The Deadly Sister (18 page)

M
aya was in court quickly; the presumed killer of the town’s high school star was guaranteed to get a speedy trial. There was really no question of how it was all going to end. There was simply too much evidence stacked against her—the blood, the fact that she’d confessed to being there and striking him, her prior record of petty offenses, that footage of her cleaning out Jefferson’s car, her having his car key.

I was called as a witness to corroborate the prosecution’s claim that I had informed Maya that Jefferson was meeting up with a girl, and to explain how the video had come to be in my possession. Any accusations of betrayal by Maya—and there had been none recently—had long been dismissed as mad ravings.

“Who was the girl Jefferson was planning to meet up with?” the prosecutor, a middle-aged woman in a rumpled gray suit, asked.

“I don’t know. I heard he was going to meet up with someone named Caitlin. Overheard him talking to some buddies. You know.” Since it was already an acknowledged fact that Maya had been at the Bend the night Jefferson died, the prosecutor didn’t have much more to ask me, and I was able to leave.

I managed not to meet Maya’s eyes during my testimony—I was only aware of the fringe of her dyed hair and the edge of the defense table—but as I left the courtroom, I couldn’t help but glance at her. She didn’t seem haggard or abused; she was being held at a relatively cushy youth ranch nearby. But the expression I saw on her face as I passed through the courtroom will always stay with me. I could have dealt with anger or immense sadness (I deserved the anger, I understood the sadness); I anticipated she might leap to her feet and shout out a desperate accusation (which would only add to the court’s impression of her as a crazy loon…and maybe lessen her sentence, I’d hoped), but instead, she had this serene expression on. It wasn’t like she was pretending not to know me, but rather that she understood me so deeply that she needed to express nothing to me; that she understood that my existence was worth more than hers; that of our two lives, hers was the one that should rightfully be lost, even if unfairly.

I left the courthouse and sat in the sun on the outside steps and stared at the ants swarming the gaps between the stones and thought of her, my sister. Her lost opportunities—the smaller ones she’d missed all her life, by shrugging off schoolwork or connections with family, and the colossal one she’d inevitably lose when the jury returned its verdict: the opportunity to be free at all.

M
aya was sentenced to fifteen years. The fact that she was a young girl who’d been stoned out of her mind prevented the jury from giving her a harsher sentence. She’d be up for review before eight years were over. But still, she was going to be spending a lot of time behind bars.

The last month of summer before I went up to Vanderbilt was the equivalent of a waiting room, endured and then forgotten. Maya asked to see me, but I refused. Mom begged me to visit her, but Dad defended my decision—I think he saw how closely I’d been involved in everything, and that it was better for my mental health that I got some distance, even if from my own sister. He was the one to drive me up to college; Mom still wasn’t leaving the house. We had some really great talks on the way; he opened up about how long he’d felt he’d been letting Maya down, how he was arranging for her to take coursework while she was in prison, that he was doing everything he could to have a stable life set up for her once she was eventually released. That was his way of dealing with his guilt.

As for me, I initially decided that I couldn’t face seeing Maya behind bars. But she kept on asking for me, until Dad called and soberly said that he didn’t think Mom would be
able to move on until I finally agreed to see my sister. I was approaching my first set of finals and could have pled organic chemistry homework, but I hated to think of my mom so sad. A reunion with Maya was inevitable, so I agreed to go.

“Your sister needs you,” my mother kept saying. And I couldn’t find a way to say,
I’m the last thing she needs.

I’d already planned to drive down from Tennessee for winter break, and I changed my plan so I’d go straight to the juvenile prison. I couldn’t risk going home first, sitting with my parents and letting myself come up with excuses not to see her. So I drove fifteen hours straight, wired on caffeine and candy, and pulled into the prison parking lot at dawn.

As planned, Cheyenne was waiting for me. She was home on break from Miami, and a few weeks earlier we’d started e-mailing again. I wrote her that I was finally going to face my sister, and she immediately said she’d come support me. She switched from a stranger back to a best friend, just like that, the moment I really needed her. Even after six months of silence, she’d gone back to being the person I could most be myself with. Seeing her waiting for me in the parking lot was therapy in a way my therapist had never been.

She was dressed in usual Cheyenne style, pilly peacoat over a patterned shirt. It was so reassuring that she was still
her.
Full minutes went by before we stopped hugging each other. I hadn’t made any real friends at Vanderbilt, not yet. I couldn’t bring myself to go out. So it was such a relief to be with someone who knew and loved me.

We’d agreed that she’d wait for me outside, and then drive us to lunch as soon as I came out, picking my car back up afterward. I couldn’t start asking about her life and delay seeing Maya, so I stepped away as soon as our hug ended.

She stopped me, though, and pulled something out of her car. Coffee and donuts.

