Secret Sister (20 page)

“Ah, yes. He came by the apartment with some food.”

“And?” Betty’s voice was cool. I knew from Roxanne, and from personal observation over the years, that Betty never approved of Michael Cimino.

Which of course was a big plus to Rox, my newly critical brain realized. Roxanne liked to
not
follow her mother’s advice.

“We had a talk.” My cheeks grew pink. “It was no big deal.”

“So he’s backing off and leaving you alone?”

“Yes. Well, he plays it cool. He calls and leaves messages a lot. I told you I had dinner with Bradley, didn’t I? He’s doing well.” We talked about him for a couple of minutes. And then I told her I had run into Zoë and Nick at Simone’s. As I spoke, Betty’s eyes widened and she crossed her arms over her chest.

I compacted the details of the conversations I’d had with Nick into one meeting. “Oh, and he said he owed you an apology over how he behaved at the insurance company. You mentioned on the phone that he acted crappy. If it’s any consolation, he seems truly sorry.”

“Does he?” Betty poured herself more coffee. “He’s wound pretty tight, that guy. Always has been. I remember when you three were in college and his dad died that you and Cathy were pretty worried about him. How’s he managing? Is he doing okay? Going to work? Staying off the booze?”

“What do you mean?” I’d told Roxanne a lot of personal information about Nick, but I would have been shocked to find out she’d passed on to Betty that he was a recovering alcoholic. This was one more thing I was wrong about.

“We both know he’s an alcoholic, Roxanne. While he’s grieving, he’s very vulnerable to relapse. Didn’t you tell me a few months ago you were worried he might be on the verge of drinking again?”

Her words hit me like a blow to the back of the skull. “What are you talking about? When did I say that?”

“You don’t remember telling me that?”

“No.” I rubbed my hand over my forehead and tried to think of what Roxanne could have been thinking, telling her mother something like that. “When was it, exactly? I told you there are a lot of blanks in my memory.”

“Six, seven months ago. After you and Michael broke up. Before Christmas, I think.” Betty’s lips stretched taut. “I’m sorry, Roxanne, I didn’t realize you couldn’t remember anything about you and Nick.”

This time her words pierced like a knife. I stood, knocking my mug over on the table. I started sopping up the spilled coffee with napkins.

“Roxanne.” Betty grabbed my hand. “What’s wrong?”

“I don’t understand what you just said. What did you mean ‘you and Nick?’ There was no ‘Roxanne and Nick.’ It’s Nick and Cathy, for God’s sake.”

She shook her head. “I’m sorry I even brought this up. But this is exactly why you need to continue to work with Dr. Patel, honey. Why don’t we call his office right now and make an appointment? I’m sure he can shed a lot of light on why this particular memory is being blocked.”

“No!” I shouted. “What particular memory are you talking about? What am I not remembering about six or seven months ago?”

“Sit down,” Betty said.

I sat. “Please, this is very important to me.” I could not imagine what she was going to say.

Betty threw the coffee soaked napkins in the trash. “Do you want some orange juice or something? You’re white as a ghost.”

I am a ghost.
I bit my tongue to keep from spitting out those words. “No. Thanks. Please explain what you just said.”

“Do you remember seeing Dr. Susan Haven last October?”

I had never heard this name before. “No. Is she
another
shrink?”

“No. Dr. Haven is an ob-gyn. My gynecologist.” Betty sat and folded her hands.

I frowned. That was crazy. For years, Rox and I both went to Dr. Mary Brier for our yearly check-ups and birth control. I take the pill. Roxanne relied on condoms. Dr. Brier was our gynecologist. “Why did I see her?”

Betty sighed. “Last November you had an abortion, Roxanne. After you and Michael broke up.”

My mouth went completely dry. I had to force my tongue off my teeth. This could
not
be true. Roxanne would have told me this. She told me everything!

Didn’t she?

“Michael didn’t want the baby?” I rasped. “That selfish son of a bitch!”

