Текст книги "Never Die Alone"

Автор книги: Lisa Jackson

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Текущая страница: 3 (всего у книги 23 страниц)

“Shit!”

The force of evading him sent her airborne. She landed hard, and her ankle gave way. Letting out a groan, she began to roll down a steep hill, her body bumping and sliding over mud and leaves. Picking up speed, she kept traveling down, down . . . away from him. She surrendered to the momentum and let herself tumble like a stone.

Above it all, somewhere beyond her violent descent, she heard the far-off rev of an engine.

Chloe? Oh, God, please. Let her save herself.

Splash!

Zoe slid into the water.

“What the fuck?” the freak cried from the top of the embankment. “Shit!”

As she felt the current tug her downstream, she silently prayed that her twin would get away.

CHAPTER 4

“I t’s happening. It’s happening again!”

Arianna’s voice came from the mist. A whisper.

Please, no. “Where are you?” Brianna demanded. She stood in a dark thicket cloaked by rising fog. Although unable to see into the darkness, she knew her twin was nearby. She could feel it. “Arianna?”

“Help them.”

“Help who?”

“The others.”

“I don’t know who you mean.”

“The ones like us, silly. Help them,” Arianna said, and in that moment Brianna found herself alone in a desert under a broad blue sky and parching bald sun. Cacti stood guard over acres and acres of sand. “Arianna?” Brianna said again. The only answer was the rush of wind and the cry of vultures circling overhead. When she looked down at the ground she saw them: two bodies curled in fetal positions, mirror images facing each other. Pushed by the gusting wind, sand scattered away from their bones: hollow-eyed skulls with long teeth and empty nasal cavities, rounded, exposed ribs, and knobby vertebrae bleached by the intense sun.

With a sickening spasm, Brianna understood that she was staring at what remained of the missing twin brothers, Garrett and Gavin Reeves, both originally from Phoenix. She had to call the police, to alert the authorities that she had found them, but before she could make a move, one of the skulls twisted on its chalky vertebrae to stare at her. “End this,” it hissed over the rumble of the wind.

“What?”

“End this, or there will be others.” The wind was picking up, growling over the flat landscape, whipping up sand as it moved. “Their blood will be on your hands.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Oh, you know, Brianna.” The skeleton raised a bony hand to stroke the unmoving skull of its twin. “You know.” The wind roared as a sandstorm arose and swept over the area. As Brianna watched helplessly, the second set of bones was blown from the gravesite and scattered over the desert plain, leaving the remaining skeleton intact and untouched and very much alone.

Overhead, the vultures circled again, screeching loudly.

Brianna’s eyes flew open. For a second she was disoriented and blinking in the darkness. The dream, so vivid and real, receded as her cell phone rang again. Automatically she reached onto the nightstand where her phone glowed dimly as it jangled again. Tanisha Lefevre’s photograph and number appeared on the screen.

Tanisha was a friend whom she’d met through the support group Brianna managed, a group for people who were struggling with the loss of their twin siblings. “Twinless twins,” some called them. Tanisha had been one of the first members to join. As Brianna reached for the still-ringing phone, she had to push St. Ives, her overweight cat, off the pillow. No doubt his purring had been the source of the rumbling in her dreams.

“Hello?” she answered, blinking and trying to shove aside the disturbing images from her nightmare. “Tanisha? Are you okay?”

“No,” was the quick answer. “Not really and I, uh, I know it’s late.”

Brianna glanced at the clock. Nearly two a.m. “Real late.”

“Yeah, yeah, I said I know. But I couldn’t sleep, kept having weird dreams about Allacia. I’m sorry, but I had to talk to someone.”

“No problem,” Brianna said, scooting up in the bed and propping a pillow behind her. She flipped on the bedside lamp while St. Ives hopped down and padded over to the glass door overlooking the patio of her small house. “What happened?”

“It’s just that I’ve had this weird vibe tonight, like it was happening all over again. You know, the separation thing.” Before Brianna could say a word she launched into her story. “Allacia and I, we were teenagers, but we weren’t living with Mom and Dad. We were on our own and we went on a double date or something, I can’t remember all the details. Anyway, Allacia she gets mad at her date and takes off. I didn’t want to leave my date, but I chased after my sister and she slipped out of sight. Disappeared. Bam. I couldn’t find her. Then it all mixed up and I was in college, but I kept seeing her. She was like texting me all the time, asking me to meet her and I’d go, but she’d never show. In between the dreams I’d wake up, calm down, then go back to sleep and dream about her all over again. Y’know, it’s kinda freaky. Like somethin’s happening.”

