The Better Sister Page 18

  “No, of course not.”

  “A client then?”

  Catherine coughed, a gentle nudge that my curiosity was bordering on rudeness. She, of course, had no idea that Jake was anything to me other than one of Adam’s former coworkers. After that final year of secrets with Adam, I had gotten so comfortable with Jake that I almost forgot that, when push came to shove, I was still a liar.

  Catherine and Jake left shortly after dinner to make it back to the city.

  “You sure Catherine’s okay to drive?” Nicky asked, closing the door, newly unadorned, behind them.

  “Please, Catherine hasn’t driven herself since 1986.” It was only a slight exaggeration. I knew for a fact that she had her housekeeper take the Porsche around the block once a week to keep the battery from dying.

  “Must be nice,” Nicky said.

  I began loading the dishwasher and then paused to pour another splash of Barbaresco.

  “You sure you’re going to be okay for court tomorrow?” she asked, eyeing the glass in my hand.

  I knew I had been drinking more than usual since everything happened with Adam and Ethan, but I never thought I’d see the day that Nicole Taylor, of all people, was lecturing me on my consumption.

  “Honestly? No. And I could drink an entire case of this heavenly nectar, and it wouldn’t make one lick of a difference, one way or another. But, yes, I’ll be able to do whatever I need to do tomorrow.”

  “You’ve always been good at handling anything thrown at you,” she said. “You’ll be fine.”

  We worked side by side in silence, me loading dishes while she cleared the counters and hand-washed the pans.

  “I keep thinking about when the trial started and you told Olivia you were willing to put yourself on the stand and say you were the one who did it. Did you really mean that?”

  “A hundred percent. I’d do anything for Ethan. I mean, wouldn’t you?”

  Of course I would. I would switch places with Ethan in a heartbeat, if it was possible. But it was Nicky who had thought of the possibility, not me.

  “I’m sorry I never realized how much you cared about him.” My voice was low, and I cleared a lump that had formed in my throat. “I think it was easier for me to do what I did if I believed that you didn’t really want him.”

  When I looked up, she was staring at me. Her sudsy hands dripped over the sink as hot water ran. “Wanting him,” she said, as if the words were foreign. “That’s really only a question when you first get pregnant, and, yeah, Adam and I thought about it. But once Ethan was born, it was never a question of want or not want. He was there. This little person. This new, amazing, unformed, demanding little guy was there. And he needed me. He needed . . . so much. And every single day, I felt like I was giving everything I was able to give him, and it was never going to be enough.” She wiped her face with the back of one of her hands, allowing the tears that were forming to blend with the dampness on her skin. “So, yes, I mean it when I say I’d do anything for Ethan. Going to prison for him would be way easier than it was to give him up so Adam could raise him without me. But . . . like you pointed out, they’d see my cell phone was in Cleveland, and it would only make Ethan’s case worse.”

  I dropped a cleaning pod in the dishwasher, closed the door to run it, and took another sip of my wine. I knew I’d had too much, but I was past the point of caring.

  “You were so quick to realize they’d be able to disprove it,” Nicky said.

  “Too many crime TV shows.”

  “No, but that’s okay. I know you. You’ve always assumed the worst of me.”

  “No, I don’t. What are you even talking about?”

  “Just don’t, Chloe. Okay? I’m fine with it. You checked my cell phone records. Or had the police do it. Or something. But it was obvious to me when you were immediately like, ‘Don’t be stupid. They’ll pull your phone records.’”

  My first instinct was to deny it, but I wanted to stop repeating the same old patterns that had kept us practically estranged for a decade and a half. “I’m sorry,” I said. “Adam had just been killed. I didn’t know who I could trust.”

  She shook her head. “Like I said, it’s fine. I actually get it.”

  We reached the point where the kitchen could not be any cleaner short of a power wash before either of us spoke again.

  “Do you even remember when we used to be close?” she asked. “And I know, you hate talking about the past. ‘So much drama,’” she said, impersonating me.

