Rachel Goddard 01 - The Heat of the Moon

murmured absently. She didn’t look up, but kept her eyes fixed on the word-filled computer screen.
    I stood over her, my gaze following the curve of her long neck, the plane of her left cheekbone, the fall of her silky hair.
    Who was she?
    Who was I?
    She glanced at me, a frown forming between her brows. “Did you want something?”
    The folded copy of the newspaper story was in my right hand. “I need to talk to you.”
    She gave a little sigh. The computer had already regained her attention. Touching an index finger to a key, she said, “Can it wait till after dinner?”
    “This is important, Mish. Maybe the most important conversation we’ll ever have.”
    She laughed and sat back. “My goodness.” Then she looked at me more closely, and a mask of wariness and reluctance came down over her face. “Rachel, I don’t want to talk about Mother. I don’t want to talk about our father. I don’t want—”
    “Michelle!”
    She flinched as if I’d struck her. Telling myself to calm down, I moved away from her, to a window, and watched two squirrels chase each other in a circle on the side lawn below. Mother would be home soon. I couldn’t imagine what was coming, what must come.
    I turned back to Michelle. “Please hear me out, no matter how crazy it sounds.”
    “Oh, for heaven’s sake—” 
    “Please. Can’t you just listen? Can’t you do that much for me?”
    She let out a sharp breath and folded her arms. “Okay, I’m listening.” Her whole attitude said she didn’t want to hear a word I had to say.
    “I thought if I could find out everything about the accident that killed—” I hesitated. What should I call him? For now, what Michelle would accept. “The accident that killed our father—”
    “I knew it,” she said. “You’re obsessed, Rachel. It’s not healthy.”
    “You said you’d listen.”
    She unfolded her arms and lifted her hands briefly in a gesture of surrender.
    Taking a deep breath, I started over. “I thought if I found out more about his death, I’d be able to understand all the secrecy. Why Mother won’t talk about him.”
    “You know why. It hurts to dredge up those memories.”
    I let this pass and hurried on. “So I went to the Library of Congress and looked at issues of the Minneapolis newspaper on microfilm.”
    “Oh, I don’t believe this,” she said, shaking her head.
    “I found the story.” I looked down at the papers I clutched.
    “Okay, now are you satisfied? Did it help at all? I’ll be really surprised if you say yes.”
    I met her gaze. Her cold blue eyes regarded me as if I were a nutty stranger who’d accosted her and forced her to listen to gibberish.
    I had to make her see. The proof was in my hand. I unfolded the two sheets of paper. “The story wasn’t what I expected.”
    “Oh?” A trace of curiosity.
    “Mother was in the car with him.”
    “Yes, I know.”
    I stared at her. “You do?”
    She nodded. “Mother told me.”
    Wounded, thrown off track, I groped for words. “She told you, but she wouldn’t talk about it with me.”
    “I don’t get hysterical when the subject comes up.”
    Her superior tone jolted me into anger. She thought she knew everything, but she knew nothing, so cozy in her ignorance.
    “Did she tell you a little girl was in the car with them?” I said. “Did she tell you that little girl was killed too?”
    I watched the color drain from her face and her mouth open slightly. For a split second I wavered, as the enormity of what I was doing came clear. One step farther, and I would destroy my sister’s world. But I had to do this. I had no choice.
    “The child’s name was Michelle Theresa,” I said, “and she was two years old. She died that day, with her father.”
    I held her gaze, braced for anger, denial, an outburst. But she sat perfectly still, hands limp in her lap, and didn’t speak. A wren sang outside the window, a burbling happy sound.
    “Mish,” I said, stepping closer. “I don’t know what it means, about you and me—”
    She drew herself up in one long motion and was on her feet facing me, her body a rigid column.
    Her voice was low, quiet. “You need help, Rachel. You’re not rational anymore.” 
    I shook my head. “Mish, read this—”
    I offered the two sheets of paper in my outstretched hand. Her eyes didn’t waver from my face.
    “Read this.” I held the papers up, in her line of vision.
    Her sharp slap across the back of my hand caught me by surprise,