The Good Sister Read online

  Because there’s more to every story, and this isn’t like Carley . . .

  It’s what Jen’s been telling herself all along, but—

  Maybe she really was too lenient with the girls—both of them. Maybe it’s time to toughen up.

  “No Internet,” she tells Carley firmly.

  “For how long?”

  “Until I decide it’s time to change the password back.”

  “Noooooo!”

  Thad plunks his glass down on the counter. “Do not shout at your mother.”

  “But it’s not fair!”

  That’s what Emma said earlier. It’s what she says often.

  But not Carley.

  “Give me your cell phone.” Jen stretches out a hand. She took Emma’s phone; she should take Carley’s as well.

  “Mom, you can’t do this!”

  “Give me your phone.”

  “But I need it!”

  “Now? It’s almost midnight.”

  “So?”

  Jen cringes. Nothing presses her buttons like a belligerent So?

  Carley, well aware of that, takes it down a notch. “I need it to get online for school stuff.”

  “It’s a Friday, and anyway, you weren’t even in school today, remember?”

  “I still have to keep up with my work, remember?” Carley snaps back, completely out of character.

  Why is she making such a big deal about something Jen hadn’t even expected to impact her much? Carley isn’t one of those kids who spends a lot of time online . . .

  Or is she?

  Hasn’t she spent most of her time alone in her room for months now?

  And hasn’t Jen spent the last twenty-four hours realizing that she doesn’t know her daughter as well as she thought? Hasn’t she spent the last week, in the wake of Nicki’s suicide, realizing that maybe no parent ever does?

  She glances over at her sister and sees that Frankie is watching Carley intently, chin propped on her fist.

  She knows more than we do. I need to find out what it is.

  “Hand over your phone, Carley,” Thad says firmly.

  “But—”

  “Carley.”

  She whirls to face Jen. “Mom, please, you have to let me go online. I—”

  “No means no.” Jen folds her arms, pressing her shaking hands against the sides of her ribs, feeling her heart pounding hard.

  With a frustrated groan, Carley thrusts her cell phone into her father’s outstretched hand.

  “Good. Now go to bed.”

  Sobbing, Carley runs from the room and up the stairs, slamming her bedroom door for the first time in her life.

  Frustrated, Angel paces across the hardwoods of the small third-floor bedroom at the back of the house, the best place to ensure that the glow of the laptop screen, however faint, won’t be seen from outside.

  It’s past three A.M., so chances are most everyone in the neighborhood is asleep, but you never know.

  Really, the basement would be the safest place of all for Angel to hide with a lit-up screen. But the thought of descending those stairs again is hardly appealing. Not with the gaping hole in the earth floor, and the padlock that stubbornly protects Mother’s sickening secret after all these years.

  Angel tried hard to break it open, but it proved impossible without the proper tools on hand.

  Tomorrow, I’ll make yet another trip to yet another hardware store for a pair of bolt cutters.

  For now, I’ll just have to wait to see what’s inside.

  As if I don’t already know. But I need to see for myself.

  Meanwhile . . .

  Where the hell is Carley?

  She’s been absent from the Internet all night. It isn’t like her.

  Angel stops pacing and crouches before the open laptop on the floor to check, yet again, for her sign-on alert.

  Still nothing.

  But . . . look at that, the lovely Taylor Morino—who tomorrow evening will reign as senior class queen at the Spring Fling dance—has just posted something on her Peopleportal page.

  With the disregard for discretion and dramatic flair so typical of girls her age, Taylor has announced to the world—at least, the Peeps world: worst night EVERRRRRRR cant sleep @ all so i guess i shouldnt have had a dble espresso at the mallllllllll

  Ordinarily, her posts are greeted with a flurry of comments from her lengthy list of Peeps connections, but the vast majority of her admirers must be asleep because there’s just a smattering of response.

  dude i have something u can take for that, writes a wholesome-looking kid whose profile states that he’s a sophomore at Saint Francis.

  awwww poor baby maybe u shd ask J to come sing you a lullaby, writes a girl whose portrait shows a pretty blonde Angel recognizes as a senior at Sacred Sisters and part of Taylor Morino’s wide circle of friends. No telling who J is, and it doesn’t matter.

