The Wrong Sister, page 1
THE STRANGER IN THE MIRROR
“You know the intersection on Regent? Down by the stadium?” I asked her.
“Do you mean the star intersection? Where all those side roads meet and everybody’s turning? Bike paths crossing? Yes, I know it. I’m surprised it’s not blocked with accidents every day.”
“Me too,” I said. “I guess drivers are extra careful. Knowing the dangers, I mean. That’s where this whole thing got started.”
“At the intersection?” Andy Anderson asked. “When was this?”
“A little more than a week or so ago,” I said. “That’s when I saw her for the first time.”
“Who, Tess?” Sally asked. “Who did you see for the first time?”
I looked at Anderson. His face was a stony mask. He’d heard my story and wasn’t buying a word of it. I turned back to Sally. I could tell she already knew the answer. She just needed to hear it from me.
“I was in my car, waiting for traffic to move, when I saw her. She was coming out of Hotel Red.” I took another sip of water. I knew what this sounded like.
“Who was coming out?” Sally asked.
“Me,” I said. “I saw myself come out of the hotel, cross the street, and walk right on by.”
THE WRONG SISTER
T. E. WOODS
KENSINGTON BOOKS
www.kensingtonbooks.com
All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.
Table of Contents
THE STRANGER IN THE MIRROR
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Acknowledgments
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 20
CHAPTER 21
CHAPTER 22
CHAPTER 23
CHAPTER 24
CHAPTER 25
CHAPTER 26
CHAPTER 27
CHAPTER 28
CHAPTER 29
CHAPTER 30
CHAPTER 31
To the extent that the image or images on the cover of this book depict a person or persons, such person or persons are merely models, and are not intended to portray any character or characters featured in the book.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
KENSINGTON BOOKS are published by
Kensington Publishing Corp.
119 West 40th Street
New York, NY 10018
Copyright © 2018 by T. E. Woods
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.
Kensington and the K logo Reg. U.S. Pat. & TM Off.
eISBN-13: 978-1-4967-1275-2
eISBN-10: 1-4967-1275-7
First Kensington Electronic Edition: March 2018
ISBN: 978-1-4967-1274-5
This book, like everything I do,
is dedicated to my man.
He knows who he is.
Acknowledgments
I have endless gratitude for all those who’ve dedicated their time and talent to making this book a reality. Here’s to you, Toni Streckert, for sharing wine; mulling ideas; and not chalking it up to merlot when we posited a woman, stalled in traffic, seeing herself walk out of a hotel. To Ron Webster, my favorite Madison cop, who schooled me on procedure and somehow got his points across despite my constant distraction by his stunning good looks. To my writing group, The Fictionistas. Your unerring insights and critiques are the lifeblood of every word I pen. To Barbie Simons and Judy Knoll. I should get you uniforms and pom-poms, so rapacious is your support. To my brilliant agent, Victoria Skurnick, whose take-no-prisoners honesty gives me guidance, courage, and confidence. To my editor, Wendy McCurdy. Where did you get that memory? That ear? That nose for sniffing out what stays and what goes? Can you share? Oh, wait . . . you do! A special toast to my family and friends, who tolerate my long disappearances into the writer’s isolation. Thanks for welcoming me back into the fold each time I resurface. And finally, but never meagerly, here’s to Lance. I’ll never know what I’ve done to deserve the support, protection, and comfort you give me every, every, every day. It’s faint reimbursement to tell you I acknowledge and appreciate all you are and all you do. I thought I loved you on our wedding day. Oh! What a tiny seed that feeling was. You are my person.
CHAPTER 1
I’d been in a police station before. When I was ten. I’d left my bike propped against a tree while I ran in to the neighborhood library to return some books. I figured it would take less than a minute and I didn’t want the hassle of locking it up. But Mary Ann Dunnick was at the return desk, trying to impress the librarian by naming all the state capitals. Mary Ann sat next to me in Mrs. Asher’s fifth-grade class. Always trying to get me in trouble passing notes or copying off my papers. She once made up a rumor that George Lyster kissed me on the spring field trip to Camp Randall Stadium. That was a stinking lie and she knew it. I remember being so angry I could have punched her right in that pearl-button nose she was so proud of. When I complained to my dad, he told me to rise above it. He says things like that a lot. I know what he meant by that now . . . what with my thirtieth birthday coming up fast . . . but back in fifth grade? When somebody said you kissed a boy? Well, there was no rising above that. That kind of wound sticks. From that day forward I’ve had to willfully remind myself that anything bad happening in the world . . . from Ebola outbreaks to that whole Real Housewives TV franchise . . . isn’t necessarily the work of Mary Ann Dunnick.
