Claire arrived at 8:03 p.m. carrying a casserole.
A casserole.
As if betrayal could be covered in foil and baked at 350 degrees.
She stepped inside and looked around. “Where are the kids?”
“With Mom.”
“Good.” She set the dish on the counter. “You look awful.”
“I feel awful.”
Her eyes softened. “Come here.”
She opened her arms.
For one second, I saw us as girls. Claire cutting gum out of my hair after a bully stuck it there. Claire sleeping beside me during thunderstorms. Claire punching a boy in ninth grade because he called me stupid.
I walked into her embrace.
She smelled like vanilla lotion and rain.
My sister held me.
My husband’s murderer held me.
And the worst part was that some broken, stupid piece of me still wanted to be held.
We sat at the kitchen table. I placed copies of a few bank statements between us, just enough.
Claire touched them with two fingers. “Where’s the rest?”
“What rest?”
“Emily.”
I looked down. “I’m scared Liam did something bad.”
She exhaled, almost relieved. “He did.”
The room went silent behind the walls.
“What?”
Claire reached across the table and took my hand. “Liam wasn’t who you thought he was.”
A cold calm came over me.
“Tell me.”
“He got involved in transfers at work. Daniel found out and tried to stop it. Liam panicked. He started blaming us.”
My eyes burned, but not from grief this time.
“How could he do that to us?”
“I know.” Claire squeezed my hand. “I know, baby.”
Baby.
She had called me that since we were little.
“Was his crash really an accident?” I whispered.
Claire’s face went still.
Then she smiled sadly. “Of course.”
I let tears spill. Real ones. They came from a place deeper than acting.
“I keep thinking he was afraid.”
“He probably was.”
“Did he suffer?”
Claire’s grip tightened.
A tiny shift.
A crack.
“I hope not,” she said.
Hope.
Not know.
I leaned closer. “Claire, I need the truth. If Liam hurt people, if he dragged you and Daniel into something, I need to know before police come.”
