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MARISA STARED AT THE house as Nate parked the truck on the street. This had been home for most of her life. Leslie'd taken good care of it. The wood siding had recently been repainted. It was yellow now, and it looked pretty with white window casings. The windows looked new. Leslie had kept the small front yard in good shape, and the rhododendron bushes looked bigger and healthier than ever.
"How will we get in?" Nate asked.
Marisa stepped out of the car and shivered. The previous day's rain had passed, but the sun had brought a cold front with it. She crossed her arms and walked up the short walk that cut the tiny yard in half. At the front door, she peered at the same lock that had been there since Father had bought the deadbolt when Marisa was little. She could still remember the conversation about "my girls' safety" as he'd installed the lock. That had been just a few months before he'd moved out. Maybe he'd known they'd need something to count on besides him.
"I still have a key," Marisa said. "I've kept it in my wallet all these years."
"A talisman of hope."
She smiled at him. "Something like that." She pulled her wallet from the bag Nate had bought her in Acapulco, found the key in the coin purse, and unlocked the door.
They went inside, and she looked around. The house looked so different, she hardly recognized it. Apparently this was what Leslie had done with at least some of the money she'd stolen. The hardwood floors had been refinished, the old wooden banister that led to the second floor had been replaced with ornate wrought iron. She stepped into the living room. The old, ugly fireplace had been updated. Gray stacked stone had replaced the old brick, and a new dark stained mantle sat above it. Over that, a black-and-white abstract drew the eye.
The furniture was different, too. A taupe low-profile sectional surrounded a square table with a few magazines, a modern, unused ashtray, and a vase filled with some sort of dried twigs. Leslie had no decorating ability, which meant she'd hired help. Add decorator's fees to the list of costs.
Marisa continued into the kitchen. Granite countertops, stainless appliances, and even a dishwasher. If only they'd had that growing up, their evenings would have been much more pleasant. The room had been completely remodeled. She turned to Nate, who'd followed her through the house. "Leslie's been busy."
"It looks brand new."
"If not for the address, I might not have recognized it."
"It's nice."
She supposed, though she'd been looking forward to seeing the white appliances their mother had bought, the old pictures on the walls. Even the kitchen wallpaper had been removed, replaced with pale blue paint that stretched into the living room and entryway. "She changed everything."
"Does that bother you?"
Marisa looked for some sign of herself, of their mother, but saw only Leslie's fingerprints. She didn't answer Nate's question.
"You look down here," she said. "I'll head upstairs. Let me know if you find anything."
"Will do."
After spending hours looking through Leslie's Facebook friends the day before, Sam, Rae, and she had decided their best chance for discovering the name of Leslie's fiancé would lie in the house. They'd found a handful of guys among her Facebook friends who weren't married, but most were either clients—which Sam had discovered using Leslie's invoices from her email—or lived too far away. Maybe they'd have more luck in the house.
At the top of the stairs, Marisa entered what used to be their mother's bedroom. Why she'd thought her mother's things would still be there, she didn't know. Instead, Marisa found that Leslie had moved into the space. New paint, new bedroom furniture, new everything. She stifled a sigh as she crossed to the bureau and the many photographs there. Leslie with a host of people, all wearing the logo of Leslie's office cleaning business. In these photos, she looked different than she had when Marisa had lived here. She looked different than she had in Acapulco, too. She'd never spent a lot of time on personal grooming. Maybe the new boyfriend had encouraged her to try a little harder. In the pictures, her hair was sleek, and she wore more makeup than Marisa was used to seeing on her. Leslie wore nicer clothes fitted to her shape. She looked...pretty.
She hated that the thought of her sister as pretty had come as a surprise. She'd always thought of Leslie as kindhearted and honest, if not a little homely.
Seemed she'd been wrong on all counts.
Marisa studied the photos again. There were none of Leslie with a man.
Interesting.