Anyway, back to my earlier visit to a police station. Like I said, my in-and-out plans for dropping off the library books got thwarted by my smart-ass classmate showing off, so I took a detour to the library shelves holding all the biographies. I loved that section. Still do. Pick a person, any person, and there’s their life, all laid out in four hundred or fewer annotated pages. I made like I was looking for a book, but I kept my eye on Mary Ann. She was taking her own sweet time. By the time she left and I got my books turned in, someone had helped themselves to my dented-up red Schwinn. After my dad got finished giving me the what-for for losing something he’d spent good money on, he made me go to the station with him to file the report. I remember the policeman being a whole lot nicer than my dad had been about it. He laid a big hand on top of my head and told me how sorry he was that my bike had gone missing. It didn’t go missing, I remember thinking. Someone took it. And if I were you, I’d go straight to Virginia Terrace and knock on Mary Ann Dunnick’s door. That was twenty years ago. I never did see that bike again. And I never again saw the inside of a police station, either. Until today. This time the policeman wasn’t so nice. I guess you really can’t expect that when he’s asking you about a murder.
“I don’t have time for long walks around complicated explanations.” He said his name was Detective Andy Anderson. Why would somebody do that to their kid? He was skinny, in that way men who run marathons are. Like you can see the bones under their skin and all you want to do is run out and buy ’em a hamburger. Extra cheese and bacon with a double order of fries. He had a tight buzz cut. Maybe he figured he could shave a half second off his time if he wasn’t burdened with hair. “We’ve got a dead body, and there are laws against wasting police time.”
I’m not sure how long I’d been at the station, or what time it was earlier that day when I’d heard loud pounding on my front door. Remembering it is like trying to read a newspaper in the fog. Two policemen stood on my front stoop and asked if I’d allow them to drive me downtown. I wasn’t sure what the reason was, and while the officers were polite, they gave me the impression that declining their invitation wasn’t an option. When I’d arrived and Detective Anderson had told me what they were investigating, my fog disappeared faster than you could say yikes. Murder isn’t part of our regular doings here in Madison, Wisconsin. Around here, the biggest crime is offending someone’s sensibilities.
When the officers first brought me in, three detectives sat me in this small room, asked a whole lot of questions, and listened to what I had to say while they scribbled notes on little pads. After they heard my story, I couldn’t tell if they were disappointed or confused. Two of the detectives left, saying they’d check things out. Andy Anderson remained, telling me we’d both stay put until they “see what we’re dealing with here.”
After Anderson warned me about wasting police time, he left me all alone. I thought about getting up, heading home, and waiting to see if they’d come for me again, but I’ve seen enough television shows to know that someone was watching me behind the giant mirror on the far wall. So I sat there, getting to know every inch of that room.
About an hour later, the door opened and Anderson walked back in. This time with a woman. She didn’t look much older than me. Midthirties, maybe. She wasn’t as afraid of hair as Anderson. She had a whole head of unruly blond curl s. She smiled and reached out to shake my hand when they sat down.
“Sally Normandy,” she said. “Nice to meet you.”
I liked her eyes. Blue. Clear. Like she was sincere but focused. Smart and not ashamed for you to know it. People used to tell me I was smart. But that was when I was a kid. Back when all you had to do was follow instructions, stand in line, and not do anything to piss off a teacher. Do that, and the next thing you know you’re off to the Talented and Gifted program.
Things with me are different now. Folks in this town have lots of words for soon-to-be-thirty-year-old college dropouts. Smart isn’t one of ’em.
“Tess Kincaid,” I answered. I figured it was the polite thing to do, but I was sure she knew more than my name by the time she walked into that stuffy closet they called an interview room.
“I’ve already told Ms. Kincaid here we got a term for lying to the police. It’s obstruction of justice.” Andy Anderson shook his head to let both me and Sally Normandy know he wasn’t going to let anybody pull the wool over his close-set brown eyes.
“I got a thumbnail sketch of your statement from the detectives you spoke to earlier,” Sally said to me. “But I’d like to hear what happened, this time straight from you. Would that be okay?”
I nodded. She seemed nice enough. Besides, I was sitting in the downtown office of the Madison Police Department. Would anyone really have the right to say that talking about what got her here wasn’t okay?
“Can I get you anything before we start?” she asked. “Some water, maybe some coffee? I could probably scare up a sandwich if you’d like.”
I couldn’t recall the last time I’d eaten. I looked up at the clock on the wall. It was behind a steel cage. That didn’t make any sense to me. Who’d steal a government-issue wall clock from a police station?
“I’m not hungry.” It was true, even though it was nearly eight o’clock at night. “But water would be great.”
Less than a minute later someone knocked on the door. Andy Anderson opened it and an arm reached in, offering a glass. Probably delivered by those people behind the mirror. The ones watching and listening to what was going on in this humid little space. I thanked them both when Detective Anderson handed me my drink.
“Tell me what happened,” Sally said. “From the beginning. Slowly. With as many specifics as you can. Details are very important. Start at the beginning and tell me like it happened yesterday.”
