The Sometime Sister Katherine Nichols (reading in the dark txt) 📖

cotton shirt bearing the Wyndham emblem helped me with my bags. I worried on the way up about how much to tip him. To single-handedly dispel the myth that women are bad tippers, I give more than necessary. Lesroy said it’s because I’m an insecure feminist. My ex cautioned against the habit, especially if I was staying more than a day or so since it set an unrealistic tone.

I pulled a ten-dollar bill from my bag and watched the boy’s smile grow wider. Screw you, Ben.

My room was bright and clean. The blue carpet matched the trim of the thick white comforter on a king-size bed covered with six enormous pillows. A large flat-screen TV was mounted above the dark wooden dresser. The bath had a shower tub and lots of expensive-looking lotions and shampoos. In the next twenty minutes, I used them all.

I slipped on a pair of black jeans and a long-sleeved white T-shirt. Thanks to Lesroy’s insistence, my layered haircut was both stylish and easy to manage. Requiring a minimum of fluffing and drying, it framed my face with strands of caramel highlights my stylist promised would emphasize my high cheekbones and make my silver-gray eyes pop. After a little mascara, I’m not sure if pop was the right word, but I looked better than when we’d landed. And I accomplished it all in less than forty-five minutes.

With time to spare, I considered Stella’s letters, lying on the dresser. After my mid-air breakdown, I knew to be more cautious about how to approach them.

I distanced myself from the pain by telling myself These aren’t from your dead sister. No. They’re clues to a mystery you have to solve. No reason to get emotional.

I opened the envelope marked “Letter two.” She wrote it in May, a few months after they left the States.

 

Dear Grace,

It’s early morning—no, not Stella-early like you and mom used to say—but early early, just after sunrise. I see a lot of sunrises from my bedroom window. Today I wanted to watch it from the balcony, but I didn’t want to wake Ben. Now that he doesn’t work every day, he hates mornings. Should I not mention him? It’s hard not to because so far, I haven’t made any new friends, and he’s the only one around to talk to, except for Eva, our housekeeper, but I don’t think she likes me. And I keep thinking by the time you read this, he’ll only be a bad memory for you. I guess that means I will be, too.

Anyway. What I meant to say is that when I woke up and saw the ocean, I wanted to take a picture and send it to you because I know how much you love the beach. But you wouldn’t look at it, so I stayed in bed. I thought about the nights we stayed awake talking in our room at Gran’s. Mom yelled at us to get quiet, but Gran never raised her voice. She came in and whispered it was time to go to sleep so something good could happen in the morning. I always tried to wake up before you, so I’d be sure to beat you to whatever good thing was waiting. That’s what I did today. I didn’t stand outside on the balcony and breathe in the sunrise and let the salty air wash over me, I lay waiting for that something good to happen.

Still waiting.

 

I folded the letter into its envelope and placed it back in the packet. I pictured Stella miserable and alone and dismissed our grandmother’s optimism.

Chapter 14

Justin and Harry were at a table near the entrance to the bar, drinks in front of them. Harry stood, pulled out a chair for me, and said, “You look livelier.”

Justin signaled the server. When I asked her about the beer selection, she recommended a pale ale brewed in Montañita. It was the country’s first and only beachside brewery, and they had just started shipping to Guayaquil.

“I wouldn’t have taken you for a beer drinker,” Justin said as our server delivered my order and poured it into a cold mug.

“There’s a lot you don’t know about me.” I guessed there wasn’t that much since Mom had most likely provided a full bio on Grace Burnette.

“I’m sure there is,” Justin replied and lifted his drink. “Here’s to finding out more.”

“Sounds good to me,” Harry chimed in and we clinked our glasses.

The golden ale went down easily, malty with a fruity aftertaste. I stared into my drink as the bubbles drifted upward. Ben had been a pseudo-wine-connoisseur, throwing around terms like rustic, oaky, and vegetal. He’d insist I try this or that Merlot or Pinot when all I wanted was a Bud Light.

“Harry and I’ve been discussing the best way to approach the situation. Why don’t you fill her in?”

Harry finished chewing a pretzel and washed it down with a sip of his drink. “Most people get their ideas about autopsies and criminal investigations from TV and movies. The truth is even in the States, it’s not an exact science.”

He caught the eye of our server. “In Ecuador it’s even less so.”

I fought the bile rising in the back of my throat, painfully aware of where this was going. This time, I ordered a vodka tonic.

“Are you saying they refused to do an autopsy on Stella?”

“It’s more complicated than that, Grace,” Harry continued. “A few years ago, Guayaquil’s police force—hell, the entire country—came under scrutiny because of the high murder rate. It was only slightly higher than the US’s, but it wasn’t doing the tourist industry any good. Guayaquil doesn’t offer much in that department anyway. But it is the jumping off point for the Galapagos, and the bigwigs were afraid people would hesitate to come to one of the most violent cities in a violent country.”

My drink came, and I downed about a third of it. Justin pushed the bowl of pretzels toward me, but I ignored them.

“The government pledged to lower