We run down the steps and across the driveway.

Teresa is at the wheel now, starting her car. Or trying to.

The engine grinds and grinds.

She sees me coming and fumbles for the lock button but not fast enough. I pull the door open and snatch the key out of the ignition. It’s one of many attached to a Jack Daniel’s holder.

I pull back, breathing hard. Garrett comes up beside me.

Teresa whirls toward me. “You bitch! I want my keys back.”

I stuff them into my pocket. “I can’t do that, Teresa. One, you’re in no shape to drive. And two, you just confessed to seeing a murder.”

“You’re not cops,” says Teresa. “You got no power.”

I pull out my cell. “I’ll call. I can have them here in two minutes.”

Teresa grabs for my phone. “Hold up, hold up!” She leans out of the seat and spits a stream of saliva. Just misses my shoe. Then she looks straight at me. “What I just told you? Back inside? That was all bullshit. But it was also the truth.”

I look at Garrett. Talk about an unreliable witness…

“Gimme the keys,” she says. “I won’t take off, I promise. And I’ll tell you how I know.”

I pull the keys out of my pocket and dangle them slightly out of Teresa’s reach. “No more lies.” She nods. I hand over the keys. “You need a new starter.”

“Okay,” she says, “here’s the story. Not too proud of it, but it’s the real friggin’ deal. For nearly twenty years now, it’s been Suzanne, Suzanne, Suzanne. Ma built a friggin’ shrine to her, left her bedroom just the way it was when Suzanne packed up to move to Mission Hill.”

“Being a survivor isn’t easy,” says Garrett.

“I mean, Ma, let it go! Say a few prayers, empty out her room, keep a picture, and move on. Suzanne’s gone. She’s not coming back. She’s dead. Cole Wright killed her.”

“How do you know that?” says Garrett. “You just admitted you made it up.”

“Well, I heard stuff,” Teresa says. “From the man himself.”

I lean in close. “What are you talking about?”

Teresa swings her legs out of the car and rests her boot heels on the running board. “One night, I called Suzanne on her cell, and I could hear Cole shouting at her in the background. My sister tells me she has to go. Then I hear Cole up close, telling her to get off the damn phone or he’ll break her fucking neck.”

I look at Garrett. Is this just another fabrication? The dark fantasy of a jealous sibling?

“Did you tell this to the police?” Garrett asks.

“Sure I did,” says Teresa. “But I was higher than hell. And who do you think they’d believe, some messed-up teenager or a New England Patriot?”

CHAPTER
8