I told her I didn’t think that would be difficult since it was less than a dozen yesterdays ago that this whole mess got started. I took a drink and started in.
“Are you from here?” I asked her.
Sally’s smile was easy and relaxed. “I was born in Ohio, but I think of this place as home. I came for school and never left.”
Her answer reminded me of that old joke about Madison. The one about even the cab drivers having PhDs. I’ve lived here all my twenty-nine years, but native-borns aren’t all that common. The majority of Madisonians came here to study and learned soon enough that this isthmus is a very difficult place to leave.
“You a west-sider?” I asked.
“Close enough.” Sally turned to Anderson. “You too, right?”
Andy Anderson grunted a syllable that could have meant either yes or no. He didn’t seem interested in chatting about Madison neighborhoods. I directed my conversation to Sally.
“You know the intersection on Regent? Down by the stadium?” I asked her.
“Do you mean the star intersection? Where all those side roads meet and everybody’s turning? Bike paths crossing? Yes, I know it. I’m surprised it’s not blocked with accidents every day.”
“Me too,” I said. “I guess drivers are extra careful. Knowing the dangers, I mean. That’s where this whole thing got started.”
“At the intersection?” Andy Anderson asked. “When was this?”
“A little more than a week or so ago,” I said. “That’s when I saw her for the first time.”
“Who, Tess?” Sally asked. “Who did you see for the first time?”
I looked at Anderson. His face was a stony mask. He’d heard my story and wasn’t buying a word of it. I turned back to Sally. I could tell she already knew the answer. She just needed to hear it from me.
“I was in my car, waiting for traffic to move, when I saw her. She was coming out of Hotel Red.” I took another sip of water. I knew what this sounded like.
“Who was coming out?” Sally asked.
“Me,” I said. “I saw myself come out of the hotel, cross the street, and walk right on by.”
CHAPTER 2
I told them I had been on my way home after visiting my father. I stop by every few days after work. He doesn’t get out much. Who am I kidding? If he leaves his house three times a month it’s a real Dear Diary moment for the guy. I bring him groceries. Sometimes takeout from his favorite Thai noodle place. His liquor deliveries he arranges himself.
That Tuesday had been particularly hot and humid. Dog days of August. I thought he might get a kick out of something cold, so I swung by Michael’s Frozen Custard on my way. I knocked on his door, but there was no answer. I kept knocking. Long enough that his across-the-hall neighbor poked her head out.
“I haven’t seen him in two days,” she said. “He didn’t look none too healthy, if you ask me.”
I thanked her and knocked again. The pint of custard was getting soft. I finally used my key and let myself in. I hate doing that. Bad karmic deposit. I wouldn’t want anybody walking into my apartment unannounced. But then, he gave me the key for a reason and, like I said, I come by every couple of days.
His place was hot and smelled like dirty laundry, bacon grease, and seven-dollar-a-pint whiskey. I put the custard in the freezer, walked into his living room, and turned on the window air conditioner. The grinding sound of metal on metal warned anybody listening that the unit was putting in its retirement notice. The fan alone was loud enough to wake him up when my knocking hadn’t.
“There she is.” My father wiped a hand over his face. “I must have dozed off. Heat and all.”
“I brought you some Michael’s,” I said. “Death by Chocolate.”
He struggled to bring his recliner to an upright position. “What time is it?”
“Five-thirty.” I picked up the mug and newspaper from the table next to his chair. As I headed into the kitchen I collected a half-dozen paper plates littered with tortilla chips and caked-on salsa.
“Will you stay for dinner?”
He always asked me that. As though dinner was a scheduled and respected event in his life instead of a grab-a-plate-of-whatever-is-handy-and-sit-in-front-of-the-television affair. When we were living together, before I left for my ill-fated attempt at a college education, I’d set the table and we’d talk. The meals weren’t fancy. I was never the cook my mother was. But I tried to make it a special family time the way she always did.
“Not tonight.” I threw the plates in the garbage, along with a few empty cans of fruit cocktail—always the kind packed in heavy syrup—and a flattened cereal box. “What did you do today?” I pulled the garbage bag clear of the bin, tied it tight, and carried it to the front door.
“I planned on walking over to Hilldale. Maybe see who’s at the coffee shop. But the day got away from me somehow. I never seem to know where the time goes.”
It goes into that coffee mug you fill with booze first thing in the morning, I thought. Followed by several more as you fry your mind in front of morning talk shows.
“Well, maybe tomorrow,” I said. I got a packaged meat loaf dinner from his freezer, stabbed a few holes into the plastic cover, and popped it into the microwave. He asked me the same questions about work he always does, and I gave the same answers. Our conversation ended when the timer dinged four minutes later and I busied myself scooping the slice of ground beef, dollop of mashed potatoes, and spoonful of green beans onto a clean paper plate. “You want the gravy over just the potatoes or the meat, too?”
