The Sister-in-Law, Pamela Crane [have you read this book txt] 📗

slip out the back, so give me a five-minute head start before you call the cops. Don’t call my phone for another five minutes or so. I don’t want them tracing the call to a nearby cell tower, in case they’re able to do that. I need to be home for the call. Got it?’

A mute nod from Harper, then I was off.

I had no idea how call tracing actually worked or if the extent of my efforts would prove relevant, but I figured better safe than in prison.

‘I’m heading out now,’ I called over my shoulder as I left.

On my way out the back door, I noticed the small rectangular window right below my eyeline. It wasn’t so much the unique mid-century design of colored, patterned glass that caught my eye, but the lack of it. A hole had been punched through, and from it the glass splintered in every direction. A heap of rainbow shards had scattered beneath the door, a toy truck among the glass.

‘What the hell?’ I muttered. How had we missed this? ‘Harp, get over here.’

I felt her walk up behind me. ‘Yeah?’

‘What happened here?’ I pointed to the window.

She shrugged. ‘I don’t know. I hadn’t seen that until now. It might have happened when Jackson and Elise were playing outside. You know how destructive Jackson can be.’

I knelt down, examining the details. The truck sat on top of the glass – not beneath it – as if someone had placed it there after breaking in. This wasn’t good. How would the cops explain two break-in points? It was downright suspicious. Or maybe … maybe it only validated our work. Was it true after all? Was Ben Paris murdered? If that was the case … who did it? And why? Because a robbery gone wrong sure as hell wasn’t it. Nothing was missing, and Ben didn’t look like he even had a chance to fight back. Unless Ben forgot his key, broke in, randomly placed the truck there, then killed himself?

It sounded ridiculous even in my head, but I couldn’t worry about it now. What’s done was done.

‘Did you notice if anything was missing, Harp?’ I asked. If someone had broken in, they were looking for something specific. Had they found it? I suspected not, because if there was one thing I knew about my sister and her now dead husband, they knew how to lock up their secrets tight.

‘No, everything was in its usual place when I got home.’

Maybe the broken window was nothing. Maybe it was something. I didn’t have time to dissect all the possible scenarios.

‘Um, let me think.’ I headed into the kitchen, opening and shutting a few drawers. With duct tape in hand, I ripped a piece of plastic wrap the size of the window and sealed it shut with the tape. ‘Here’s what happened if the cops ask. The kids were outside playing and threw the truck in through the window. You haven’t had a chance to fix it. Got it?’

I carefully swept up the glass shards and moved the truck.

‘What if the cops ask the kids to corroborate that? They’ll say it’s not true – even if they did do it. Why can’t we just say it was broken when I arrived … which is true?’

‘Because it doesn’t make sense that there were two break-in points, Harp. The fewer the questions, the better.’

‘No kidding,’ Harper grumbled under her breath. ‘You should have listened to me before breaking my window.’

‘Hey, I never claimed to be a crime-scene cover-up expert. I’m working on the fly here.’ I handed Harper her cell phone, then cupped her hand. ‘Give me a few minutes, then call 9-1-1. Sound frantic. Sound scared. Make it believable.’

‘That won’t be difficult, Lane. I am frantic. And scared. My husband killed himself and I have no idea why.’

‘No, your husband was murdered. Remember? That is your truth now.’

I didn’t tell her my suspicions that Ben might have, in fact, been murdered. I’d been tempted to do it myself after what he’d done. But I didn’t need to heap more on her than she already carried. I had a feeling the truth would spill out soon enough. I just had to hope my sister survived the whiplash.

Chapter 3

Candace Moriarty-Flynn

To my beautiful Candace, whose name means ‘clarity.’

You’ve given my life clarity and purpose: to bring you joy.

Six weeks later …

There are two kinds of women in the world – those who buy throw pillows, and those who don’t. You know the ones who do. Uppity housewives who wear Ann Taylor. Etsy-loving homemakers. Prudish moms who suck in bed but bake like a fiend.

Not me. I hung out on the other end of the spectrum. Chaotic. Go-with-the-flow. Free-thinking. Fun. My ex called me a ‘trailer park hippie’, as if that was an insult. Give me all the bohemian vibes, thank you very much. I didn’t make my bed each morning, let alone worry about decorating it with overpriced, uncomfortable pillows that I would just toss on a floor that I never swept clean. Who cared about a little dust when there were more fulfilling things to do with your time?

So when the doorbell rang, forcing me awake from my afternoon nap, I opened the door and instantly knew I was looking at a throw pillow kind of woman. Her three-quarter-sleeved blouse was buttoned way too high, and her form-fitting khaki capris did nothing to complement her flat ass. One look at her told me all I needed to know. There was a void inside of her that she covered up in boring, beige, brand name pride. She offered a polite but empty smile.

‘Can I help you?’ I asked, expecting her to be a Jehovah’s Witness or some other religious groupie offering spiritual wares that I didn’t want or need.

Her face, caked with foundation, drooped with a frown as she spoke warily, ‘I’m looking for Lane. Is he home?’

‘Who’s asking?’ I felt like I should recognize her, but I