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Turning the bag upside down, I let the contents fall onto the bed. A wallet, a pack of peppermint gum, a few crumpled bills, lip gloss, and a single house key. No pistol, no knife, not even mace. She is either brave or stupid enough to think she doesn't need to be prepared to protect herself. I hope my sister isn’t as stupid, but I guess I’m going to have to get them some pepper spray or at least a damn Taser.
I put everything back except for her wallet, which I open. The photo that smiles at me from the ID card is undoubtedly Claire. Those clear, bright eyes are already seared into my memory. Her smile is a bit too chipper for a driver’s license photo, but she looks good.
Monroe, Claire E.
D.O.B. 03/24/2002
The address is the one I have Elaine use to send Christmas cards to Rhea, and nothing about the ID stands out. She has a Chase credit card and a Mastercard with the name of an obscure bank stamped on it. A library card, a school ID, a coffee shop loyalty card that is just one stamp short of a free latte.
I thumb through everything, looking for anything that stands out and am just coming to the conclusion that Claire Monroe may actually be a simple girl who just stumbled into Rhea's life by chance, when a second ID catches my attention.
I flip it over to see the same picture as the first one, but the details on this card are different.
Boudreaux, Claire E.
D.O.B. 03/24/1999
The address is the same, and nothing else sticks out to me. But why would she have an Oregon ID with my last name on it? I hold them up, side-by-side, looking for obvious signs that one may be a fake, but they look identical… right down to the anti-fraud emblem that shines in the passing light.
I’m not sure what to make of it. It’s suspicious, sure, but it’s not exactly a smoking gun either. Either way, it isn’t enough to confirm or deny my suspicions of her.
I put everything away and position her purse exactly how she left it.
Apparently, Claire is lying about something.
Chapter seven
Claire
"That's you?" My laugh fills the theater room and I cringe a little the way I always do when I laugh too loud. Maybe I should slow down on the drinking… my cheeks are hot, and I know it must be from the alcohol pumping through me.
In the photo, a young Rhea with her dark hair in pigtail braids stares dispassionately at me, arms crossed over a pretentious school uniform which still allows me a view of a crest sewn onto the chest of her sweater vest. It’s a look I've seen plenty of times—a look that makes men and women alike uneasy. I’ve never been on the receiving end of her anger, thankfully.
"I seriously wanted to murder my mother over those bangs." Rhea cringes, and I can’t tell if it’s the mention of her dead mother or the painful memory of her haircut. "I looked like Wednesday Adams, but not as cute.” She shakes her head, disgusted. “She always had the maid get us ready for school while she got ready for the day and the one woman—Jolie—she insisted on treating me like a doll. She was horrible. I swear, she tried to put blush on me for my first day of kindergarten." Rhea busts out laughing. It’s so contagious that I quickly join in.
We've already flipped halfway through a photo album Rhea dragged from a bookshelf and drank a full bottle of wine each. After the day's tumultuous events, it just feels right to sit together laughing. Because if Rhea doesn't laugh, she’ll cry, and I’m an empath. If Rhea cries, I cry. I don't need her trying to take care of me tonight of all nights, which is exactly what will happen if we don’t keep her spirits up.
"What's so funny?" Remy's voice cuts through our laughter, and I nearly jump out of my skin. He came into the room so quietly that neither of us realized he was there. I think of him upstairs earlier, where I wouldn’t have even noticed his presence if he hadn’t spoken. Apparently, he’s sneaky.
It feels like someone turned up the thermostat, but I don’t know if the heat now is coming from embarrassment at the memory of our earlier encounter or his proximity or the fact that his eyes are on me… his beautiful eyes, full of questions and secrets and things he won’t show to either of us.
I feel the weight of a knot in my stomach… no, not my stomach.
It’s lower.
Are you serious? Are you really thinking about his hands on you when he just came here to tell his sister their dad died?
But his hands are only the beginning of what I’m thinking about. I’m imagining his lips on me, his weight pressing down on me, being absolutely encompassed by him. Being caught in his touch earlier had felt like the strangest mix of danger and safety; I imagine that sex would be the same.
"You remember Jolie?" Rhea asks, her words pulling me out of my dirty thoughts. I shift my eyes away from him and squeeze my thighs together like that will alleviate the ache there.
"The Russian?"
I can’t help it. His voice is too alluring, smoky, and deep. I turn back to see Remy arch an eyebrow, his already-cocky expression deepening when he notices me watching him. I look away, my mouth suddenly dry.
What the fuck is wrong with me?
"She was Ukrainian." Rhea rolls her eyes and shoves the photo album into her brother's chest. "Do you remember when she left me at the park?"
