“Where was it and why are we thinking that’s who she really is?” she then asks.

“On the fitness path between the body and the bicycle. Marino can e-mail you a picture of it.”

“Most cases aren’t complicated, Aunt Kay. Most end up being pretty much what they appear to be. But this one isn’t going to be simple.” She sounds reasonable but beneath her calm words is a threatening undercurrent, and I get up from my chair.

“There’s something you’re not telling me.” It sounds so trite.

I sound naïve, almost laughable, because there’s always something Lucy isn’t telling me. There’s plenty I don’t tell her either, especially about Dorothy.

“I have a hunch about something. That’s as much as I’ll say right now.” Lucy stares at me the way she does when she doesn’t want me asking her anything more about a particular subject. “I’ll be back with you when I have info I can confirm.”

I remember what she said earlier. She referenced multiple things happening at once, and I inform her about the phone call Marino got allegedly from Interpol. All Lucy has to say about it is more of the same.

“Lucy, don’t be so quick to decide everything is Carrie.” I come right out and say it.

“I haven’t decided anything,” she replies, and I feel her stubbornness like a slab of concrete beneath thin carpet.

“Well you know where I’ll be. And I’m sure it comes as no surprise that it’s not looking like I’ll see my sister tonight.” I stubbornly avoid referring to her as Lucy’s mom or mother whenever I possibly can. “Please tell her I’m sorry Benton and I couldn’t pick her up—that both of us apologize.”

I almost say that we’re looking forward to spending time with Dorothy, that we can’t wait to have her over to the house, to cook for her and take her to the theater. But it wouldn’t be true, and Lucy knows it’s not. I can’t tolerate the idea of lying, especially to someone who’s been hoodwinked and mistreated by a parent who isn’t a nice person unless it suits. Maybe I’m not a nice person either because there are some things I simply can’t forgive. And I can’t forgive my sister. I won’t.

“Tell her I hope she isn’t too exhausted after what’s sounding like a not-so-pleasant flight,” is the best I can muster as I open the door at the bottom of a metal stairwell that brings back memories of riding the school bus.

I remember missing it because Dorothy thought it was amusing to change every clock in the house. She thought it great fun to hide my homework, and I would miss the bus because of that too.