She perused the rest of the room. It seemed perfectly normal. Normal except for the fancy clothes, jewelry, shoes, and handbags, which hadn't been normal for Leslie eight years before. In the adjoining bathroom, Marisa found makeup galore, not to mention various hair styling implements—a curling iron, straightening iron, and blow dryer, along with expensive hair gels. It seemed that frumpy Leslie had transformed. Funny how she hadn't bothered with any of that stuff when she'd gone to Mexico. Marisa would have assumed her lack of grooming had been due to fear, but now she knew better. She hadn't been afraid. She'd been...what? Maybe trying to look the part of the grieving sister? Maybe trying to pretend nothing had changed? Marisa took in the updated bathroom and thought of the designer clothes hanging in her sister's closet. Leslie had apparently changed everything.
Marisa went through the drawers in the bathroom. Mostly Leslie's stuff, but one drawer held a man's razor, a can of shaving cream, a toothbrush, and a box of condoms. Lovely.
She returned to the bedroom to search. Aside from Leslie's things, she found a drawer filled with men's clothes. T-shirts and sweat pants, all larges, along with boxers and white socks. Seemed the man didn't live here, but he stayed over often enough to need his own drawer.
Marisa crossed the hall and checked out Leslie's old room, which had been converted to an office. Marisa dug through the drawers and file cabinet looking for something, anything that might shed some light on what was going on. No photographs of any mystery man. No files labeled kidnapping scheme—wouldn't that have been convenient? Nothing to give her a hint about what her sister was doing.
With a deep breath, Marisa left the office and headed to her closed bedroom door. She could still picture the double bed, the white furniture her father had bought for her thirteenth birthday, the pink walls and white lacy curtains. She could imagine the easel, the pads of paper and charcoals and watercolors and markers she'd used to create every kind of artwork, the pictures she'd tacked all over the room. She'd been such a girly-girl, and her father had spoiled her long after he'd moved out. She remembered the scent of the cheap perfume she'd gotten from a friend for her fifteenth birthday. She'd thought it was the sweetest smelling stuff in the world. She could imagine the thin layer of powder and blush and eyeshadow covering the top of her makeup table. This room had been hers, and she was afraid to find out what her sister had done with it. After a deep breath for courage, she stepped inside.
A workout room. A high-end elliptical machine and a treadmill both faced a flat-screen TV. The walls were white. The curtains black. The crappy artwork as dark as her sister's heart. Hoping to find some trace of herself, Marisa opened the closet. Workout clothes and a cache of DVDs. She slammed the door and headed back downstairs.
Nate stood at the door, looking outside. He'd been nervous about coming here, and she didn't blame him. If the bad guys—whoever they were—were looking for them, they'd certainly have eyes on this house. Marisa was ready to face them, face her sister and tell her what she thought of her. But nobody came.
He turned when she hit the landing. "You find anything?"
"Nope."
His head tilted to the side. "You okay?"
"I always thought..." She shook her head. "Did you find anything?"
"Nothing really to see. Some photos on the bookshelves in the living room, more in the kitchen, but no guys. We're sure you sister was engaged to a man, right?"
"Not a woman, if that's what you mean."
He shrugged. "You never know."
She told him about her discoveries upstairs, and he nodded. "Definitely a man, then." He walked to the photographs on the bookshelves in the living room. "She has a lot of pictures."
"Yeah. She always liked to take pictures of herself with everybody she ever met. I think it makes her feel important or something. Like if she knows all these different people, it must mean she matters."
Nate nodded slowly. "Okay, but where's the guy?"
"I know, it's weird. If they're that close, I can't imagine it never occurred to her to get at least a snapshot with him."
"Maybe he refused?"
"Maybe he imagined this very scenario," Marisa said. "What does that tell us about him?"
"If he thought we might start to suspect Leslie, it tells us he didn't care that much about her getting caught. That he was trying to save his own ass."
"Sounds like a keeper." Marisa glanced at the photos again. Each had Leslie and at least one other person, if not many more. She recognized some as clients they'd served way back when Marisa had worked there. Her sister garnered loyalty, that was for sure. Leslie'd kept the photos with employees upstairs, the photos with clients down. Marisa'd like to think that was because she was closer to the employees and wanted their photos in a more intimate place. She'd like to think it, but she didn't. Leslie kept the client's pictures downstairs because they made her look good.
"Do you recognize any of them?" Nate asked. "Might they be friends?"
"A few. Clients."