Tanisha believed that in the universe of twins, there was an invisible aura connecting them. She thought that a traumatic event experienced by one twin could also be felt by the other. Tanisha also claimed to be sensitive to the pain of other twins she had met. Brianna found Tanisha’s beliefs to be more than a little extreme, but hey, hadn’t she, too, had a weird nightmare about her own twin tonight?

“What do you think is happening?” asked Brianna.

“Separation,” Tanisha said decisively.

“To whom?”

“I’m not sure. Just close twins.”

“Someone you know?”

“No . . . well, maybe. Someone I know of. Look, I know you think I’m a little out there with all this twin stuff, but trust me, it’s true. I can’t tell you what’s going on with twins in Berlin or Moscow or Capetown, or even here in New Orleans if I don’t know them or of them, but if I do, I just feel some strange vibe.”

“If they’re separated.”

“Yeah, oh yeah. I mean, it’s not like I can read their thoughts or any strange stuff like that. And complete strangers? Forget it. But if there’s some thread linking me to them, no matter how thin, I’m tellin’ you, I get this weird feeling, kinda like a spider crawling up your bare back, y’know? And then I can’t sleep and I end up calling you in the middle of the damned night.”

“It’s fine,” Brianna assured her as St. Ives began batting on the door wanting to go wandering in the night. “Anytime.” She considered admitting that she, too, had dreamt about her own sister, but decided against it. She dreamed so often about Arianna, Brianna didn’t think tonight’s dream was significant.

“Thanks. I guess I just had to get it off my chest, and I’m not sure I want to share it with the group tomorrow.”

“That’s what group is for.”

“I know, I know, but . . . well, maybe. Depends on who’s there, I guess, and the whole discussion.” With a sigh, she said, “Look, I’d better go. I have an early wakeup call in the morning. I’ll see you tomorrow.” She groaned. “Well, technically later today.” She hung up, leaving Brianna telling herself that her dream had nothing to do with Tanisha’s.

Twins thought about each other often, and even if one moved away or died or disappeared, the remaining twin could be consumed with memories, dreams, even the need to converse with the missing person. Not all twins were close, but Brianna believed that all twins had a deep connection, one that went beyond the simple genetic link of biological siblings. “Or maybe you’re just kidding yourself,” she said aloud as she threw off the covers and walked to the door. She opened it a crack and let the cat slip through.

A gust of summer wind blew into the room, ruffling the curtains and carrying the sweet scent of magnolia. Brianna stepped outside and watched St. Ives slither through the bushes lining the enclosed patio with its uneven stone floor and broken fountain. The breeze stirred leaves in the magnolia tree and she heard a distant siren piercing the night, far beyond the walls of her private garden. She shivered as she scanned the perimeter of the small, enclosed veranda. There weren’t many hiding spots, no little nooks and crannies where someone could hide, and still she felt a prickle of dread, her skin pimpling.

No one’s out here. Get over yourself. There’s no maniac in the shadows, no killer on the prowl in your garden, no damned monster in the closet.

But she couldn’t shake the feeling. Ever.

Since Arianna had died, Brianna had never felt truly safe, never truly whole.

Swallowing back her fear, she noticed the gate to the garage was latched; the bolt on the inside was in place, locking it to the concrete. Good. Taking a few deep breaths, she felt a little calmer. “Come on inside,” she called to the cat, who blatantly ignored her and went about his nocturnal hunting. “Okay. Fine. Suit yourself. You’ve got five minutes. Hear me? Five.” She actually raised her hand and spread her fingers in the tabby’s direction, then told herself she was genuinely nuts for thinking the cat understood vocal commands or her gesture or the concept of time. Feeling foolish, she went back to bed and stared up at the ceiling. The door remained cracked, a stick propped to keep it open wide enough for the cat to slip through. As she lay staring up at the ceiling, she wondered about Tanisha’s dreams of separation and how they related to her own nightmare.

“Just a coincidence,” she said aloud, and glanced at the picture she kept on her night table. Picking up the silver frame, she studied the snapshot taken nearly thirty years before of identical twin girls, toddlers in shorts and matching T-shirts. Their arms were flung around each other as they stood at the prow of a fishing boat, the sea and sky sparking behind them. Brianna traced her finger along the small face of her identical sibling and her heart cracked a little. Arianna had been gone for so long, and yet she still missed her intensely. Especially on nights like this.

