Frank Stockton rubbed the back of his neck with his hand. Brit teared up immediately. Marisa stood stock straight, emotionless.

“You don’t look shocked, Marisa,” I said.

“I don’t know what to say,” Marisa said. “Are you sure you didn’t make a mistake? Cops aren’t perfect.”

“No mistake,” I said.

Brit began to weep.

Mr. Stockton turned from me, cleared his throat, and braced his shoulders as if readying to pick up a heavy weight. “How?”

“We haven’t determined that yet,” I said. “I’ll know more once I talk to the medical examiner.” I refocused my attention on Marisa. “You still insist you were driving?”

“Yes.” There seemed barely enough air in her lungs to push the word out.

“Can you prove it?” I asked.

“I have a gas receipt,” Marisa said. “I think it’s still in my purse.”

“I’ll want that receipt.”

“Sure.”

“Whose car were you driving?” I pressed.

“My Jeep. Clare and I share—shared it.”

Mr. Stockton’s frown deepened, but he didn’t press about the infraction.

“Did you have permission to drive the car?” I asked.

“I can drive it anytime I want, but I’m supposed to stay within fifteen miles of the house,” Marisa said. “Where did you find Clare?”

“Were you driving in circles, then?”

“No! I broke the rules, okay? Where did you find my sister?”

“We found Clare’s body near the Huguenot Bridge,” I said. “We haven’t determined the time of death.”

“She’s been there for four days?” Marisa asked.

“I don’t know yet.”

“What does that mean?” she asked.

“The medical examiner hadn’t determined time of death.”

Brit let out an anguished cry, pressing her hand to her belly. When Mr. Stockton faced us, his eyes glistened with tears, just as they had when his wife died. He shook his head, as if by denying this information enough times, he could make it go away. It wouldn’t. Marisa stood stiff, defiant.

“Do you know where your sister was on New Year’s Eve, Brit?” I asked.

“I knew she was going to a party. I was supposed to go, but I got sick. I was here in bed all night.”

“The party was at our friend Jo-Jo’s.” Marisa recited the address.

“You said a boyfriend picked her up?” I asked.

“Kurt Markman. They’d been dating about six months,” Brit said. “I saw them drive off.”

I asked for and received Kurt’s contact number from Marisa.

“Marisa, where did you go after your drive?” I asked.

Already, I’d pegged her as the family troublemaker. If a vase was broken, find Marisa. If a teacher left a message, it was about Marisa. If money was missing . . . The drill was the same every time.

“I ended up parking at the truck stop in Ashland and falling asleep,” she said. “I didn’t make it home until early the next day.”