"No friends?"
"She never had many friends." Marisa returned to the door. "This was a waste of time."
He stepped to the window in the living room and pushed the heavy curtain aside. "I want to show you something." She joined him at the window and looked at the casing as he pointed. "These are really good windows. New, with excellent locks. See?" He showed her the double-locking system. "No reason why she'd have them open in March, and if you look around, you'll see they're all locked. There are none that look like they've been tampered with." He crossed to the back door and opened it. "No scuff marks on this lock."
She looked. He was right.
"And there are none on the front door, either," he said.
"You're saying nobody broke in."
He shrugged. "I don't see any signs of it."
"Great. Just proves what we thought."
He closed and locked the back door, then gestured toward the front. "Shall we?"
She led the way, ready to leave.
She climbed into the truck. When he joined her, he started the engine and drove a few blocks, glanced at her a few times. He pulled over and put it in park.
"What's wrong?" he asked.
She sighed. "It's my house, too."
"Okay."
"She changed everything. I mean... Everything. Every light fixture, every cabinet, everything."
"That bothers you?"
"She made my bedroom into a workout room. All my stuff is gone."
"I looked in the basement. There were lots of dust-covered cardboard boxes. I didn't check, because they seemed to have been there a long time. Maybe your stuff is down there."
"Maybe she didn't give it all to Goodwill."
"It's something."
She sighed and stared out the side window. "It's like she never believed I'd come home. Like she just wrote me out of her life. Like I never existed. There wasn't even a photograph of me." She turned to look at him, wanting him to understand. "No photographs of Mom, either."
He nodded slowly, his brown eyes intent as he studied her. He reached across the seat for her hand. "It seems your sister is not who you thought she was."
"I don't know if she was always like that and I never saw it, or if something changed her. Maybe I was wrong about her feelings all those years. I thought she loved me, but now...everything's wrong." She stared at nothing while she tried to imagine the girl her sister had once been. "I guess it doesn't matter. When I was a little girl, Leslie was kind to me. Despite everything, I still don't think she'll hurt Ana, and right now that's all I care about."
"You're right. But at the same time, I think the questions you have about your sister do matter. She's your family, your history. Just remember, what your sister thinks about you—what anybody thinks about you—that doesn't define you."
"What does define me?"
He shrugged. "That's a good question. I don't know the answer. I do know that you're an amazing woman. I always thought you were beautiful—nobody could deny that."
She'd heard that her whole life, as if it was something to be proud of. As if she'd sculpted her own face and spun her own hair. As if she was supposed to feel proud of her beauty instead of recognizing it as the accident of genes that it was.
Nate continued. "But it's who you are on the inside that I find beautiful now."
That was the sentiment she'd longed for, always. "You're a good man, Nate Boyle."
He looked out the windshield and watched a passing car before turning back to her. "At least we can be sure of one thing."
"What's that?"
"Ana is with Leslie, so she's still safe. Your sister's a lot of bad things, but nobody is all bad. You saw her good qualities growing up, and those are still there. She'll take good care of Ana."
But what about the man Leslie was working with? He was a wild card. Who knew what he'd do?
* * *
MARISA WATCHED HER childhood neighborhood grow smaller and disappear in the rear window.
Nate headed toward Pamela Gray's Upper West Side brownstone to wait for the woman to get home from her trip. Why wait for a call from a maid when they could watch the front door? They'd just turned onto Grand Central Parkway when his cell phone rang. He answered it, and Garrison's voice came through the speakers.
"Where are you guys?"
"Queens," Nate said. "We're on our way to Manhattan. What's up?"
"Can you meet me? We need to talk."
The solemn tone in his voice made Marisa's heart pound. "What happened?"
"Nate," Garrison said, "what's your location."
"Almost to the Triborough Bridge."
"Okay. Hold on."
Marisa glared at the dashboard as if that would make Garrison explain himself. She glanced at Nate. He kept his eyes on the traffic-heavy road.
What was going on? Garrison sounded serious, and not happy. If it were good news, he'd just tell them. Which meant it was bad. What would be so bad that Garrison would get involved? He was no longer with the FBI. Whatever was going on, how did he find out? She was about to blurt out her questions when he spoke.