I thanked her and went inside, where I gave my name and ID and passed through prison security. I was led down a hallway with a red line painted down the center to separate visitors from criminals. A guard ushered me through a door and into a room very similar to the Xavier High cafeteria, all cinder block and shiny paint. Maya was there waiting for me. She was still drawn out and wiry, but six months without drugs gave her a newly robust color. She had health and hardship written all over her. We were sitting at a folding table covered in imitation wood. Add a box of milk and orange pizza, and it could have been like the first day at a new school. But the guard ten feet away killed the illusion that life was anything near normal.

“Hi,” I said, plopping the donuts on the table.

She replied without hesitation: “Hi,
Caitlin
.”

The world stopped for a moment. I’d almost sat down but now I froze, hanging ridiculously in the space over the chair. My heart dropped: Maybe she really thought that was my name. Maybe she was now fully and completely insane. I caught a glimpse of my reflection in the window: hysterical, weary.

“What did you call me?” I asked.

“Never mind. Have a seat.”

I could think of no option but to obey her. “You look good,” I said, fiddling with the coffee cup.

She ignored the compliment. “One thing you get tons of here,” she said, “is time to think. To put things together.”

“Do you even want me to be here? Because you haven’t even asked me how I’m doing, and I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“I don’t care whether you admit it. The fact that you’ve spent so long avoiding me makes me think you’ll never face the truth. But I’m going to tell you what I now know is true, beyond any doubt.”

My hands were clenched together, slick and cold. “Maya, I don’t think—”

“You fell for Jefferson the moment he entered our house, didn’t you?”

I almost answered her question—for a split second I thought it would have felt good to spill the truth. But cool reason took over and I stayed silent and sat with my shock.

No. I fell for him long before he ever entered our house. Whenever he was consciously flirting, he got this curve to one side of his mouth, like someone posing a riddle. Nothing about him wasn’t essential: Everything was messy, but nothing was out of place.

“Are you going to say anything?” Maya pressed. “Because I’m positive that you were sleeping with him.”

No, Maya. It was way more than that. You have no idea.

“Maya,” I said. “Think how crazy that sounds.”

Why had I figured I’d be any different, that he’d immortalize the flash of connection we had? I was just another one of his girls. Somewhere, I’d always suspected it.

“Abby,” Maya said quietly, “I’m in jail. Nothing’s going to change that. It’s not like anything you say will let me walk free. So at least give me the benefit of a little honesty.”

“I haven’t lied to you,” I said.

When I was with him, it was like some intense woman inside me burst out of a paper shell. Jefferson had coaxed it out, with that mouth of his. Those fingers. When we were together, I’d been consumed with thoughts that I’d betrayed you. How ironic, when eventually I’d betray you far worse.

“I found a picture of you. With him. I jacked it from Jefferson’s stuff once. Do you remember the moment? You were on Jefferson’s bed. You’d been crying.”

I remembered that moment well, though I’d had no idea that I was being photographed. He’d told me he wouldn’t sleep with me anymore, that I had gotten too serious and he’d only been into us when it was all more carefree. I’d promised him I didn’t expect anything from him, that I could be casual and fun again. But I’d been bawling. In the end I buried my head away. I’d thought he’d been sitting there dejected, but he’d been taking pictures. He had a grin on his face: Mission accomplished. Another girl used and then booted. More proof of his power. I’d finally looked up to see Jefferson shirtless and staring into the mirror, feeling his six-pack and taking more pictures. In another few minutes, I’d be out of there and on the other side of town, shrieking and sobbing in my bedroom so hard that my parents would hear and come
knocking. No one had ever rejected me like that. Or rejected me at all, really.

“If you’d had anything like that,” I said, “you would have brought it to the police. You’re flat-out lying. I didn’t come here for this.”

“Did you happen to notice that I was basically homeless? It was a little hard to keep track of my belongings,” Maya said bitterly. Then the sarcasm dropped and a note of sadness entered her voice. “I lost it. And in a way, that wasn’t you in the picture. It was Caitlin. That’s the name you told Jefferson to call you, so if you came up on his phone, I wouldn’t know it was my own sister.”

When he cast me out of his bedroom that last time, left me dirty and alone, I needed him to pay. He’d gone straight back to you. To hurt me, or for more obscure reasons. Either way, I wanted him to suffer. I also hoped to save you from him. So I used the last card I had, that final meeting I’d gotten Jefferson to agree to, and told you about it. I had you show up instead of me. I supplied the name Caitlin so he’d know, as soon as you said it, who’d sent you to him. I’d take his toy away before he was finished with it, and save you from heartbreak at the same time. And I’d watch from the trees. If it didn’t all go the way I wanted it to go, I’d step in and confront him myself.

But you were wrong about one thing: I hadn’t been the one originally to come up with the name. It had been Jefferson. Does it matter, though? We’d both betrayed you.

