The Silent Sister (16 page)

She felt ice run through her body. “He knows?” she asked. “You told him? You said absolutely no one! Tell absolutely no one. That's what you said. You—”

“Stop it.” He stared straight ahead at the road. “Don't worry. I know what I'm doing. Tom will keep his mouth shut.”

“How can you be so sure? I can't believe you didn't tell me. I wouldn't have—”

“Lisa!” he shouted, shutting her up. “It's set, all right? I promise you. I absolutely guarantee you. You'll be safe.”

She went quiet. She'd never liked it when he yelled at her. He was a soft-spoken, calm person, and those rare times he yelled shook her up.

He turned onto the Beltway and they didn't speak for half an hour, not until he'd exited onto 95. Then he suddenly broke the silence.

“I'll always love you, no matter what you've done,” he said.

He would always believe she was a murderer. Tears clogged her throat. The truth or a lie, she knew it didn't matter to him. Her parents would love her regardless of anything she'd done. She'd tested their love to the limit during her lifetime.

They came to the first rest stop and he pulled off 95 and into the empty parking lot.

“He's not here.” She stated the obvious.

“He will be.” He left the car running so they'd have heat and could use the wipers to keep the windshield clear. “Let me see your hair,” he said.

He turned on the overhead light to look at her as she pulled off her hat. He rubbed his hand over his chin. “Maybe we should have gone with the wig.” He sounded nervous. “Wear your hat as much as you can and stick to yourself on the train. Your picture's been all over the news for months.” He pointed to the bag on the floor by her feet. “Give me the bag,” he said, and she handed it to him.

She watched as he got out of the car, walked through the few inches of snow, and tossed the bag in the trash can by the brick building that housed the restrooms. She was tempted to lower the visor mirror to look at her hair again, but decided not to depress herself any more than she already was. She'd had long pale blond hair all her life. She wasn't going to like the girl she was becoming.

Daddy shook off the snow and got back in the car, looking at his watch. Then he reached into the seat behind him and grabbed the jacket and purse, handing them to her. In the overhead light, she saw that the purse wasn't new at all. It was some thrift shop thing and nothing she'd ever buy for herself, but she wrapped her hand around the straps, trying to get used to the feel of them. She'd never owned a purse and her shoulder already missed the thick strap of her backpack.

“Did you remember the suitcase?” she asked, worried. She'd totally forgotten about it herself.

“In the trunk.” He turned to look back at the entrance to the rest stop, then checked his watch again.

The suitcase held only the new documents she'd need and some clothes her father had bought for her. She couldn't risk taking any of her own. Her mother would know they were missing. She had no idea if the police would believe the suicide story or not. They might think she ran. They'd look at airports and train stations. That's why she was taking off from Philly instead of D.C. Even so, it was a huge risk. When the police came to the house in the morning, Daddy would point out that Violet was still in her room. “She'd never leave without her violin,” he'd say. He'd pretend to notice that the kayak was missing. He'd have to be careful not to point out too much, though. He'd raise suspicion. They'd ask if she'd been depressed lately, and he would be able to honestly answer yes. She was certifiably depressed. They'd made her see a shrink, who'd said she should be watched carefully. She felt terrible that her mother would think she hadn't watched her closely enough and that she should never have gone to Granddad's this close to the trial. She didn't want her mother to blame herself.

“Now, listen to me, Lisa,” her father said. “I want you to memorize something. Do not
ever,
under any circumstances, write this down, okay? Just keep it in your head.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I've opened a post office box,” he said. “It's only to be used in a dire emergency. I won't be able to check it often, at least not for a while, but you'll have it if you need it.”

She suddenly felt as though she could breathe. She had a way to reach him!

“What's the address?” she asked.

“Dire emergency,” he warned. “Understand?”

She nodded.

He rattled off the address: PO box 5782, Pollocksville, North Carolina, and she frowned.

