Page 57 of The Better Sister

My eyes welled up at how painful that must have been for her. I didn’t know what to say, so I said nothing, and let her continue. “I remember you telling me how good I looked when I went to my high school reunion that summer. I was dressed like you. Iactedlike you. I wanted to show up seeming smart and successful and confident, so I was like, fuck it, I’ll just impersonate Chloe for a weekend. And Adam obviously liked it. I felt like I was faking during our entire relationship.”

I understood now why she had been so certain when Adam moved to New York that it was to be with me.

“And, let’s face it, compared to the shit Mom went through with Dad, it didn’t seem that bad. He never actuallyhitme.”

I could see her looking at me even as she tried to keep her eyes on the road. Was she waiting for me to say something?

“Well, I’m still sorry.” We both knew it was a lame response. She turned on the radio when it became clear I had no follow-up.

Two miles later, I was the one to turn it off. “What if we had been boys?”

“What kind of question is that?” she asked.

“Growing up in our house, with the same mom and dad. The same dysfunction. You rebelled. I became a control freak. But what if we’d been boys?” I remembered an article I had read about boys and mass shootings. It dovetailed with my research into the dark fringes of the web, where aggrieved young men raged against society—and against girls in particular—for not giving them their due. “When girls feel lost, they hurt themselves. Boys hurt others.”

“Ethan’s a good kid. Don’t go down this road.”

“What would have happened if that kid hadn’t told the principal about the gun Ethan had?”

“But that was a mix-up with carrying stuff back and forth from the house.”

I shook my head. “That was bullshit, Nicky. We weren’t carrying a gun into the city, and we definitely weren’t putting anything in Ethan’s backpack. He told me he was just trying to look like a tough kid to stand out from the crowd. I should have taken it more seriously.”

“So what are you saying?”

“I didn’t change the alarm code, Nicky. Why didn’t I change it?”

She had been living with me for nearly six months now, and we were both still using those same six digits, Ethan’s birthday, every time we walked in and out of the East Hampton house. If I really thought a stranger had murdered Adam, why hadn’t I changed the code? Why hadn’t Nicky asked me to change it?

Neither one of us was going to say it out loud, though.

“Maybe Olivia can do something with that newspaper article,” Nicky said.

I had given her this morning’sNew York Timeswrite-up about the corruption investigation into the Gentry Group. “Like she keeps saying, we only need reasonable doubt. And only one undecided juror is enough to get a mistrial.” Neither of us sounded optimistic. “So when all this is over, what are we going to do?”

“What do you mean?”

“When Ethan comes home.” We both knew I was trying to give us hope. “You’re his biological mother, but he’s been living with me, and Adam’s will put me down as the guardian. My understanding is that a judge would look at the best interests of the child if we fought each other for custody.” When Adam was first killed, I had prayed that Nicky would be too dumb to realize that I wouldn’t automatically be the legal guardian, but now I was the one broaching the subject.

“Why would we fight?”

“Because we’re the Taylor sisters.”

She let out a soft laugh and then let herself play with the hypothetical of seeing Ethan come home. “Your lawyers would probably run me over, especially since you’re obviously banging one of them.” This time, her laugh was louder. “And he’s not a little kid anymore. He’d be eighteen by the time any court was done with us. So, we’re not doing that, okay?”

“So what would we do?”

She shrugged. “We’ll figure it out. But just so you know, Chloe, when the police called me about Adam, I only came to New York to make sure you and Ethan were okay. I wanted you to see me in person so you’d know I had changed and that you could rely on me for help if you needed it. But it never dawned on me—not even once—to try to take Ethan from you.” I turned to face the passenger window and wiped away the tears that were forming. “I know you’re kicking yourself now, but you raised my kid well. You gave him a better life than I ever would have, that’s for sure. We’re fine on that. I promise.”

The next thing I remember is Nicky waking me up as we pulled into the driveway.

“Olivia texted us. She thinks Ethan needs to testify after all.”

30

It was Jennifer Guidry’s first full day off in two weeks. Between testifying and running point for the Ethan Macintosh trial and working the arson investigation with the fire department, she had racked up enough overtime to cover all her Christmas shopping for the year, but she was ready for a break. Amy couldn’t take a day off from the bank, but in truth, Guidry was downright giddy about having an entire day to herself.

She was on her third cup of coffee at Babette’s, treating herself to the salmon omelet—extra scallions—and a leisurely browse of all the papers. Her ritual was to start local with theEast Hampton Star, then toNewsdayfor the rest of Long Island, then on to theNew York Timesfor the national stuff. She was relieved to see that not one of the papers had yet figured out what she and the fire department already knew: the blaze at the $40 million oceanfront mansion of an A-list director had been intentional. The director himself had hired a special effects guy to make it look like an electric fire. Absent a leak from the investigative team, the news wouldn’t become public until the director was picked up on a warrant in Los Angeles later on tonight.

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