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“Get to know them, ask them questions about themselves, but please don’t get into this with them,” I repeat. “What happened is too fresh.Please.”
“Okay.” Willa sighs. “Fine.”
After we hang up, I place my forehead on the desk. I wish I could tell Willa I don’t want her to talk to the girls because I want to talk to them first... but I’m not sure if this is true. Lately, I’ve been thinking there are two Kit Mannings in one body: the Kit Manning from three years ago, the frazzled mother, the loving wife, the worrier. And then the Kit Manning of today: a polished, well-heeled doctor’s wife, the head of the donations department who can throw a party and charm a room.
We’re so different, these Kits. Do we treat our daughters differently, too? Which Kit Manning is it who doesn’t want Willa to talk to Sienna and Aurora—the one who wants to preserve the shred of reputation she has left, or the fiercely protective mother? Maybe I haven’t dwelled on Sienna and Aurora much because I know that if I dig too deeply into what they’re feeling, I might not like what I find.
What if, deep down, theywerefurious with Greg for the e-mails? But what does that mean... and what did my daughters do with that anger?
18
WILLA
MONDAY, MAY 1, 2017
After I hang up the phone, I pace the downstairs rooms of my family’s house. I want to respect Kit’s wishes not to interrogate the girls, but leaving them out of this story is like only drawing half a picture. They lived with Greg.
And it’s Kit’s reluctance to let me talk to the girls that bothers me most. Is there something she isn’t telling me?Doesshe think Sienna and Aurora are hiding something? Let’s face it: The police can’t figure out anyone who’d want Greg dead, but this is a man who came into the girls’ lives only recently, after they lost a father they loved to death.
I need to figure it out. I hate the idea of making them uncomfortable. And I don’t believe for a second either of them hurt their stepfather. But I do wonder if they know something they don’t want to tell. Perhaps I need to draw it out of them before someone else does—like an unsympathetic detective, or an impassive, hard-nosed lawyer.
I climb the creaky stairs to the third floor. The top level holds three more bedrooms, a tiny bathroom, and an oversize closet in which my mother used to store her knitting supplies. The doors tothe rooms Sienna and Aurora are staying in are shut tight, which seems symbolic—they’ve closed everyone out. I press my ear to Sienna’s door, but I hear nothing. Same with Aurora’s. My heart is thudding hard, and I don’t know if what I’m doing is right—after all, I’m going against Kit’s strict wishes.
Still, after a moment I call out, “Girls? It’s Willa. Can we talk for a sec?”
After a beat, I hear footsteps padding across Sienna’s wood floor, and her door opens a crack. There are circles under Sienna’s eyes. The shirt she is wearing is rumpled and stained. “Hey, Aunt Willa,” she croaks. “Um, I’m kind of not feeling well.”
“This’ll only take a minute.” I rap on Aurora’s door next. “Honey? Can you come out, too?”
Aurora’s door creaks open, revealing the tiny bedroom with the slanted roof. I can’t help but smile, poking my head in. “I lived in this room for a few years in high school, once Grandma and Grandpa trusted me in the attic.” I point to the far wall. “That was painted black. And there was a big Nirvana poster on the ceiling. I used to love Kurt Cobain.”
The corners of Aurora’s mouth curve into a frown. “I was sleeping,” she says moodily.
“This won’t take long. I just have a couple of questions.”
When I sayquestions,Sienna seems to flinch, and Aurora’s arms tighten around her torso. “Sit down, sit down,” I tell them. I gesture to the little love seat my mother placed in the hallway years before.
“You guys still mad at each other?” I ask.
Aurora chews on her lip. Sienna spins a silver ring around her finger.
“You girls need each other. You’re going through a hard time. Don’t forget, your mom and I lost a parent when we were your age, too—and just as abruptly. After all these years, it still hurts.” I feel my throat close. Sienna’s head lifts an inch. It’s not often that I show emotion, and this has gotten her attention.
The house makes a series of small settling clicks and groans. “You guys have been through so much. It isn’t fair. And I feel like a jerk—I barely got toknowGreg. Is it awful to say that I was still kind of stuck on your dad as, like, Kit’s soul mate? I mean, he and Kit were together forsolong. I remember them snuggling up on the couch in high school, hogging the TV. But I should have gotten to know Greg better. Your mom talked a little bit about him back when your dad was really sick. Said he was this amazing surgeon. A really good, genuine person. He really dazzled you guys, huh?”
The girls nod but don’t say anything.
“You know, I wonder what it feels like, as a surgeon, to have a patient not make it.” I try to keep my voice light, contemplative, but my heart is pounding harder than I’d like. “How can they teach you to deal with that in medical school?”
Aurora frowns. Picks at an imaginary piece of lint on her knee. “There’s no point in being angry at the surgeon. Sometimes things just happen.”
I’m surprised at how well-adjusted she sounds. I glance at Aurora, and she’s nodding, too. So maybe I was wrong, then. Maybe these girls don’t harbor some sort of deep hatred for Greg for inadvertently killing Martin on the operating table. It makes me feel better.
But it still doesn’t clear up all my intuition that they’re hiding something. “So are you getting annoying backlash from friends about what you guys are going through now?”
“A little,” Sienna admits. “People have a lot of questions.”
I lean forward a little. “I hate to ask this, but did you guysreadthose e-mails?”