“North Carolina? Why would you have a post office box in—”

“It doesn't matter. And the name it's under is Fred Marcus. Don't ever address anything there to my real name.”

“Okay.”

“Say it back to me.”

“Post office box 5782, Pollocksville, North Carolina. What's the zip code?”

“That's too much to remember. And what's my name?”

“Fred Marcus.”

“Good,” he said. The snow had stopped and he turned off the wipers. “Now, when you get to San Diego, I suggest you head to Ocean Beach. I was there once a long time ago, and I think you'll blend in. Find a cheap motel room.” He glanced at her and she felt his worry. “Not so cheap that you don't feel safe,” he added. “Get a job and look for something better as soon as you can.”

She was barely listening. “I wish you hadn't told Mr. Kyle,” she said.

She thought he wasn't going to answer her, but after a minute he spoke. “We needed him to get your documents,” he said. “He does them for the Witness Protection Program. I don't handle them anymore. I'd set off alarm bells if I tried.”

“But … now he knows.”

Daddy looked at her. “Trust me, Lisa, he's not going to breathe a word.”

Headlights suddenly swept through the inside of the car, and she turned to see a pickup pull into the parking lot.

“Here he is,” Daddy said, then added, urgency in his voice, “What's the name and address of the PO box?”

She repeated them one more time.

“Good girl.”

The truck pulled up next to their car. She didn't budge, suddenly paralyzed with fear, as the man opened the door of the truck and stood up, tugging a knit cap low on his forehead. He was tall. Broad shouldered. Her father got out of the car, reaching out to shake Tom Kyle's hand, but the bigger man kept his own hands in his pockets. Daddy knocked on the window to hurry her up. She fumbled with the door handle, nerves and her still-damp gloves making her clumsy. Finally out of the car, she couldn't look Tom Kyle in the eye. Her father opened the trunk and handed her the suitcase, which was so light she knew she'd have to be careful not to let anyone else lift it or risk raising suspicion.

None of them spoke. Mr. Kyle put the suitcase behind his seat in the pickup, and for just a moment, she wondered if her father had a different plan for her than the elaborate one they'd concocted. Could Tom Kyle be taking her someplace other than the train station in Philadelphia?

He glanced from her to her father. “I'll wait in the truck,” he said.

When Mr. Kyle was in the truck, her father pulled her wordlessly into his arms. “Stay in the ladies' room at the train station till there are more people around,” he said into her ear. “Mix in with crowds. Guard your purse—there's money in it—and guard the documents in your suitcase. Keep your wits about you.” He hugged her hard. “And most important of all, never pick up a violin again, Lisa, understand?
Never.
You have to hide your light under a bushel from now on. Promise me.” It wasn't the first time he'd told her she could never play again. She would attract too much attention, he'd said. People who knew music would figure out who she was.

“I promise,” she said.

“I love you, Lisa,” he said, pulling away. She couldn't see his eyes, but she heard the tears in his voice. She'd never seen her father cry.

“I love you, too,” she said.

She climbed into the cab of Tom Kyle's truck. He didn't say a word, and she cried silently as he drove out of the parking lot, full of doubt over what she was doing.

The snow started again and Mr. Kyle took it slow, even though they saw a couple of plows and the road was in decent shape. Not a word passed between them for nearly an hour and it was either that he knew she needed to cry in peace or he didn't know what to say. Or, possibly, he simply didn't care. By the flat, sort of angry look on his face, she thought that might be it.

After a long time, she turned to him. The snow had let up and he was driving faster. “Why are you doing this?” she asked, her voice loud in the truck after so much silence.

He was quiet as though he hadn't heard her. Then he finally spoke. “I don't have anything to say to you,” he said gruffly. “I don't want to hear your excuses for why you killed an innocent man over a fucking college application. I don't want anything to do with you.”

She turned back to the window, her eyes burning. He scared her. Why her father trusted him to keep this quiet when he was obviously disgusted by her, she had no idea. She wished she could tell her father she thought Tom Kyle could be a danger to them, but as she clutched her purse close to her body, reality hit her hard: she might never be able to tell her father anything, ever again.

