“Yes.”
“And the other lady?”
I swallowed.
“My sister.”
Lily’s eyes widened.
“You have a sister?”
That question hurt more than it should have.
I had a sister.
Past tense had never felt completely right.
Present tense felt impossible.
“I did.”
“What happened?”
I looked at Mara’s fifteen-year-old face.
“I don’t know.”
And suddenly I was furious.
Not at Lily.
Not even at Sophie Bennett.
At those three words.
I don’t know.
I had been saying them since 1986.
I was done saying them.
Mara and I were identical twins, but nobody who knew us well ever confused us.
I was cautious.
Mara was motion.
I made lists.
She lost lists.
I followed rules until I understood them well enough to complain.
Mara complained first and asked questions later.
Our father, Harold Mercer, found this charming when we were children.
By sixteen, he considered it dangerous.
Dad believed the world worked best when everyone stayed where they belonged.
Children listened.
Parents decided.
Doors were locked at ten.
Boys did not wait at the end of the driveway.
And daughters did not make plans without permission.
Mara had started seeing a boy named Daniel Price that spring.
Daniel was seventeen.
He played guitar badly, wore motorcycle boots he did not need, and had parents who were planning to move away from Bellmere.
Dad hated him immediately.
Mom tried to keep the peace.
I mostly stayed out of it.
That was something I regretted later.
The night Mara disappeared was not our birthday.
That was one of the first things I changed in my memory over the years without realizing it.
People retold stories.
Dates blurred.
Eventually even family legends became cleaner than reality.
It was three weeks after our sixteenth birthday.
A humid Saturday night.
Mom had gone to help my aunt after surgery.
Dad was in the garage.
I was studying upstairs.
Mara came into our room wearing jeans, a white T-shirt and the red canvas shoes she loved.
She carried a small backpack.
I looked at it.
“Where are you going?”
“Out.”
“That bag says more than out.”
She rolled her eyes.
“Daniel’s family leaves tomorrow.”
“So?”
“So I’m saying goodbye.”
“With clothes?”
Her expression changed.
That was when I knew.
“You’re going with him.”
“Not forever.”
“Mara.”
“Just for a few days.”
“You’re sixteen.”
“So are you. Congratulations on knowing our age.”
