“Funny thing about the clothes, they didn’t strike me as the kind Clare would wear,” he said. “I studied a lot of pictures of her this week. Overall impression was pastels and simple jewelry. Nothing like the black torn jeans, boots, and studded leather bracelet we found.”

I didn’t speak.

The ash on the edge of his cigarette grew. “Clare was the cheerleader, all As, and soccer team, even enjoyed photography like you. She was the whole package. But I’ve learned to question surface facts. They’re only a snapshot and don’t always show the whole picture.”

“What’re you talking about?”

“Come on, Marisa. There had to be more to your sister. What was she hiding?”

“Nothing. She was the best of us.”

“Then why was she dressed like you?”

“We wore each other’s clothes all the time.”

“I never saw a picture of you in pastels, and I’ve seen plenty in the last few days.”

Again, I was silent.

“Why was she at the party dressed like you? And why were you out for a drive? Not many sixteen-year-olds I know go for long drives on I-95 instead of going to a party.”

“Driving clears my head.”

He dropped the cigarette, ground it with the point of a wingtip shoe. “You said you bought gas in Ashland, twenty-six miles north of the party around eight p.m.”

The receipt was legit, and I’d used it to prop up my story. “I told you that. I gave you a receipt.”

“Why so far from the party? What else were you doing?”

“I wasn’t doing anything.” Color flooded my face, and holding his gaze was a struggle now. It felt like he had X-ray eyes.

“Where’d you get the alcohol?”

“I stole it from my father.”

“I’m not looking to put you in jail, Marisa. Your family has been through enough. But it’s important I know why you were so far from a party that you convinced your pal Jo-Jo to throw.”

Allowing one crack in my story would lead to more fractures and then fissures. And then it could all fall apart.

“Clare was passing as you,” he went on. “And then she stepped outside and vanished. Just like that she’s gone. No one saw a thing.”

I’d called Jo-Jo once the news of Clare’s death was public. I convinced her to sneak out of her house and talk to me. “Did you see her at all?” I demanded.

Jo-Jo’s eyes had been bloodshot. “That party you talked me into having has fucked me seven different ways. The cops are pressing charges against my parents.”

“Why?”

“Duh. Underage drinking. They should’ve been home.”

“They chose to leave.”

Jo-Jo rolled her eyes. “My father might lose his job.”

Richards blew out smoke, snapping me back to the moment.

“I asked all my friends,” I said. “No one knows anything.”