My Sister, Myself. Tara Taylor Quinn

I’ve wasted, how much I’ve lost.”

      “Hey,” Phyllis said, unfolding her legs as she reached across to squeeze Tory’s hand. “It’s not too late. You’ve got a whole new life ahead of you. Amazing things to accomplish.”

      Tory smiled, but inside, the familiar dread was spreading. Yeah, she had a whole new life.

      It just wasn’t her life.

      BEN WAS IN THE KITCHEN of his two-bedroom apartment, paper towel in hand, when his alarm went off Monday morning.

      “Okay, little buddy, you and I need to get some things straight,” he said, leaving the puddle in the kitchen as he scooped up the puppy and strode back to the master bedroom to turn off the alarm.

      “I’m the boss in this house and what I say goes, got that?” He kept the puppy firmly under his arm, out of harm’s way, off the carpet, and with those big imploring brown eyes out of his line of vision. Ben had been implored so much in the past two days—and had given in so often—he was making himself sick.

      “When I say it’s time for bed, bedtime it is.” He continued the lecture as he headed back to the mess awaiting him in the kitchen. “That means I lie down, you lie down, and we both sleep. There will be no barking.” He stepped over the gate he’d put up across the kitchen doorway. “No whining. And if—that’s a big if—I deign to take you into the bedroom with me, there will be no more biting on the ears.”

      Dropping the wad of paper towels on the puddle beneath the kitchen table, Ben soaked up the deposit, threw the towels in the special trash bag that would leave the house with him that morning, poured a generous amount of disinfectant on the soiled spot and with another wad of paper towels mopped that up, too.

      Only then did he put the puppy down. One set of urine-wet paw prints traipsing across the floor was enough for him. He was learning quickly.

      Buddy, which was what Ben had called the dog so far, darted around puppy-style, falling as much as he ran, coming to rest suddenly by a leg of the kitchen table.

      “No!” Ben hollered, grabbing him up before more damage was done. He took the puppy out the sliding glass door off the kitchen and out into the yard, where the little guy did his business. Ben was pleased. Between the two of them, they’d gotten it right that time.

      Yes, Ben praised himself, all in all, the training was coming along nicely.

      Shut in the bathroom with Ben, Buddy whined the entire time Ben was in the shower. Whether because he missed his master or because the sound of water scared him, Ben wasn’t sure.

      And because it couldn’t be proved either way, he chose to believe that Buddy missed him.

      “I’ve got school this morning, Bud,” he said as he dried off, pulled on some briefs and stood before the mirror to shave.

      Buddy chewed on his toes.

      And then on the new bath rug Ben had purchased the day before to replace the one Buddy had chewed Saturday night when Ben had shut the puppy in the bathroom so he could get some sleep.

      “We’ve already been over this,” Ben explained as he pulled the rug off the floor and flung it over the side of the tub. “No chewing on my things. Not on me, my rugs, my clothes or shoes, not anything that I don’t hand directly to you. Got that?”

      The eight-week-old wad of fur stared up at him, his big brown eyes expectant as he waited for the games to begin anew.

      “Don’t forget, my man, Zack said I could bring you back if I found you were too much to handle,” Ben threatened.

      Zack Foster was the local vet—half of the Shelter Valley veterinarian clinic’s team. Zack’s partner, Cassie, had been out of the office—out of town—when Ben went there Saturday, looking to start his new family. He and Zack had hit it off immediately, spending half an hour talking about the town, what there was to do in the area, baseball scores and the chances of the Phoenix Suns making it to the playoffs that year. By the time he’d gotten around to his reason for being there, Ben had gladly taken the runt-of-the-litter Zack couldn’t find a home for. He’d given away the other three, but he’d had no takers for this one—and now Ben thought he knew why. But he’d assured Zack that no six-pound squat-bellied thing whose front and back legs couldn’t agree was going to get the better of him.

      There was no way, after that grandiose speech, that Ben could return the little bugger. But Buddy didn’t have to know that. It wasn’t beneath Ben to use whatever tactics he must to establish his authority in the house, once and for all.

      Ready for class, in spite of his high-maintenance housemate, Ben was just about to head out when he made a mistake. He looked at those big brown eyes.

      Dropping his backpack on the floor, Ben ran to his bedroom, grabbed the only spare blanket from the linen closet, ran back to the kitchen and made a bed for the little guy against a cupboard—on top of which stood the radio, turned down low and set to a classical station. Moving the water dish, and the potty pad, too, he gave the puppy one last scratch behind the ears.

      “Wish me luck.”

      Slinging his backpack over one shoulder, he locked up and climbed into his truck.

      He’d been waiting more than half his life for this day.

      It had finally begun.

      CHAPTER THREE

      THE CAMPUS WAS beautiful. Though grass was at a premium in this desert town, Montford’s lawns were green and lush, so velvety thick Tory had an urge to lie down in it and pass the day there.

      She might have, too, if her kill-’em-with-love drill sergeant wasn’t marching along beside her. Students milled all around them, moving with purpose, every single one of them looking as though they belonged.

      “You’re going to do fine,” Phyllis was saying. Not that Tory had expressed her fears this morning. Phyllis just knew she was feeling them.

      “You’re sure you tested me on every aspect of the Emerson years?” Tory asked for the third time that morning.

      “You know it, Tory,” Phyllis assured her. “You had a lot of it down before we even started yesterday.”

      Tory shrugged, feeling stiff in her sister’s suit and low heels. Tory was used to less-formal clothes. And higher heels. Christine’s feet had been half a size larger than Tory’s, but Phyllis had fixed that with some inserts. They’d go shopping for Tory’s school clothes later in the week.

      “I had no idea I’d retained so much from when I helped Christine study.”

      “I’d guess it was a good diversion from whatever else might have been going on in your house.”

      Tory stumbled, still not used to Phyllis’s open way of talking about her and Christine’s painful up-bringing. She wondered how Christine had dealt with her friend’s honesty. Wished, suddenly engulfed by an unexpected surge of grief, that Christine were there so she could ask her.

      “You’ve had your meeting with Dr. Parsons,” Phyllis said, motioning toward the sidewalk on the left when they came to a fork. “He didn’t suspect anything, and he was your toughest sell. The others who interviewed Christine only saw her for a few minutes back in April and then never spoke with her again. Christine got her hair cut. Had a makeover and lost a little weight over the summer, most recently due to her car accident.”

      “Dr. Parsons sure was nice,” Tory said, relaxing just a little as she replayed her early-morning meeting with the president of Montford University. He’d asked about the car accident and been very sympathetic about her sister’s death, agreeing not to say anything to anyone else about it, as no one knew her sister or knew that her sister had been coming to town. He understood her need to grieve in private.

      “He seemed to have a real affection for Christine, though he seemed surprised that she cut her hair.”

      “You