  “I am an emotional robot, after all.” How many times had she called me that when I refused to reminisce about our childhood? I pushed past my first instinct and forced myself to answer her question. “And, yes, I remember. You used to rush home from school, ignoring the kids playing kickball in the street and Four Square on the corner, just so you could see me.” I would wait for her at the window starting a few minutes after three, like a dog waiting for its owner to return. She would take me to the park and push me on the merry-go-round until I screamed for her to stop, even as I giggled wildly. And when it was raining or too cold even for a couple of Cleveland girls, she’d put price tags on a bunch of stuff in the living room and we would play store. It was her way of teaching me how to add and subtract. I wasn’t sure whether I really remembered those early scenes or if the memories had been ingrained from all the times Nicky had reminded me of them.

  “I was ten years old, and my best friend was a four-year-old. It was probably an early sign of stunted growth,” she said dryly.

  “Remember when Mom would make us say our prayers at night, and I’d get all scared?”

  I had forgotten how much I loved Nicky’s belly laugh. “You were terrified every single night that the Lord wouldn’t give you your soul back.”

  Now I lay me down to sleep, I pray the Lord my soul to keep, if I should die before I wake, I pray the Lord my soul to take. Why do we force children to recite something so utterly terrifying?

  I had never learned to pray until I was eight years old because my parents didn’t go to church until Dad joined AA.

  “I was so scared,” I recalled. “But then you changed the words for me: ‘If I should die before I wake, I’ll wait for you at Wallace Lake.’” It was still a creepy thought, but at least Nicky and I would be together in a familiar place.

  She broke out into an amused smile, as if she had a private joke. “You have the worst memory—”

  “No, I don’t.”

  “Not about everything, but it’s like you’ve got holes in your brain when it comes to Cleveland. It was definitely Shadow Lake, because that’s where my friends and I would sneak off on weekends to drink and get high. It was my way of being a wiseass about the fact we had to pray because Dad wanted to stop drinking.”

  “I missed the joke,” I said, feeling slightly sad about her correction.

  She shrugged. “Besides, you’re the one who liked Wallace Lake for that fishing thing they did for little kids every year. You probably switched them in your head over the years.”

  I replayed both versions of the rhyme in my head and realized that she was right. It was “I’ll wait for you at Shadow Lake.”

  “Don’t look so bummed,” she said. “I’ve seen how you like your wine. It would be a much better afterlife than sitting around waiting for your sister to die, too.”

  “Good point,” I said. She also had a point about my childhood memory having selective gaps. “How long did the prayer phase last?”

  “My whole ninth-grade year, into the summer before he fell off the wagon.” Eventually sobriety took, but not on our father’s first try. By the time the program worked for him, he seemed to focus more on the actual steps than making the rest of us go to church. Nicky moved into the family room and sat down on the sofa. “Do you even remember him drinking?”

  Usually I would take a moment like this as my cue to turn in for the night, but I found myself wanting to continue the conversation. Carrying my wine, I joined Nicky on the couch.
“Sure. Like if I came home and could hear the Stones playing from the sidewalk, I knew we’d probably find him with a beer in his hand.”

  “It was never one beer, Chloe. He’d go through a twelve-pack. Mom would be so embarrassed to take the cans back for the deposits that she’d make the two of us do it. Don’t you remember that?”

  “Maybe.” Did I? The cans, yes. That they were beer? Not really.

  “Mom and I hated how much you loved him.”

  The statement was shocking in its clarity. I set my wine on the table. “I don’t even know how to process that, Nicky.”

  “It’s fine, you were young. Way too young to understand. But you’d get so happy when he’d crank up the music and grab you and dance in circles. But Mom and I knew that his version of a party was only beginning. Don’t you remember how on those nights in particular, she’d make a point of getting you into your pajamas and putting you to bed early? She and I would lower the music a little tiny bit at a time—enough so you could fall asleep, but not so Dad would notice what we were doing and get mad. I’ve never asked you this, but do you even remember him hitting Mom?”

