Page 11 of All Fall Down

“I see you’re back from LA,” I say, conversationally. Sabine doesn’t reply.

She doesn’t talk. She just exists.

Monroe pushes her Louis Vuitton sunglasses to the tip of her nose and looks me up and down. “You’re alive.”

“Thanks for the info.” Whatever tenuous truce that Monroe and I had managed earlier this summer is fraying at both ends. She’s never liked me, and I have the kind of dirt that could destroy her. She’s not ready to let the cat out of the bag on her escort empire. What she doesn’t know, though, is what I found out about who killed Nathaniel West. The information Mackey gave me points suspicion for the murder at Nathaniel’s own daughter.

Since I know it wasn’t me, she’s the next possible suspect. The trouble is that the evidence doesn’t match up. If Monroe really has been passing her free time working as an escort for an exclusive Las Vegas agency, then it doesn’t seem likely that she had any remnants of virginity to shed on a towel after the murder. But this is a city based on illusion. One where you can win big, play with magic, and live without consequence. Have I ever seen the real Monroe West?

“Paging Emma Southerly,” Monroe says. “My brother requests that you turn your cell phone on.”

“My cell phone is on,” I tell her dryly.

“Then unblock him.” She smacks her steering wheel so hard that the horn honks.

“I don’t see why it matters to you. I’d think you’d be glad to be rid of me.”

“I like to keep my frenemies close,” she informs me. “Plus he’s impossible to live with. He’s either moping or throwing shit. There is literally no in-between. He broke mom’s Baccarat vase yesterday. She’s going to have him arrested. Call him.”

She flicks a platinum blonde strand of hair over her shoulder.

“I’ll think about it,” I tell her.

“He doesn’t like you staying here,” she continues, “and I can see why.”

“Not enough room for the servants?”

Monroe’s eyes narrow into slits. “He requests that you stay at one of our other residences.”

“Our?” I repeat. When did I get inducted into the West hall of infamy? “I’ll think about it, sis.”

“Whatever. I’m just the messenger.” Apparently, this is the new form of passing notes in class. Send your bitchy sister to handle the situation.

“It must’ve taken a lot for you to lower yourself to that position.” I lean down on the door and drop my voice to a whisper. “Then again, you know all about lowering yourself into positions, don’t you?”

“Come home,” she says, with a wicked smile that displays two rows of sparkling white teeth, “so I can teach you to fight like a West. You need practice.”

She throws the car into reverse, barely giving me enough time to jump back before she peels out of the driveway, leaving nothing but the glimmer of a Mercedes logo in her wake.

I goto the only place where I know I’ll never be judged. The graveyard is silent. The grounds-keeper must have been through recently, because the stones are swept free of dead grass clippings, artificial flowers are tucked neatly into their urns, and the whole place feels more like a museum of the dead than a cemetery. I sit at the end of Becca’s grave and stare at her stone. Even now, those dates don’t make sense to me.

“It doesn’t feel real,” I say to the wind. “How can I be 18? How can I be older than you?”

The brutality of that fact is one reason why I’m glad my birthday has been overshadowed by other events this year. Josie is busy weighing her options. Mom is focused on the divorce proceedings. On the off chance that Jameson remembers, his call can’t get through to me anyway.

Even though I don’t want to celebrate with other people, I pluck a Hostess cupcake out of my bag. This had been a tradition of mine and Becca’s since we were kids. The other would stash the individually wrapped treat when dad remembered to get groceries, then present it like the holy grail. It was our job to remember each other’s birthdays. Too many times to count, that one tiny snack cake had been our official birthday cake. As we got older, Marion took charge, picking up a small sheet cake from the grocery store and having our names put on it. But we’d kept this tradition alive quietly. It was a signal that we had each other, and that no matter how bad our family might get, we’d never lose that.

Now it’s my job to remember for the both of us. I unwrap it, but I can’t bring myself to eat a bite. Behind me footsteps crunch along the dry, sun-burnt grass, and I turn. The appearance of my dad at my sister’s grave shouldn’t be a shock, but as far as I know, he’s never actually been here before.

“Hey, Pumpkin. I thought I might find you here.” He nods to the cupcake. “Do you want me to sing you Happy Birthday?”

Tears prick at the corners of my eyes, but I do my best to blink them back. When I had said our birthdays were often forgotten, I should have clarified that it was mom who remembered when someone bothered. Dad? He was always a few days late. His apologies generally came with something gift wrapped from behind the counter at Pawnography.

“Do you mind if I sit down?” he asks.

I shrug, afraid to betray any more emotions.

“I’ll take that as a yes.” He groans as he settles onto the ground beside me.