“Beyond a common cold or a raging hangover? Not at all. What’re you getting at?”

“You’ve said yourself you’ve always been a handful. Clare was the quiet one.”

Absently, she tapped a ringed finger against the mug. “What’re you getting at?”

I sighed, pissed that I’d not pressed this theory harder seventeen years ago. “I can’t prove anything, Marisa. I’ve seen similar cases, but they’re always hard to prove.”

“What cases?”

“A caregiver makes his or her charge sick. Usually it’s a mother-and-child scenario. Baby gets sick, Mom gets attention for herself while caring for the child. Child improves, attention goes away, and then the child gets sick again. It’s called Munchausen syndrome by proxy.”

She glared at me, clearly annoyed I’d brought up the idea. “Mom made me sick on purpose? Why?”

“You were likely easier to handle if you were sick and in bed. And I remember your parents had marriage problems. When one of the kids became ill, your father came home.”

She shook her head. “But I kept getting sick after Mom died.”

“You said it yourself: Brit stepped into the mother’s role.”

That prompted a startled, nervous laugh. “Brit was sick as a kid. The doctors all thought it was something genetic, but they never could figure it out. They said we’d outgrow it.”

“When did you outgrow it?”

She drew in a breath. “After Brit left for college.” She squeezed the bridge of her nose.

“Think back to all the times you were feeling good. Where was Brit?”

She closed her eyes. “She went to computer camp each summer. Clare and I always felt really good within a day or two. I thought it was the summer sun and heat that made me feel good.” She met my gaze. “We were both sick within days of her return. Why would she do that to Clare and me?”

“She learned from your mother. Your father said how much he admired how well she took care of his girls.”

She pressed fingertips against her right temple. “Daddy always appreciated Brit and how well she took care of Clare and me. He said it so often, I resented her. So did Clare.” She shook her head, a frown furrowing her brow. “I think back to the nights I’d wake up feeling ill, and she’d be there. See, I told you that you needed me. When I overdosed, she was there. After my car accident, she was a rock.”

“How was Brit after you sobered up?” I asked.

“We barely spoke.” She grabbed a bead on her bracelet and absently moved it back and forth on the chain. “Why would Mom and Brit poison me? That’s a hell of an accusation.”

“I’m not making any allegations. I’m just spitballing. Telling you what I think I saw.”

“What would this have to do with Clare’s death?”