the next words that come out of his mouth.
“Melanie doesn’t have a sister.”
Um, what?
My smile falters. So does my grip, and this time he succeeds in slamming the door shut. I hear the lock turn, and seconds later, the light shuts off.
Standing in the dark, I stare at the closed door in disbelief. My mind replays his words until I’ve examined them from every angle imaginable.
Melanie doesn’t have a sister.
I arrive at a few possible conclusions.
The first and most promising deduction is that Mel does indeed live here. She must. Otherwise, why would this man know her? He could be her roommate, or her boyfriend, or her…I don’t want to think the word husband, but maybe. The familiar pang returns as I wonder if she got married and didn’t invite me.
And that brings me to the second, less encouraging assumption. This man has no clue who I am, which means that Mel’s never mentioned me. He didn’t recognize me from a photo, and my name didn’t ring any bells. Her roommate-boyfriend-husband doesn’t know I exist.
My hands start to shake, that painful feeling taking root in my chest and expanding down through my stomach as I stand in front of the dark front door. I debate knocking again, but I’m worried Mr. Pissed-Off will get the police involved, so I retreat down the driveway, already formulating a new plan.