  Wheels turning, Angel logs into the pseudonymous Peeps page created months ago to gain access to Taylor Morino. The official connection isn’t necessary to interact publicly on Taylor’s page—which would be too risky anyway—but it’s the only means of interacting privately through the Peeps mailbox system.

  Angel correctly assumed that a girl who already had over two thousand connections wouldn’t bother to double-check whether she actually knew a “Rachel Riley,” Angel’s fictional alter ego.

  Taylor had accepted the connection request without question, but if she had asked how they knew each other, “Rachel” would have responded they’d met at a party last summer. Taylor had attended plenty of those, according to Angel’s research—and chances were, Miss Popularity wouldn’t remember every detail of her social adventures the morning after, let alone months later.

  Angel had cleverly given Rachel a background that placed her in Taylor’s periphery but not in her direct circles. Supposedly, she’s a junior at a public high school in the Buffalo suburbs. Angel downloaded Rachel’s official Peeps portrait from a stranger’s collection of candids posted on a foreign travel Web site. She’s a fresh-faced teen with brown hair and brown eyes; pretty, but not too pretty; the kind of girl who’d be fairly inconspicuous in any group.

  For the past few weeks, “Rachel” has been telling Taylor about her “cousin,” Rick Riley, a handsome tight end for the Buffalo Bills. The real Rick Riley is ostensibly spending the off-season dating women his own age, but Angel came up with an ingenious plan. Rachel told Taylor that her cousin Rick had spotted Taylor’s photo on her own Peeps page. Taylor has gobbled up Rachel’s private messages about how Rick has been asking to meet her.

  Now, Angel types a quick note: me & rick r hanging out @ his house w/ a bunch of ppl & we just noticed ur still up so wanna come over? i can pick u up, just tell me ur address

  That last line is added for a note of authenticity. Of course Angel is familiar with the small house a few blocks from Sacred Sisters where Taylor lives with her mother, Susan, an ER nurse. That’s where the flower arrangement—signed From a secret admirer—was delivered just the other day, courtesy of the same online florist that delivered the anonymously sent Stargazer lilies to Nicki Olivera’s wake.

  Angel would have preferred to have Taylor’s flowers sent to her father’s suburban town house, but she hasn’t visited him in a while. Besides, he might not even grasp the significance; Debbie Olivera might not have, either.

  They were sent more for Angel’s own benefit; sent to symbolize the penance for that long-ago sin.

  If only Taylor were spending the night at her father’s home this weekend. If only he could be the one to find her lifeless body.

  But I can’t wait any longer. I need . . .

  I need to do something. Something . . .

  I need to do this. It’s time. It’s her turn.

  Angel checks again to see if Carl
ey has signed on yet—no—then goes back to pacing, waiting for her to materialize online, waiting for Taylor to write back, waiting, waiting, frustration building . . .

  Taylor . . .

  Carley . . .

  They’re just like Nicki. Foolish, self-absorbed, oblivious little twits.

  They deserve what Nicki got. They deserve worse.

  So do their parents.

  Taylor Morino might not live with her father, but she’s a daddy’s girl through and through. And Carley Archer’s doting mother was so convinced her little sweetheart could do no wrong.

  They’re in for a rude awakening, both of them. They’re going to know what it’s like to—

  An electronic tone shatters the silence, indicating a response to Angel’s message.

  hi Rachel i would luv thatttttttt

  Grinning with relief, Angel types a quick note back: GREATTTTTTTT be there in 10 mins and whatevr u do dont tell anyone b/c rick is super private

  It’s tempting to wait for Taylor’s reply, but that probably isn’t a good idea. She might change her mind, and then what?