“You said it wasn’t Michael’s child.” Betty’s voice was emotionless. “You told me you had a brief affair with someone else. And it was impossible to keep the baby.”

I met her eyes. My throat constricted and the room began to spin around me. I took a huge, sucking breath. “You’re not saying . . .”

“You never came right out and told me it was Nick Chance’s baby, Roxanne, and I never asked. But since you never told Cathy about it, and you ordered me to never, ever breathe a word to her, I don’t know what else to think.”

Nick. And Roxanne.

Nick and Roxanne?
“I don’t believe this. Why would you tell me this? You’re lying!”

“Roxanne, calm down. You really don’t remember any of this? I’m so sorry. You must be blocking it because you felt terrible about the abortion.”

“Stop it! You don’t have a clue how I feel about anything.” I pushed the chair back from the table, grabbed my purse and headed for the door.

“Roxanne,” Betty called after me.

But I didn’t stop. I ran to the car and drove to Roxanne’s apartment, my brain flashing through memories one by one. I went over everything I could remember about last fall, every lunch and dinner and telephone conversation I had with Roxanne.

She couldn’t have kept a secret like this from me. It was impossible. I shook my head violently, trying to make sense of it. Surely Betty had everything wrong.

Was she fabricating the entire story, to make Roxanne think she was sick and force her back into therapy?

I took a deep breath as I pulled into the parking lot at Roxanne’s apartment.
I wish I were you, lupeyloo
. . . the idiotic phrase from our childhood mocked me, playing over and over in my mind.

Slamming the front door, I rushed into the bedroom. “This can’t be true,” I cried in disbelief as I curled up on the bed. The inside of my mouth tasted bitter, like poison.

Could it be? Could my best friend have done this?

Could my husband have cheated on me?

No.

Why not?
a voice hissed in my ear.
You cheated on him, didn’t you?

Did I?
I couldn’t count the incident a few days ago. That was not me. But what about before, that partial memory I had of Michael and me on the beach, months before fate had turned everything on its head? I pulled up the memory of that night and tried again to recall every detail. I could smell the sea air, hear the waves against the sand. Michael pushed me backward, his hands cupping my breasts.

“You know you want me, baby,” he said.

I concentrated. But I could not remember what else had happened. My sob echoed off Roxanne’s walls.

“Nick,” I whispered. “I’m sorry.”

The phone rang in the kitchen.
Seth.
I jumped out of bed and hurried toward the sound of Seth’s voice. “. . . and Nick seems good. He’s still shaken over the accident and his latest backsliding, but I think he’s on the right road. Call me and we’ll make plans to meet again. I have some ideas about how to break the ice with him.”

My hand reached for the phone but I pulled it back. I didn’t dare call Seth right now. He’d hear my voice and know I’d found out something terrible. I flung myself on Roxanne’s hard bed.

Had Nick slept with Roxanne here?

This question made me moan and pull on my hair. I shut my eyes and tried as hard as I could to remember that night on the beach with Michael.

Was my memory of our married life together a lie, either due to my actions or Nick’s? While love was never completely equal, with every action on the part of one person counterbalanced perfectly by the other, there had to be parity of commitment, mutual moral truths and an honest understanding of what was actually going on. For love to survive, both partners had to trust their commonly held vision of what they were as a couple.

Nick and I both always said, to anyone who would listen, that we were soul mates, meant for each other, and totally and happily committed to only one another.

Had we both been deceitful?

I stared at the ceiling. For the first time since waking in the hospital, I wondered if everyone involved wouldn’t be better off if I had not survived the accident.

Because if I did find out that Nick and I had both cheated and lied, what then? Would Nick be better off if he never knew I
wasn’t
really dead?

Would I be better off pretending I
was
dead, and try to make a new life for myself?

Who could answer these questions? I closed my eyes.

Not me.

Chapter 18

Monday, August 1, 1 p.m.

Cathy in Roxanne’s Apartment

I pulled my hair back into a ponytail and stared at the face in Roxanne’s gilded mirror. It looked ravaged, bags under the brown eyes, the tiny golden sparkle in the left iris cloudy with fatigue. There were dry patches on the tan cheeks where tears and sleeplessness had left their mark.