And though she was loath to admit it, Brianna did believe there was something to Tanisha’s feelings about disturbances in the twin universe. Hadn’t she, too, experienced the pain of separation? And to be honest, she had to admit that separation played a part in her dream, in which one twin’s bones had scattered away through the desert.

She thought about the two skeletons she’d seen in her nightmare, how she’d known they belonged to the missing Reeves brothers. She had no idea how she knew that fact; she simply did.

Worse yet, deep in her heart, she knew more. She knew that he was out there, and he had made another move. She squeezed her eyes shut against the knowledge that filled her with dread: the 21 Killer had struck yet again.

Exhausted, Zoe swam with the current, faster and faster, trying to put as much space between her and the freak as she could. Chloe had escaped, she felt sure of that. So in the chilly water Zoe bolstered her own spirits by telling herself that her sister was okay. Now it was her turn to find safety.

Any normal person would give up chase at this point, but Zoe couldn’t be certain how the freak would act. So she let the current carry her on farther downstream all the while trying not to think of the alligators that lived in these murky waters. It would be awful to have escaped the naked pervert only to become gator bait.

Don’t go there.

Don’t freak out.

You’ve come this far, just keep going!

When she considered her ordeal, she felt safer facing gators than him. To think that she and Chloe has actually been kidnapped and stripped naked and held by a madman for some bizarre birthday ritual . . . it was crazy. But they’d thwarted him. Well, at least for now. Since she and Chloe could identify the psycho, he would probably keep hunting them down.

No, the ordeal was far from over.

She’d never make it; not without rest. A cold-blooded chill pervaded her body and every muscle ached. She fantasized about a warm bath, her own bed. As she rounded a bend in the river, she spied lights in the distance. Hope glimmered in those lights—a town on the shores of the river. There, she hoped, she would find a Good Samaritan to call the police. She would tell the authorities what had happened to her, reconnect with Chloe, and hopefully end this madness. She headed toward civilization. She hoped.

Oh, God, please, she silently prayed as she felt something slithery and wet slide through her legs.

For the love of Mary. She brushed at the object, kicked away from it, and tried to maintain a steady stroke in the water. Her ankle was throbbing, her muscles beginning to weaken, but she kept swimming, putting distance between herself and the freak’s lair as she eased closer to the town.

Just a few more strokes.

She stretched her arm forward and felt something slimy and wet just before the heavy object struck her head.

Bam!

Pain slammed through her brain.

She slid under the surface as a fat, rough log rolled over her, threatening to pin her down.

Frantically she thrashed in the darkness.

The air in her lungs came out in streams of bubbles as she shielded her head and pushed away from the log. She managed to free herself, but which way was up? She needed air. She gasped, taking in river water as she tried to surface.

Her lungs recoiled and she shot upward, barely missing the heavy log again.

Fight, Zoe, fight!

Sputtering and coughing, she tried to expel the water in her lungs as she gasped for air.

The world spun.

She didn’t know up from down, night sky from inky black water.

Instinctively she reached forward. Her fingers collided with a narrow end of the log and she grabbed on, wildly clutching a fork in the limb. This could be her raft, her lifesaver. She hung on, letting it pull her downstream. She blinked and coughed, aware of her vulnerability in the black river. She knew it would be easier to just let go, to let the river and the night swallow her.

Don’t!

Surrender was seductive, but she couldn’t allow herself to let go now. So she hung on, clinging to the log and the hope of life, battling to keep unconsciousness at bay, all the time praying that Chloe had gotten away.

A gate? There was a gate blocking her escape? Chloe couldn’t believe it, but the beams of the headlights washed upon the obstacle.

After she’d slipped her hands from his loosely tied bonds and while he was desperate to track down Zoe, Chloe had managed to yank off her gag and take advantage of the keys he’d moronically left in the ignition.

Now there was a gate blocking her escape?

Damn! Chloe couldn’t believe her bad luck. She stood on the brakes of the van and climbed out. She had to get away. Had to! It was her only chance. And Zoe, oh, Jesus, what about Zoe? She’d had to fight the urge to stay at the river and find her twin, but Zoe, always the bolder of the two, the planner, the leader, had ordered her to escape. And Chloe was not going to let her sister down. She’d get help, of course she would, and she’d return to the river to rescue her sister, and Zoe would be okay. She was cagey and smart and athletic and . . . Holy shit, why did there have to be a damned gate?

She scrambled out of the van, leaving the driver’s door open, the interior light glowing, the damned seat belt alarm dinging. Her headlights were trained on the aluminum slats of the gate, where she fumbled with the padlocked latch. A damned padlock.