  Now that everything is in motion, Angel has no interest in prolonging it any longer.

  It’s been almost three decades since the heinous deed that set all this in motion; three decades since the three of them—Debbie, Mike, and Jen—destroyed their innocent victim as surely as if they had taken a razor-sharp knife with a fancy brand name etched into the wooden handle, and severed her veins . . .

  The way Nicki Olivera supposedly did.

  Guilt-tainted grief must be eating her mother alive. Good. Now Debbie Quattrone Olivera knows exactly what it’s like to be left behind, bereft, filled with regret and questions that can never be answered. Now she can pay that penance for the rest of her days on this earth.

  It’s time for Michael Morino to suffer the same sacrifice, and on the eve of the Spring Fling dance where his darling daughter would have worn the coveted tiara.

  Then it will be Genevieve Bonafacio Archer’s turn.

  Only then will Angel be at peace.

  Then I’ll be able to decide where to go from here.

  Or whether to go on from here at all. After so many months in this house, consumed by vengeance, haunted by memories. . . .

  And now, faced with whatever has lain buried beneath the basement floor for nearly thirty years . . .

  You know what it is. You know!

  Eyes stinging, Angel abruptly closes the laptop and leaves the room, dogged by Mother’s voice.

  Are you crying?

  What’s wrong with you?

  “Shut up, Mother! Shut up!”

  You’re a sissy, that’s what you are.

  “Shut up!”

  Boys don’t cry!

  “But I’m not—”

  Angel stops short, halfway down the stairs, remembering something.

  Go back and get it, you big crybaby. Without it, the whole plan is worthless.

  Focus. Focus!

  Angel strides back to the laptop and removes the memory stick, pocketing it before opening a closet door and reaching high up on the shelf. Two copies remain of the three that were originally purchased at a local bookstore—for a book club, Angel told the nosy clerk who asked.

  But I only need one tonight.

  Angel takes the book and scurries back to the stairs, smiling at last in anticipation of what is to come.

  Taylor Morino leans into the bathroom mirror, checking to make sure her hastily applied lip gloss went on evenly.

  Yup—her mouth looks perfectly kissable, and with any luck, that’s just what she’ll be doing soon: kissing Rick Riley.

  She’s dying to post that on her Peeps page, but Rachel asked her not to tell anyone. Bummer.

  Back in her room, she glances at the huge bouquet of pink Stargazer lilies on the nightstand.

  She has a pretty good idea who the secret admirer is. When she sees Rick tonight, should she come right out and thank him, or make him wonder if they even arrived? The latter option might make him sign the card next time. Then she’d have something to show her friends.

  She slips her phone into the back pocket of her jeans, then switches it to the front pocket, where she can reach it more easily. At least she’ll be able to sneak a picture of her and Rick to share later, regardless of how things go between them. If it turns out to be just a one-night thing, she’ll still have photo evidence, and if it turns into more than that . . .

  It would be pretty cool to have a picture of the night they met, to show their kids someday, just like Taylor’s parents did.

  Of course, Mom and Dad aren’t even married anymore, but whatever. Taylor still likes to look at the old snapshot, a group picture taken at Mom’s five-year high school class reunion. She’d gone to Immaculata, and one of her former classmates brought Dad as her date. In the picture, Mom and Dad are looking at each other while everyone else looks at the camera.

  When Mom first showed it to Taylor years ago, she said that Dad flirted with her all night, and his date got mad and left early.

  “I just knew that first night,” she used to say, “that he was the one. From the second we saw each other, we both knew, didn’t we, Mike?”

  Dad would agree, of course, but Taylor always got the feeling that he was just going along with Mom’s romantic version of their story. Long before they split up, she could tell that her father wasn’t as content being married as her mother was. She secretly wondered why he’d ever proposed in the first place—until she got old enough to do the math and realized Mom was three months pregnant with her at their wedding.