 

18.

Riley

I was sure I broke my own record for speed as I ran home after the meeting with Tom and Suzanne.
She didn't,
he'd said. Didn't what? Kill herself? Was there any other possible way to interpret what he said? How could he know something like that? I wondered if he'd read Sondra Lynn Davis's blog. Sondra didn't believe Lisa had killed herself, either. Maybe Tom had read her blog and bought into the theory.

Or maybe he knew something no one else knew. Either way, I felt sullied just by having him talk to me about my family.

I didn't bother changing out of my running clothes when I got home. I spotted Christine and Jeannie working in the dining room, the curio cabinet doors open as they culled through my mother's beloved china and old vases.

“Do you have a minute to—” Christine started to get to her feet, but I cut her off.

“Sorry!” I said. “I'm in a rush.”

I grabbed my purse and keys from the table by the front door, got in my car, and headed for the RV park.

*   *   *

I sprayed gravel behind me as I drove through the park and I didn't slow down until I reached the end of the lane and saw that Tom's car wasn't behind the Kyles' RV.
Damn it!
Still, I parked in the shade by the trees, got out of my car, climbed the steps to the motor home, and pounded on the door.

“Hold your horses!” Verniece called from inside, and I heard her heavy footsteps as she came to the door. I pounded again, unable to stop myself. She pulled the door open, a look of annoyance on her face that softened the instant she saw me.

“Riley! What's all the knocking about? My goodness!”

“Where's Tom?” I asked.

“Oh, please don't tell me he didn't show up for the meeting with the lawyer.” She looked pained. “Every once in a blue moon he stops off for a drink in the daytime, even though he knows better, and then he forgets—”

“He was there. The meeting went fine. But when he left he said something that—” I stopped speaking, winded as if I was still running. “Can I come in?” I asked.

She looked at me with real concern, reaching out to touch my arm as though she thought I might need steadying. “Let me come out there,” she said. “More comfy than in here. We'll sit in the shade. Would you like something to—”

“No.” I backed down the steps to the concrete pad. “No, I don't want anything. I just need to talk to Tom!”

“All right, all right,” she said, descending the steps. “You're worrying me. You seem like such a calm person most of the time, and to see you like this is … well, what's the problem? You said the meeting went fine, so—”

“He said my sister didn't kill herself.”

She stared at me a moment, her face a puzzled mask. “Sit down, dear,” she said after a moment, lowering herself into one of the old webbed chairs.

“I don't want to sit.” I stood in front of her. “I just want to know why he said that.”

“Sit,” she said again, motioning to the other chair, and I reluctantly dropped into it. My right knee jumped up and down as though an electric current ran through it.

“Why would he say that?” I asked.

“I honestly don't know,” she said. “I'm a tad stunned that he would. He has a bit of a mean streak that comes out every once in a while, but I can't imagine, even in his foulest moods, that he'd tease you that cruelly.”

“So, you don't think it's true? That she didn't kill herself? You think she did?”

“Oh, honey.” She reached out to rest her hand on my arm. “You know why she took her life, right?”

“Guilt and fear,” I said. “She was afraid she'd end up in prison.”

Verniece nodded. “She killed someone and she was going to have to pay,” she said. “I know they didn't find her body, and some people believed she'd faked her death to avoid going to prison, but the Potomac is a big river, and they couldn't search everywhere.” She spoke kindly, the way she had spoken to me about my supposed adoption, and there was something about Verniece's voice—her whole demeanor—that had a way of calming me.

I felt tears collect in the back of my throat. “I want it to be true.” I twisted my hands together, rubbing them back and forth. “I want her to be alive. I need my
family,
Verniece. I'm managing everything to do with the house and Daddy's estate and I'm worried about Danny and … I feel like I'm a little kid with too much on her plate.”