Really? He’d locked them in? Now what? Think, Chloe, think!

With all her strength she yanked on the lock.

Nothing.

Again, she threw her weight against it and again she failed. Well, of course. What lock would give way to a girl?

But maybe he had a tool in the van, a hacksaw or . . . or a key! Maybe there was a key on the ring that held the van’s ignition. She ran back to the van and thought she heard something in the trees. Twigs breaking. An animal on the prowl? Or could it be him?

No!

Leaping onto the driver’s seat, she fumbled for the keys, found that only a single key was attached to the ring. “Shit!” Quickly she searched around the front seat, the glove box, and the console, looking for another set of keys or a saw or—

A quick glance in the rearview mirror. Beyond her own image, she saw him. Huge. Naked. Covered in blood and dirt. Dark hair plastered to his head.

Hell! She didn’t think twice but pulled the driver’s door closed, slapped on the automatic locks, threw the van into Drive, and hit the gas. Wheels spun, spitting dirt and gravel. The Dodge hurtled forward and crashed into the gate. With a groan the aluminum twisted and bent, but didn’t give. Damn!

Chloe rammed the van into Reverse and, spying the man running forward, didn’t hesitate. “Die, fucker!” she said through gritted teeth, and punched it. The van’s engine roared, the huge vehicle streaking backward.

Thunk!

Oh, God, she actually hit him!

Too bad.

Or not.

Her stomach revolted and she fought the urge to gag. She had to hold it together now. Throwing the gearshift lever into Drive, she punched it, hoping there was enough distance for the acceleration necessary to break through the gate. Tires whirred as the Dodge spurted forward, hitting the gate and stopping so quickly Chloe was thrown against the steering wheel. “Ooof!” She caught her breath. Had to keep moving. “Come on, come on,” she moaned through her pain, and tromped on the accelerator again.

Whining, the tires dug deep into the lane.

Thunk! That same awful sound she’d heard before when she’d run over the bastard. But the van wasn’t moving. No matter how hard she stepped on the gas. Frantic, she rammed the Dodge into Reverse again to take another run at the gate.

Thunk!

What?

Crash!

The passenger door window shattered.

Glass sprayed.

A beefy hand shot through.

Chloe screamed.

The door flew open.

The huge whack job stood in the frail light cast by an interior lamp.

Clutched in one of his massive hands was a heavy stick, most likely the branch he’d used to thump against the van.

“No!” Terrified, she scrabbled for the door lock. She had to get out. To run!

Cowering against the driver’s door, she tried to find the handle, but the evil smile that crawled over his bruised and bloodied face petrified her. He knew she couldn’t escape.

A weak, mewling sound slipped from her throat.

He yanked the key from the ignition and opened the glove box.

Her fingers found the door handle.

She pulled.

Her door gave way, but as she dove to the left to escape the van something closed over her arm. He had grabbed her with one meaty hand.

“Not so fast,” he muttered against her ear as she fought, flailing and clawing at him. She tried to wrench free, but the sound of a metal click matched the manacle he was tightening over her wrist.

Handcuffs. He’d taken them from the glove box.

Before she could react he yanked her over his lap and twisted her arms behind her. Over her own cries, she heard the horrifying click of the second cuff locking, and she knew it was over.

He would never let down his guard again.

She was as good as dead.

CHAPTER 5

After a fitful night’s sleep, Brianna showered, then scraped her curly hair into a loose, dark knot before throwing on yesterday’s faded jeans and her favorite cotton tee. While St. Ives preened himself, she went to the kitchen to make coffee and clean a few dishes that seemed to have multiplied on their own in her sink.

Last night’s dreams still lingered with their disturbing images, but in the predawn hours she had convinced herself that her dreams were hers to own, period. It was silly to think that skeletons in the desert had any connection to Tanisha’s nightmares. “It’s all just some weird cosmic coincidence,” she muttered as the doorbell pealed.

She glanced at the clock on her stove.

The sun wasn’t even up yet.

No one stopped by this early.

Wiping her hands, she made her way to the front door, peered through one of the sidelights, and spied Selma Denning on the front stoop. Selma stood in a cloud of smoke, pulling hard on a cigarette.

Brianna felt a chill deep inside. Selma had given up smoking years ago, and it wasn’t like her to drop by so early in the morning. Pale as death, her graying hair pulled back into a sloppy ponytail, Selma looked unkempt and stark under the porch light. Dawn was breaking, fingers of gray light crawling through the city streets, chasing away the shadows, but from the looks of Selma’s rumpled shorts, T-shirt, and cardigan sweater, Brianna suspected that she hadn’t slept a wink.