“I can see you know what I’m saying. It’s all over your face. Listen, Abby, I get why you killed him,” Maya said.
“Believe me, I get it. But why you had to frame me, I haven’t figured out. Maybe you’ve held a grudge against me for years, for putting you and Mom and Dad through so much crap. Can’t say I’d blame you for that. I sort of deserve what’s happened to me. But I also deserve to know the truth about it, don’t you think?”

She was remorseful more than angry. I hadn’t anticipated that, and it caught me off guard. I took a few moments before responding. “Maya,” I said evenly, “I don’t think I deserve to have wild accusations thrown at me. Would you give this up so we can catch up?”

“Catch up?! Are you serious? You watched me, didn’t you?” she said, stabbing the tabletop with a finger. “You saw me confront him. You saw me hit him. He
wanted
me to. He was enjoying it. I bet you saw that, too. I cut him bad with that bottle when it slipped from my fingers. So I flipped and ran away. And that’s when you appeared.”

“Is that so?”

You’re exactly right.

“And then he saw you and attacked you. You defended yourself.”

Jefferson. He was still kneeling there, bright in the headlights of his car, holding his face. The things he was saying about you: You were the biggest whore of all time, you would pay, he’d get you and your slutty friends one by one and take all of you down.

Because I’d once loved him, I hated him. So much. I hated how he was a user, how other people adored him for it. How he abused everyone and seized on any insecurities. And there he was,
vulnerable in front of me. With no idea I was there. It dawned on me: No one in the world had any idea I was there.

Until I saw you hit him, I hadn’t ever considered it was possible to wound Jefferson, that he was mortal. But the sight of his blood pushed me to new places. I could hurt him so much worse than I’d ever imagined. There was a rock under my feet. I pulled it up from the muck and hurled it.

It was sharp and heavy and filthy, and I hit the part of his skull where you had already parted the flesh, took that seam and ripped it open. There must be some huge blood vessel that runs over your temple; it erupted all over. I remember big globs of blood spraying in the headlights. He was blinded by his own blood, staggered backward. I picked the rock back up and hit him again. And again. It was slick and kept falling from my fingers, but I’d find it and come after him again. He was screaming, thrashing around. I hit him one last time, and he lost his balance and fell back through the trees. I heard branches breaking, farther and farther away, until his fall stopped with a splash.

I stood there in the clearing for a while, heaving and retching as I slowly came back to my senses. I couldn’t hear anything from below but an awful stillness.

“It
was
self-defense, right?” Maya asked.

I couldn’t bring myself to go confirm there really was a dead body down there; I hoped I’d find the strength come morning. But I knew how hard I’d hit him. I knew the sounds his skull made as it split.

Maya stared at me incredulously. “Would you at least react? I’m getting nothing from you.”

I thought back to that AP psych class, when Mr. Wachsberger had described sociopaths as charismatic people with powerful reasoning and no emotional compass. I’d stared at Jefferson, waiting for him to flinch.

He wasn’t the one who ought to have flinched.

Maybe I am a sociopath. My life has been a series of options weighed and selected, with consequences leading to more sets of options. Anyone hearing what happened wouldn’t know it, but so often my emotions simply don’t match the events.

“As soon as you stop being crazy,” I said coolly, “I’ll start reacting.”

“That was you in the car,” she said.

“What are you getting at?”

“Where were you that night, then?”

“At home. In bed.”

First thing I did was turn off the engine and headlights. Worst possibility was that someone would chance upon me before I’d figured out what I was going to do, and his running car was like a lighthouse beacon. I wiped off the rock I’d killed him with and wrapped it in stray newspaper and placed it in the backseat. I shut myself in his car and locked the doors. It smelled like his detergent and his sweat. I remembered the same smell from wrestling with him after we had sex one time, the smell of it especially strong on the corded muscles at the base of his neck.

What to do? I could call 911 right away, report the accident so someone would come help him, in case he was alive. But I’d attacked him, and calling 911 would mean turning myself in. If I didn’t call,
his absence would be noticed within a day. The Andrewses would start a search. They’d track down Maya. Then they’d track me down. Or would they? No one knew about my obsession with Jefferson—I was too embarrassed that I’d fallen for someone so cruel to let any of my friends know.

“When did you make the plan to frame me?” Maya said.

I stared back at her.

I wish I’d known the full extent of Brian’s weirdness back then—I might have made him my target from the start. This all would have ended so differently. But the only person I could think of pinning everything on was you.

Part of me even thought you deserved it.

“Look,” Maya said. “I get it. I’d basically checked out from our family. We both knew there was no way I was going to be getting a diploma anytime soon. If fate had gone another direction, it could have been me who killed him. And if one of us was going to lose her future, why not have it be the one who barely had a future to start with?”