Page 14 of My Twin Sister

He nods at me in greeting. “Ms. Chandler. It is still ‘Ms. Chandler’ isn’t it?”

“Yep.”

“If you have the time, we should really talk.”

“Does that have to happen today?” Geny steps forward.

“It’s okay. I have time.”

The sheriff looks between us. “It doesn’t have to be today, I suppose. But it should be soon—”

“I have the time now. Are we talking here?”

I can feel Geny’s eyes on me. She doesn’t want to separate. I feel the same way. But this needs to happen and the sooner, the better.

“Down at the police station,” he says.

I walk forward and he steps aside to let me exit the house first.

“You can ride in the cruiser if you want,” he calls.

“I’d rather drive if that’s okay.” I don’t turn around or wait for his approval.

I open my car door just as a blue pickup truck pulls up and parks in front of the house. Wyatt climbs out of the driver’s seat and takes in the scene.

“What’s going on?” he asks.

“Your dad wants to talk to Grace down at the police station,” Geny says, her arms crossed.

I don’t know why she’s feeling so defensive of me in this situation, but then Wyatt spins and faces his father with a similar attitude.

“Is that really necessary? Today? She just got back. I’m sure she’d like to settle in and spend time with her sister.”

“It’s just a chat, Wy.” Frank lowers his chin at his son. “She’ll be right back.”

“Does she need a lawyer or something?” Wyatt says.

Frank’s face screws up. “No, son. Why would she need a lawyer? It’s just a chat. Calm down and I’ll see you all at the fields in an hour.”

I glance at Wyatt, and my breath catches when our eyes lock. I look away and get into my car, shutting the door between us.

* * *

Inside the station, Frank uses a key card on a reader outside the door to let us into an interview room. It’s too warm in here. I thought they kept them cold in the movies. As many times as I’ve been in trouble, I’ve never actually been in one of these rooms. It was always a warning. And then getting grounded when my dad found out, though he didn’t always find out. Not toward the end.

Frank Gibbs sits across from me, trying to look as relaxed and friendly as possible.

“This isn’t a conversation I ever thought I’d be having,” he says.

“Why would you? Dead girls don’t talk.”

He nods. Grins. “But you’re not dead.”

“Astute observation, Sheriff.”

A single eyebrow quirks up. It’s brushed with gray now. “I’m sensing some hostility. What’s that about?”

“From me?” I ask innocently. “Oh, no. No hostility here. This is just how I talk. Have you really forgotten my personality? I know it’s been a while.”