  I nodded. “Of course.” Only a few times, always when he was drunk. I couldn’t actually picture the images in my head. Did I see it? Or only hear it? Somehow, I knew it had happened.

  “So why were you always so much closer to him than to her?”

  I honestly didn’t know. I had never even thought of it that way. “Is that even up to a kid? It was more like he was the one who decided to be close to me. She wasn’t.”

  “Because she was always trying to manage Dad. You couldn’t see that? You didn’t see how miserable she was?”

  “Of course I did. But at the time, I thought it couldn’t be that bad, or she’d leave him. It seemed more like she was using him as an excuse for everything that was wrong with her.” I had spent my whole career writing about the power imbalance between men and women and never realized what a hypocrite I was when it came to my own family.

  “Like what you think about me?”

  How many times had I told Nicky that she had to stop blaming her crappy childhood for her failings as an adult? “No,” I said quietly. “At least, not anymore.”

  “You never understood that you and I basically had different parents. I remember Dad kicking the crap out of Mom while she was huddled in a ball on the floor. I remember him coming home wasted, crawling into my bed, and putting his hand in my panties, thinking I was Mom.”

  “Oh, Nicky.” All this time, my instinct had been to silence her. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”

  “You didn’t want to know. But it’s all right. I get it now. Believing you had a good dad who wanted all of the best things for you allowed you to be who you are now. It’s what made you so ambitious. And you’re probably right I used him as an excuse to fuck up a good decade and a half of my life.”

  I could hear the whir of the “whisper-quiet” dishwasher from the kitchen. “What happened that night in the pool with Ethan, Nicky?”

  She shook her head. “It was the worst night of my life, and I don’t remember any of it.”

  As promised, I managed to wake up and put on my trial face, despite all the wine. When I opened the pantry door to grab some bread for avocado toast, a wild, high-pitched cackle pierced the silence. The battery-activated novelty vampire shook from the overhead light, mocking my gullibility.

  Nicky was smirking when she joined me a few minutes later, but the tone of her voice was serious. “Hey, I thought you might want to see this. Jake is quoted. And it’s about that company you said Adam kept mentioning.”

  She handed me her iPad. It was open to a short article in the business section of the New York Times. As if reading my mind, Nicky said, “I read everything. One of the upsides of insomnia and not being a pharmaceutical garbage can anymore.”

  Three days earlier, according to the article, “the Gentry Group, a publicly traded powerhouse in the energy, health-care, and industry sectors, updated its SEC filings to disclose that the London-based company had reserved 400 million pounds for a potential settlement with the DOJ and SEC after receiving notice that certain conduct in countries outside the United States might violate the Federal Corrupt Practices Act or other antibribery laws.”

  There was a quote from Rives & Braddock attorney Jake Summer: “The Gentry Group is conducting an internal investigation and also plans to cooperate with all investigative agencies. It updated its financial reports in the interest of complete transparency but are confident that any irregularities will be limited in scale and scope in relation to the substantial business operations it oversees globally.”

  Nowhere in the article did it mention the name Adam Macintosh, his connection to the Gentry Group, or the fact that he had been murdered six months earlier.

  28

  Word had gotten out that I was expected to testify that day. While the number of cameras in front of the courthouse had dropped over the course of the trial to one or two on an average day, we were greeted by a thick flock of media when we pulled to the curb in front of the squat concrete building.

  I was preparing myself mentally to push my way through the crowd as they yelled out questions when I felt the car suddenly accelerate again. In the driver’s seat, Nicky was already on her cell phone. I heard her side of the conversation only, first reporting the crowd outside, and then a series of yeahs and uh-huhs.

  “Olivia said she’ll have some deputies meet us at a back entrance.”

  I nodded, still feeling rattled by the sight of the press frenzy. “Well done.”