As Brianna unlocked and opened the door, Selma quickly squashed her cigarette.

“Selma?”

“It’s the twins,” Selma said before Brianna could ask any questions. “Zoe and Chloe. They’re . . . they’re missing!” Her face was twisted in pain, her eyes red behind her rimless glasses.

Brianna held the front door open. “Come in, come in . . . please. And start over at the beginning.”

“It was their birthday. I mean, it is their birthday and oh, God.” Selma didn’t budge from her spot on the porch as her eyes filled with tears. She dropped her face into her hands and hiccuped a sob. “I know it hasn’t been all that long, but I just know something has gone wrong. I can feel it in my bones, you know?”

Brianna nodded. Although she wasn’t a mother, she did understand the invisible connections between people. Now Tanisha’s call and her own dreams of a disturbance, a separation in the universe, took on a new significance. The soft ping of alarm deep inside her began to swell.

“Something’s happened. Oh, God.” Selma clamped a bony hand over her mouth for a second, then let it fall. “You don’t think . . . I mean, it’s impossible that the two of them together were . . . kidnapped.” Her voice trailed off as she considered the horrible possibility.

Brianna’s heart turned stone cold. “I don’t know what to think,” she said, half-lying. “But come in, come in.” She waved Selma inside and stepped out of the doorway, casting a quick glance to the still-dark street. Saw nothing out of the ordinary. She pulled the door firmly shut. “Let’s go into the kitchen.”

Sensing the dread in her new companion, Brianna ushered Selma past the living area to the back of the house where a pot of coffee was brewing, the last of the water gurgling through the grounds. St. Ives was stretched out on a rug near the French doors, which gave the tabby a view of the backyard. Brianna imagined the cat looking forward to the day’s activity in the yard, where birds would flit across the stone paths and splash in the fountain, and squirrels would tease from the twisted branches of the live oak trees that shaded a small café table. Such a simple life.

“Coffee?” Brianna offered, opening a cupboard and scrounging inside to locate a cup that wasn’t chipped. “Black, right?”

“Yes, that’s . . . that’ll be fine.” Selma struggled against tears as she dropped onto a bar stool at the counter.

“So why don’t you start over? At the beginning.” Ignoring the icy feeling seeping through her blood, she tried to convince herself that this was just a coincidence. That was all. Of course, Selma’s twin daughters were fine. Right?

“As I said, today is their birthday.” Selma’s voice was a dry whisper. “Their twenty-first.”

Oh, God.

That was why the fear in Selma’s pale eyes was so real, so visceral.

Brianna tried to keep calm. “Just because they were turning—”

“Don’t!” Selma ordered, her voice surprisingly fierce, her blue eyes sparking. “Just don’t . . . don’t patronize me. Okay?” She sniffed and ran the back of her hand under her nose. “We’ve been friends too long for that.”

Fair enough. “Okay.”

“Good. We both know what this could mean.” Her chin wobbled and she closed her eyes. “You, especially.”

That much was true. They both knew that Brianna had been studying the 21 Killer for years. Dubbed “21” by the press, the killer had terrorized Southern California a few years back. The police had finally arrested Donovan Caldwell, who had been tried and convicted as the killer.

But Brianna didn’t believe Caldwell capable of the ritualistic murders, and she feared that 21 was killing again, broadening his hunting ground. But here, in Louisiana? She held her tongue as she poured coffee into two cups. “Let’s not go immediately to the worst-case scenario,” she said, even as her mind was leaping ahead.

“Didn’t you go there? Sweet Mother Mary, they turned twenty-one and I can’t find them!” Selma’s voice cracked. “And what if . . . what if he’s out there? You’ve worked on this for years, right? You don’t believe that monster they call the 21 Killer is Donovan Caldwell. You’ve said as much.”

Brianna couldn’t argue the fact. Plenty of people knew that she had been studying the 21 Killer and pursuing the possibility of Donovan Caldwell’s innocence. A psychologist, she’d tried to “look into the mind” of 21, at least from a psychological perspective, based on any information she had found on the crimes. What most people did not know was that Donovan was her cousin. The Caldwells were on her mother’s side, a California branch of the family she had barely known growing up. However, when she had learned that 21’s first victims were her own cousins, said to be murdered by their brother, Brianna had felt a personal stake in the case. Over the years she had followed the developing details of the murders, investigating as a concerned family member and twin, and later a psychologist. She had always tried to hide her family connection to the murders.