I brushed my teeth and rubbed on some lotion; looked in the mirror again.
A little better
. I considered putting on lipstick, maybe a brush of mascara, but ‘more attractive’ wasn’t what I was going for.

The doorbell rang. I glanced at the clock. Michael was right on time.

I had called and asked him to come by as soon as he had the time. He had interpreted the invitation as I knew he would; no doubt thinking he was going to get an afternoon of sex.

He said he’d bring lunch. And dessert, ‘for later.’ The man was a complete egomaniac. It was a good thing Roxanne didn’t own a gun, because if she had, Michael Cimino might not have a ‘later.’

I pulled the door open. To my surprise, I didn’t find Michael Cimino standing there, expecting to get lucky. Two men in suits filled the space.

“Miss Ruiz?” A good-looking stranger met my startled glance. “I’m Detective Henry Morales. And this is Detective Strain.” He gestured to the man with a bushy gray mustache standing a half-step behind him. Both men flashed their badges.

“May we come in for a few minutes? We’d like to ask you some questions about the car accident on July 9.”

“I, ah. I’m expecting a friend. But yes, of course, come in for a moment.” I stepped back and the two cops walked into Roxanne’s apartment.

In a sudden panic I realized I was going to have to pass myself off as Roxanne, the driver of the car that was involved in a fatal accident that killed a woman. Who was actually alive and living camouflaged inside a body not her own. It was complicated to keep straight, even for me.

To heighten my anxiety, I was really bad at lying to cops. The three times in my life I’d been stopped for tickets, I got them. Unlike Roxanne, who never paid a fine in her life, despite being pulled over regularly.

“Please sit down.” My voice shook. I folded my hands together as a tremble skittered up and down my arms. What if they arrested me? What if they gave me a lie detector test?

Wasn’t the first question always, ’Please state your name?’

Oh, my God.

The cops took the sofa, two sets of eyes calmly appraising the surroundings and then me. Well, they appraised Roxanne. It was obvious they liked her looks.

“How are you feeling, Miss Ruiz?” Detective Morales asked with a flash of very white teeth. “I understand you were released from the hospital a week ago. You don’t look any the worse for wear, if you don’t mind me saying.”

I folded my arms over Roxanne’s breasts. “Thanks. So what is it you’ve stopped by to ask, Detective?”

Strain’s eyes twitched but Morales kept an easy smile on his face. He pulled out a well-worn leather notebook and flipped it open. “We would like to know what you remember from the accident.”

“Nothing.” That was true, if I was Roxanne.

“Do you remember that morning at all, before the accident? What you were discussing in the car? Or where you were going?”

I pursed my lips. “No to all three questions. Sorry.”

“So it goes without saying that you don’t remember seeing the truck before it hit you?”

A flash of black and white, the image of a truck with a bent front fender, blipped through my brain like a heartbeat. “No.”

Morales nodded. “Do you recall that Mrs. Cathy Chance was in the car with you?”

This was absurd. I just told the man I didn’t remember anything from the whole goddamned day
.
He obviously didn’t believe me. I was going to have to try harder.

“The past is blank, Detective Morales. All of it.” Which was another lie, as I was at that moment remembering dying on the asphalt, and floating toward bright lights.

Maybe Morales saw something in my face, because he made a note, then put his pen and pad down and sat forward, lacing his long fingers together. “I assume your family has filled you in on the details of what occurred. Did their report sound plausible, or familiar, when they told you where you were going that day? And with whom?”

I shrugged. “I’m starting to remember some things in a very hazy way. I’ve been told I was going to a doctor’s office and out to lunch with Cathy Chance, whom I was told is my best friend. Everything else is blank.”

“Was your best friend.”

“Excuse me?”

“Mrs. Chance was your best friend. You do accept that she’s dead now.”

My face burned. “Yes. Of course I know that.”