  “See, you’re not the only Taylor sister who can take care of business,” she said with a small smile.

  Look at me. As Nunzio asked question after question, all I could think was Look at me, Ethan. Why aren’t you looking at me? The jury sees you. You come off like you’re ashamed. You look guilty.

  Olivia leaned over and whispered something in Ethan’s ear. A few seconds later, his eyes lifted and locked with mine. I swallowed back a gasp before it could escape my mouth, and then asked Nunzio if he could please repeat the question.

  “Is it fair to say that the success of your Them Too series of articles increased your public profile?”

  I answered in the affirmative.

  “How so?”

  Olivia objected to the vagueness of the question, which was sustained.

  “For example, do you now get stopped for autographs when you are out and about in public?”

  “I have stopped going out into public whenever possible,” I said. “For reasons that are probably obvious,” I added, looking out at the reporters and miscellaneous onlookers who filled the courtroom.

  “Prior to your husband’s death, however, and after the success of your Them Too series: during this time, were you asked for autographs?”

  The question made him look petty, and for that I was grateful. “Maybe less than a handful of times.”

  “Time magazine listed you as one of the top hundred most influential people of the year?”

  “Yes, along with some other journalists. We were part of a group chosen to highlight the power of the First Amendment.”

  “In fact, you were also lauded by Glamour, Cosmo, Vanity Fair, and Vogue as a trailblazer last year.”

  “Not at my asking,” I clarified. “I run a much smaller rival magazine, and I’m convinced they all did it to get under my skin.”

  The quiet laughter appeared to break Nunzio’s rhythm momentarily. He didn’t want me to be likable. I was going to prove him wrong. I needed this jury to love me so much that they couldn’t possibly believe that I would raise a boy who would kill his father.

  “You were interviewed by New York magazine for tips to your success?”

  “That’s correct. It’s a series for The Cut called ‘How I Get it Done.’”

  “You did a piece with the New York Times about how you spend your Sundays?”

  “Yes.”

  After I responded in t
he affirmative about my book deal and a few additional accolades, Judge Rivera nudged things along. “I think the jury gets the idea,” she said dryly.

  “Not all of the effects of the publicity have been positive, though, have they? I’m speaking specifically about your experiences on social media. How would you describe those?”

  I had no idea where he was going with this line of questioning, but I tried to use it as an opportunity to connect once again with the jury. I told them how I was nervous about using social media professionally at first. “I was a bit of an old soul, I suppose, chasing a career in traditional print publishing as a very young person, only to see it transformed so quickly once I had a foot in the door. But I’ve gotten the hang of it. Readers like to see the person behind the written word. My most popular Instagram posts are the ones of our gigantic cat, Greedy Panda.”

  “You get some negative feedback as well, though.” Nunzio didn’t even phrase it as a question.

  “Yes. Comes with the territory, I’m told.”

  “You’ve even received threats, correct?”

  “Yes. In fact, when Adam was killed, I expected the police to investigate—”

  Nunzio cut my answer off as nonresponsive.

  “Based on a review of your social media posts, it appears that you sometimes respond to these comments?”

  “Rarely. It’s a new world out there. Some people think the best tactic is a good public shaming, but I usually end up ignoring them.”

  “But you read the feedback?”

  “Not every single comment, but yes, I skim through.”

  Nunzio walked to his counsel table and picked up a piece of paper from a series of stacked piles. “I apologize in advance, but are these comments fairly representative of the negative end of your social media spectrum? ‘She’s full of herself. Totally fake.’ ‘Man-hating repressed dyke.’ ‘Someone needs to shut her mouth with a’ and then they use a crude term for a man’s genitals. This is part of your usual social media interactions?”

  A few of the jurors winced. The woman who worked at the outlet mall gasped out loud. Olivia and I had been planning to introduce this evidence to suggest that a stranger may have targeted our house. Nunzio appeared to be putting it out there before we could.