Sweet Talk. Сьюзен Мэллери

up, I’ve been trying to connect with you for years. I send letters and e-mails. I leave messages. You never get back to me. Ever. I’ve asked you to join me on tour. I’ve asked to come home. The answer is always the same. No. Or more accurately—go to hell.”

      “Why would I want to spend time with you? You’re nothing but an egotistic, selfish, mother-murdering princess.”

       And I hate you.

      Nicole didn’t say those last words, but she didn’t have to.

      Claire stared at her sister for a long time, not sure what accusation to take on first. “You don’t know me,” she said in a low voice. “You haven’t known me for over twenty years.”

      “Whose fault is that?”

      “Not mine.” Claire drew in a breath. “I didn’t kill her. We were driving together. It was late and rainy and another car came out of nowhere. It hit us on her side. We were trapped and she was dying and there was nothing I could do.”

      Claire closed her eyes against the nightmare of memories. The coldness of the night, the way the rain dripped into the shattered car, the sound of her mother’s moans as she died.

      “I lost her, too,” Claire whispered, looking at her sister. “She was all I had and I lost her, too.”

      “Do you think I care?” Nicole yelled. “I don’t. She went away. She went away because of you and she was all I had. She left and I had to take care of everything here. I was twelve when she left. I was twelve when I figured out she would rather be with you than with me or Jesse or Dad. She was just gone and I had to do everything. Take care of Jesse and the house and help out at the bakery. Then she was dead. Do you know what it was like after that? Do you?”

      Claire remembered the funeral. How she’d stood with Lisa rather than her family because they were strangers to her. How she’d wanted to cry, but there were no tears left.

      She remembered wanting to be with Nicole, her twin. How she’d longed to have her father say it was time for her to come home. Stay home. Instead Lisa had explained about Claire’s schedule and concert dates and that she was very mature for her age and capable of handling her life without a guardian or chaperone around. Her father had agreed.

      Ten-year-old Jesse had been a stranger to her and Nicole had been distant and angry. The way she still was.

      “Go back to your fancy life,” her sister told her now. “Go back to your stupid piano and your hotels. Go back to where you don’t have to earn everything you get. I don’t want you here. I’ve never wanted you here. Do you know why?”

      Claire stood her ground, sensing her sister had to say it and it was Claire’s job to take it all in.

      Nicole’s blue eyes burned with white-hot rage. “Because every night after her death, I prayed God would turn back time and make it you instead of her. I still wish that.”

      CLAIRE SAT ON THE BED in the guest room and let the tears come. They rolled down her cheeks, one after the other, washing away nothing, simply seeping from the great open wound inside of her.

      She’d known about Nicole’s anger and resentment, but she’d never thought her sister wished she was dead.

      The situation was hopeless, she thought grimly. She’d come home for nothing. No one wanted her and she had nowhere else to go.

      She covered her face with her hands and cried for a few more minutes, then sniffed and realized she couldn’t feel sorry for herself forever. But maybe the rest of the night would be acceptable.

      She stood and walked over to her suitcase. A small photo album lay at the bottom. She carried it back to the bed and sat down.

      There were only a dozen or so pictures inside, all of them taken before she’d left Seattle when she was six. She and Nicole laughing. She and Nicole on a pony. Their identical Halloween costumes, when they’d both been Dorothy from the Wizard of Oz. One photo showed them in bed together, sleeping, curled up like kittens.

      Claire touched the cold, flat surface, remembering and wishing, knowing neither would change what time and distance had destroyed.

      After washing her face, she grabbed a box of tissues and set it by the bed, then changed into an oversize T-shirt she’d bought in London—one with a huge head shot of Prince William on the front—and crawled into bed. She knew she wouldn’t sleep, but curling up would make the whimpering easier.