Morales smiled gently. “Do you know that you were taking prescription drugs for depression in the months before the accident?”

Though Dr. Patel had prepared me, the inference whacked me in the gut. “I’ve been told that. Yes.”

“But you didn’t have any significant levels of the drugs in your system, according to the medical reports, on July 9. Can you shed any light on why that was?”

“No.”

“None?” His smile stopped at his eyes.

Morales was very handsome. The vibes he put out seemed professional, but had an undercurrent of personal availability. This made me feel completely out of my depth.

How the hell had Roxanne walked around every day, fending off unspoken come-ons and double meanings from every social and professional exchange she had with a man? No wonder she was depressed.

“My best guess would be that I had stopped taking them a while before the wreck. I understand that this was common for me.”

“Who told you that?”

“Roxanne’s mother.” I froze as soon as I said it, then quickly added, “
My
mother. Sorry. As you’ve noticed, I’m still remembering who all the players are in my life.”

Strain frowned suspiciously but Morales appeared unfazed. “Amnesia is a difficult thing to navigate through, I’m sure. I never actually believed in it, until I got your case. It must be hard to know who to trust.”

I let the sentence hang in the air for a moment. “I think most of us have trouble with that one, even if we don’t have amnesia, Detective.”

“Touché, Miss Ruiz.” His smile broadened and despite his disciplined eye contact, his gaze swept across my chest.

I stood. “Well then, if that’s all you needed, I’m glad I could help.”

The two detectives seemed surprised I was dismissing them, and then the doorbell rang.

“That’ll be my friend. Can I show you out?” I took a step toward the entry, catching my reflection in the mirror. Roxanne’s face was smooth and beautiful, displaying none of the anxiety I felt inside.

“Why don’t you answer the door? I do have a couple of more quick questions. It won’t take long,” Morales replied.

I turned my back on them, aware of both men’s eyes on my ass. On Roxanne’s ass.
God, what a freak show.

I pulled the door open.

“Hey, babe.” Michael Cimino wore a huge grin. He leaned toward me for a kiss.

I offered my cheek. “Michael, there are two policemen inside. I have to answer a couple of more questions. But come in.”

“Cops?” He blinked and walked slowly into the apartment. “Hey,” he said to the two men. “How’s it going?”

“This is Detective Henry Morales and Detective Strain,” I said with a wave. “This is my friend, Michael Cimino.”

“Whoa. Boyfriend. Miss Ruiz meant to say
boyfriend
.” Michael hugged me and smiled but I heard a warning in his voice.

“Mr. Cimino,” Morales nodded. “We met at the hospital.”

“Right, right.” Michael turned to me. “He was waiting to talk to you one day when you were with that Indian shrink. I told him you didn’t remember nothing about the accident.” Michael held two bags of Chinese food and the smell of hot garlic wafted through the room.

I met Morales’s eyes. They were intense. “You said you had two more questions, Detective?”

“I’ll just put this stuff in the kitchen, Rox. Okay?” Michael said behind me. “If I had extra, I’d offer you boys some. But there’s just enough for me and my lady.”

“Thanks, anyway,” Detective Morales said.

I flinched when Michael said ‘my lady,’ and Morales noticed.

“Okay. Shoot, Detective.” I giggled suddenly, and put my hand over my mouth.

Morales didn’t smile. Evidently he’d heard the joke too many times. “Why don’t you sit down for a moment, Miss Ruiz.”

I didn’t want to sit down. I wanted the detectives to leave. My nerves weren’t holding together very well and I was worried I might start laughing inappropriately at everything, as I had in the hospital.

“Okay.”

“I’ll make this short so you can get to your dinner,” Detective Strain said and pulled out a similar notebook to the one Morales carried. He opened it and frowned at what was written there. “Do you know if the seat belts in your car were in good working order?”

The room was silent except for the clock ticking in the bedroom. A spark of memory exploded, like a flare a mile away. I remembered a wide belt pinching my chest and sunshine hot on my arm. I licked my lips. “No. I don’t remember there being any problem with the seatbelts.”

