The Sister-in-Law: An absolutely gripping summer thriller for 2021, Pamela Crane [reading eggs books .txt] 📗

‘Why would Jackson say that he killed his sister? What was he talking about?’ I had asked.

The worried look he gave me, guilt mingled with alarm, got filed in a place I couldn’t access.

‘Jackson’s been … obsessed with death since his father passed,’ he had tried to explain. ‘He makes things up. It’s become a problem. He hasn’t been dealing well.’ But I noted the lies between the truths.

‘Why isn’t he in therapy? He should be seeing a doctor if it’s that bad. You should have heard what he said … and how he said it.’

‘It’s not our place to judge. The kid has been through a lot. Just cut them some slack, okay? And don’t read into it.’

How could I not? The kid practically admitted to murder.

‘He’s not acting normal, Lane. He needs help.’

‘Can you please let it go?’

Slam! The door had become my enemy, locked and unbreakable. I had dropped the conversation then, not for me but for Lane. I didn’t want to burn our love into ashes by lighting a fire I couldn’t put out. But I worried it was too late. We had sex that night, but it was dispassionate and friendly, like fuck buddies, not lovers. He couldn’t cross the chasm that had come between us. So I decided, after flopping on to my side of the bed, Lane curled up with his back to me, that to fix our relationship I would need to start by fixing myself.

Me time self-care was the perfect place to begin.

A nine o’clock prenatal massage followed by a hair appointment was just what I needed. Jet-lagged from drama, a makeover could cure just about any ailment. Harper would scoff at the $150 price tag of my Swedish massage, and the $120 haircut on Lane’s dime, but fixing the damage I had done to it was worth every penny. I admit, chopping it off in a panicked act of self-loathing wasn’t the best decision. But the new short, layered style was pretty cute, if I did say so myself. I had never had it chin-length before, but I could get used to it. If I could get used to the sister-in-law from hell, I could get used to anything.

Bella Trio Salon was a riot of color and chitchat. A splash of burgundy on one wall. A Tuscan yellow on another. A cucumber water station in one corner, and beyond the entrance a marbled staircase leading to a second story where the masseuses made their magic. With hairdryers blowing, brushes beautifying, and dye setting, you could walk in as one person and walk out as another.

Standing behind me, dusting the clippings from my shoulder, was Gisele, her arms rattling with jewelry and her lips puckered in entitlement. From her designer boots to her flawless makeup, I would have admired her if I didn’t hate her. Even her name was designer – Gisele. She looked like the type of woman who stole husbands. A football helmet of platinum hair and clothes tight like a second skin, she was about six inches short of the stereotypical home-wrecker. But men didn’t care how tall she was. They only cared where she came up to on her knees.

Gisele handed me a mirror, along with some advice.

‘Hon,’ her southern accent was as potent as her Versace perfume, ‘women like us have to be careful these days. Look at the madness in the news! You just don’t know what kind of crazy people are out there.’

I didn’t know what ‘women like us’ entailed, or what it had to do with the news she was referring to, but the advice was sound. We did need to be careful. And there was a whole lotta crazy out there.

Hanging on the wall in the corner was a huge television, the sound muted but closed captioning ran across the bottom of the screen. A Deaf hairdresser two chairs down signed to Gisele:

Isn’t that the same woman who was interviewed by the police a couple days ago?

I still remembered the sign language my mother had taught me after she lost hearing in one ear during a battle with meningitis. My insecure father had forbidden us from signing in front of him, but my mother and I took advantage of any chance we got to use it when he wasn’t around. It was our secret language.

Gisele signed back, her wrists jangling and my surprise piqued. She didn’t look like the … bilingual type. Especially not one well-versed in American Sign Language:

I think you’re right. That’s her.

The Deaf woman continued, her hands animated:

They think she was murdered in her home.

Murdered? I recognized that sign right away and looked up to catch the tail end of the news brief:

‘Police are investigating after Michelle Hudson, neighbor of victim Benjamin Paris, whose murder case is still ongoing, was found dead in her home late last night,’ the closed caption read. ‘When a local resident of the quiet neighborhood came to check in on Hudson, she found the front door unlocked and called 9-1-1. Responding emergency workers pronounced Hudson dead at the scene. Investigators have classified the death as suspicious, given Ms. Hudson was a witness in the Paris murder. Police ask that if anyone has any information that might help in the investigation to please come forward.’

Scary! So much evil people are capable of, the Deaf stylist signed. I hope they catch whoever did it soon.

Gisele replied, I know. I hope they catch him soon too.

I wondered if Harper had seen the news. Or if the investigating detective on Ben’s case would notify her. It was a strange turn of events. And a little too coincidental that the only witness in her husband’s murder was now dead.

After generously tipping Gisele for proving my stereotype about her wrong, I waved goodbye and headed outside, running my fingers through new, short black layers tipped in pink. The bob was sassy, like me. The sun dappled my face, and my flip-flops smacked the concrete