"Can you meet me on Randall Island? You know where that is?"
Nate nodded. "I've seen it."
"There's a park right under the bridge. Meet me there."
Marisa couldn't wait. "What happened?"
"I gotta go," Garrison said. "I'll be there soon."
The line went dead.
She looked at Nate. "Ana's dead. He doesn't want to tell me over the phone, but—"
"Let's not jump to conclusions."
"Why wouldn't he just tell us?" Her voice was rising. "If Ana's fine, why wouldn't he—?"
"Maybe it's not about Ana. We were working a lot of angles. Maybe he got a lead." Nate reached across the car for her hand, but she shifted away.
"Don't. I need to know what's going on."
"Garrison is working. He's in FBI mode. It doesn't necessarily mean good news or bad. Just news. News is good."
"Not always." Not usually. She thought of the moment she'd learned Vinnie was dead. His mother had barely been able to speak through her tears. A moment later, another woman's voice came on the phone. Vinnie's sister explained that his body had been found. He'd been beaten to death.
That was the moment Marisa's life had shattered. She'd spent eight years trying to put it back together, and now it was about to shatter again.
She wasn't sure if she'd survive this time.
Nate followed the traffic onto the bridge. She'd been on this road a thousand times—happy moments with her mom and Leslie, commuting to college and work, going on dates with Vinnie. A thousand times she'd seen the New York skyline from here. A thousand times she'd ridden beneath the steel towers, passed between the thick cables that ferried millions of cars from one side of the East River to the other. Today, those cables seemed pretty thin. One snap, and it would all be over.
They exited onto the Bronx Shore Road on Randall Island. A few minutes later, Nate parked, stepped out of the car, and opened her door.
"Let's walk until Garrison gets here."
She didn't get out of the truck. She felt nearly paralyzed with fear. "What is he going to tell us, Nate?"
He took her hand and squeezed. "I have no idea. Let's try not to worry."
"Easy for you to say."
He met her eyes. "No. It's not."
She blinked and looked down. Nate had done nothing but help her. Whatever was going on, it wasn't his fault. She looked back up. "Sorry."
"No reason to be sorry. Come on."
He helped her out of the truck and closed the door behind her. He kept her hand in his and led the way along the paved path toward the foot of the bridge they'd just crossed. A cold breeze blew up from the river, and she folded her arms and looked out over the water.
"My dad played in a softball league when I was a kid," Marisa said. "I used to come down here for his games sometimes."
"Must be good memories."
"Long time ago."
They walked in silence. Marisa couldn't make conversation, and it seemed Nate had no idea what to say. The world seemed in suspension, just like the bridge overhead.
Finally, Nate's phone rang. He answered.
"We're in the park." He told Garrison where they'd parked and slipped his phone back in his pocket. "He's going to meet us in the lot. He's not here yet."
Nate set the pace, which was the only thing that kept her from running back. They leaned against the bumper. A moment later, Garrison's black Camry parked beside the pickup.
Marisa met him as he stepped out of his car. "What happened?"
"Let's find a place to sit down."
"I'm freezing," she said, "and I don't want to sit. What happened?"
Garrison looked over her head at Nate with a pleading glance.
Nate said, "Why don't we just—?"
"Fine. Whatever."
Nate opened the tailgate to Brady's truck, and she lifted herself onto it. The cold of the metal seeped through her borrowed jeans. "Please tell me what happened."
Nate stood beside her, and Garrison stopped in front of them. "I called my old partner last night. I figured it was time to get him up to speed on what was going on."
Her heartbeat, already racing, sped up. "The guy said no cops."
"Relax, Marisa." Garrison wore a patient smile, which made her want to smack him. "My partner's trustworthy. With our theory about your sister, I thought maybe he and I could figure out who she's working with."
Marisa glanced at Nate, who nodded to Garrison. "And?"
Garrison shook his head. "Nothing on the partner yet. But..." He took a breath and blew it out. "He called me this morning."
She waited through a long pause, knowing what was coming was bad news and almost not wanting to hear it. Almost.
Garrison's expression softened. "Your sister's body was discovered this morning. She was murdered."