“Hey, it was an old piece of crap Chevy,” Michael said. He’d returned to the living room, silently as a cat.

We all turned toward him.

He was trying to protect Roxanne, I realized.
From what?

“Why are you asking, Detective?” Michael added.

“Because the seatbelt on the passenger’s side was disconnected from the car at the floor. The bolts were sheared off. The insurance report stated it probably failed during the accident and came loose. But we needed to be sure it hadn’t happened before,” Strain said.

Michael shrugged. “What the fuck difference does it make when it happened? Her passenger wasn’t wearing it from what the cops on the scene told the wreckers. I talked to those guys. I’m sure when the Chevy rolled, the thing busted loose. Roxanne didn’t have anything to do with that.”

“Are you her mechanic?” Morales asked.

Michael’s eyes flashed. Before he could answer, I drew the men’s eyes back to Roxanne. “Detective Strain, I don’t recall there ever being a problem with the seat belts. But it was an old car, a 1999, as I’m sure you can see on your report. The seatbelts worked as far as I can remember.”

“Okay. And, I guess you won’t know the answer to this, but do you remember why you didn’t brake before the accident?”

“What do you mean?” I said. The sound of women’s screams and glass breaking echoed inside my skull. I clutched the side of the sofa and spoke too loud. “I don’t think there was time to hit the brakes, from what the accident report said.”

“But you don’t remember?” Morales asked sharply.

“No.”

“We found it surprising that there were no skid marks at all from your car, Miss Ruiz. Even in a head-on collision, there is a fraction of a section when instinct kicks in, no matter how shocked a person is about what’s about to happen.”

“I guess I don’t have very good instincts.”

“Hey, she said she doesn’t remember. I think you need to leave it alone,” Michael broke in.

“Right.” Morales got up and Strain closed his book and stood next to him.

“Okay,” Morales said. “Thanks, Miss Ruiz. We needed to at least ask. No one likes loose ends.”

“Of course.” The cops followed me to the door, which I opened for the third time in fifteen minutes. I wouldn’t have been surprised to find a hanging judge waiting on the landing.

“Goodbye,” I said.

Detective Morales inclined his head. “Thank you. I think we can close this out in a day or two. The only other thing we have left to do is talk to Nick Chance.”

“Why?” I blurted out before I could think not to.

“It’s a courtesy. He lost his wife. We want to be sure he has the opportunity to be heard. That’s standard in a fatal accident.”

“What would he want to say?” Michael stepped between Morales and me like a bodyguard. “You know Rox and Cathy were best friends, don’t you? Since they were kids. My girl is all torn up about her friend getting killed. What’s Nick Chance got to beef about?”

“Who said he had a beef?” Strain’s face was red.

“Do you know if he has hard feelings about Miss Ruiz?” Morales asked. “Does he blame her for the accident?”

“Whoa, slow down, buddy.” Michael could probably tell he was being double-teamed and I figured he didn’t like it. “Look, Nick’s got no reason to hold anything against Rox. It was an accident. No one caused it intentionally, right? You guys aren’t suggesting that, are you?”

I squeezed my fingers into fists.

“No. Of course not,” Morales said after a long moment.

“Good. ‘Cause like I said, his girl and mine were tight. He needs to get over what happened. A drunk killed Cathy Chance. But I understand how he’s grieving. I would be, too, if I lost my girl.”

Dizziness swamped me for a second. I wanted to slap Michael for calling me a ‘girl’ ten times. And I wanted to order the cops out because they were probably going to quiz Nick to see if he knew Roxanne wasn’t taking her medication and why she had faulty seatbelts.

Jesus.
Nick hated Roxanne already. How would he feel after he had that conversation with these two?

“Thanks again for stopping by, Detectives.” I stuck my hand out and forced Morales to take it.

“Goodbye, Miss Ruiz.” He pulled a business card out of his pocket and handed it to me. “If you think of something else or if there’s anything I can do, give me a call. I’m available 24/7 on my cell.”

I grabbed the card. “Thanks.”