  That explained it. Her parents both came from old-fashioned, religious Catholic families; neither of them believed in abortion or having children out of wedlock. For that, Taylor is grateful—otherwise she wouldn’t exist.

  She can barely remember what it was like to live with both her parents under the same roof in a much nicer neighborhood than where she lives now.

  After the divorce, Mom and Taylor rented this small ranch house on Dogwood Street because it was affordable and close to the hospital where she works, and to good Catholic schools as well. Dad, who didn’t have custody of Taylor, didn’t have to worry about those things and moved to an “adult townhouse community” in a wealthy suburb.

  Mom works the overnight shift every weekend, and Taylor used to stay at her father’s, but not anymore. She’s old enough to spend the night alone. Plus, she and Sharon, her latest stepmother—this is Dad’s third marriage—don’t always see eye-to-eye.

  Dad and Sharon don’t see eye-to-eye, either, lately, Taylor’s noticed. She has a feeling Dad’s lost interest in her after two years of marriage, and that Sharon is trying hard to recapture his attention.

  Bev, Taylor’s last stepmother, did the same thing. So did Mom.

  Taylor has done it, too, for that matter.

  Notice me, Dad. Come on, stop looking at your watch and fidgeting with your keys. Notice me.

  He hardly ever seems to, not even when they’re spending “quality time” together.

  But I don’t really care. Not anymore.

  Soon enough, she’ll be off to college—Catholic college, of course, because it’s what her parents want, and having spent her formative years in their stormy household, she learned not to make waves.

  She has only a few more weeks to make up her mind where she’s going to school—or rather, a few more weeks for her parents to decide where she’s going. If Dad gets his way, it’ll be Saint Bonaventure, his alma mater; Canisius or Niagara if Mom gets hers. She herself went to Xavier in Cincinnati for her nursing degree, but she wants Taylor to stay closer to home.

  “You’re all I have,” Mom tells her often. “My whole world.”

  Yeah. No pressure there.

  Taylor is kind of hoping that since Dad is the one w
ho’s paying tuition, he’ll get his way and she’ll be off to Saint Bonnie in August. Some distance would be good for everyone. But then again, Dad paid for high school, too, and Mom won that battle. Dad wanted her to go to Griffin Academy and live there; Mom wanted Sisters because it’s in the neighborhood.

  “If she goes to Griffin, Mike,” Mom said, “she’s going to commute as a day student, and you’ll have to come up here and drive her to and from every morning and afternoon because that’s when I sleep.”

  Apparently, Dad wasn’t interested in doing that—“It would cramp his style,” Mom told her, which hurt Taylor’s feelings at the time.

  But it was all for the best. She’s had a decent four years at Sisters, graduation is right around the corner, and she was voted queen of Spring Fling tomorrow night. She’s going to the dance with Josh Keller, the best-looking guy in the Cardinal Ruffini senior class, but who cares about him right now?

  She has a hot date with a handsome, famous, rich NFL player.

  Taylor slips her feet into a pair of heeled black boots. Rick Riley is six-four, and his cousin Rachel mentioned once that he likes tall girls. Taylor is five-eight barefoot, but it won’t hurt to add a couple of inches.

  She checks her reflection one last time in the full-length mirror on the back of her closet door. Ordinarily, she’s more than pleased with what she sees, but right now, her eye is extra critical. She’s going out with Rick Riley.

  Going out? More like staying in, she thinks, grinning at herself in the mirror.

  With any luck, they’ll soon be able to ditch his cousin and whoever else is hanging around his house.

  Hearing a car coming down the street, Taylor turns away from the mirror and grabs the suede jacket that makes her look at least twenty-one. Of course, Rachel must have told Rick how old she really is, but obviously, it doesn’t matter to him. He wants to meet her anyway.

  Taylor takes a deep breath of air sweetly perfumed by the Stargazer lilies and turns off her bedroom light.

  As she walks down the hall, she can see a silhouette in the glass front door, and her heart beats a little faster.