That was about to change. It was time to go public with her concerns about his imprisonment and what she now knew. During her last visit to the California prison, she’d told him that she would take care of things. She was going to make sure the truth was known. But her campaign did little to bring Donovan out of his depression.

“No one will ever believe I didn’t do it,” he’d said morosely on the other side of the thick glass in the prison, the phone pressed to his ear. “It’s true, I didn’t like my sisters. I admit it. But I didn’t kill them. I didn’t!” For a second there had been fire in his eyes. “And the others that they think I murdered?” Phone pressed to his ear, he’d let out a bone-weary sigh. “No way. I didn’t even know them.”

“I know. I know. I believe you and I swear, I’ll help,” she’d promised, but the look in his eyes had been that of a doomed man, one without a sliver of hope. “You just have to be patient.”

“I can’t. I’m going crazy in here.”

“Please, just hang on,” she’d said, her heart heavy at the thought of leaving him penned up for God knew how long.

“I don’t know if I can,” he’d said before the guard had ended their short conversation.

With fierce disappointment, Brianna had left California without any real progress on Donovan’s case. The state bureaucracy seemed impenetrable, and the LAPD was not interested in reviewing the case against one of the state’s most notorious serial killers.

Now, Brianna chose her words carefully as she handed a cup to Selma. “Yes, I saw Caldwell in prison. I hoped to have his case dismissed, or at least appealed.”

“Because you think he’s innocent, right? And that means the killer is still out there. What if he’s out there and somehow he knew my girls were turning twenty-one and targeted them and . . . oh, God! He couldn’t have found them, right?” Her eyes hardened as she stared at Brianna for reaffirmation.

“It’s unlikely that the killer would have come here,” Brianna said, though the words seemed a lie. She went to the fridge and pulled out a half-empty carton of milk. “Come on, now. You were going to start at the beginning.”

“Yes, right.” Selma rubbed her eyes, as if lost for a few seconds. “As I said, it’s their birthday, you know, the big one and”—she cleared her throat—“I was hoping to celebrate with them this weekend, but they had other plans. They were going to meet up with friends, go out on Bourbon Street, and didn’t want their mother tagging along. I get that, and told them we could do the family thing later. Dinner and drinks out another night, you know. They seemed cool with that. Of course, I have no idea if they were going to see their father . . .” She pulled a face at the mention of Carson Denning, her ex-husband, then stared into her untouched drink. “I’m not in that exclusive circle.” There was a bite to her words.

The Denning divorce had been far from amicable. Though it had been five years since Carson and Selma’s initial split, Selma wouldn’t or couldn’t get over it. The scars, she said, just ran far too deep. Carson’s betrayal had been devastating; no coming back from that. Brianna understood; she knew all about heartache.

Sighing, Selma glanced out the window over the kitchen sink and focused on a middle distance. Brianna doubted that her friend noticed the morning light streaming through the branches of the magnolia tree, or the birds flitting near the fountain. No, Selma’s gaze was turned inward to her own private hell. Although Selma had spent years trying to heal from the broken relationship, she hadn’t been particularly successful. Since Carson’s remarriage to his girlfriend of a year had occurred less than a month after the divorce was final, Selma had been left reeling. The fact that Carson’s girlfriend had been Selma’s niece had amplified Selma’s pain and feeling of betrayal. Though Selma had been in therapy ever since the breakup, she was far from moving on. Every family event seemed to send her into a new level of emotional hell.

And now this.

“What happened?” Brianna asked again.

“I wish I knew.”

As Brianna took the stool next to her, Selma explained how Chloe and Zoe, students at All Saints College in Baton Rouge, had come to town with plans to spend the evening barhopping with friends in New Orleans. It was, after all, in between terms. Selma hadn’t liked the idea much, but they’d laughed her off, claiming as always that she was a super-controlling mother. They had ignored Selma’s suggestion that since she lived in New Orleans, they crash at her place, an apartment on Lafayette Street. Although she had promised they could come in late with “no questions asked,” her twins had declined to spend their first night as legal adults in their mother’s guest room. “But I did have them leave their car with me. They share a car. It’s in Carson’s name. He bought it for them a while back. I didn’t want them getting back behind the wheel, you know. I insisted they get a designated driver, one of their friends to drive them back to Baton Rouge. They were supposed to get a ride and come back and pick it up, but . . . the car is still there and . . .” She shook her head sadly. “I don’t think they made it back to the college.”