Rachel Goddard 01 - The Heat of the Moon

it.”
    I slumped back against the pillow, breathless, mind racing over all the possible consequences of the police finding the story about Michael and Michelle Goddard’s deaths twenty-two years ago.
    She looked at me curiously. “Did you want them to see it? Are you going to tell them about—all that?”
    “Of course not.”
    Her shoulders slumped with relief and she bowed her head. Then she straightened again, chin up. “They questioned me for a long time, and they’ll be asking you questions too. We have to tell them the same story if we don’t want it all to come out. You need to back up what I told them.”
    This was so bizarre I could hardly take it in. Getting our stories straight. Working out what to say to the cops. Good God. “What did you tell them?”
    My sister astonished me with the intricately shaded and detailed mix of truth and fiction she’d concocted for the police. Mother had been suffering from depression. This wasn’t surprising, because it ran in her family; both her own parents had committed suicide. Michelle and I couldn’t persuade her to go into a clinic for treatment. Mother resisted the idea that she was following the same sad path as her parents, and believed she could work out her problems alone.
    On the night before, Mother had been uncommunicative, Michelle told the police. We couldn’t coax her to talk. We’d been horrified when she suddenly grabbed the carving knife and started out of the kitchen. I was cut accidentally when I tried to take the knife from her. She locked herself in the bathroom, and by the time we got the door open she’d slashed her wrists. She slit her throat before we could stop her.
    When Michelle finished we were both silent for a long time. I looked down at my cast and bandage, remembering the moment when I realized Mother meant to kill me.
    From the hallway came a rumble and the faint clink of metal on metal: the breakfast trolley.
    “Most of it’s true,” Michelle said at last. “Will you tell them the same thing?”
    I nodded.
    “Good.” She picked up her purse from a chair as if to leave.
    “Did you read the story?” I said.
    Her face was closed, cold. “No. I tore it up. I flushed it down the toilet in the restroom outside the ER.”
    I closed my eyes over burning tears. “Mish,” I whispered. “I’m so sorry. Mother—If I hadn’t—”
    “Don’t start,” she said. “Just don’t start. I don’t want to hear how sorry you are.”
    The door hinge creaked, and a young blond nurse poked her head in. “Luke Campbell’s here,” she said. “You want him to come on in, or do you want him to wait a little bit?”
    “Tell him to go away,” Michelle said.
    “No!” I said. “Tell him to come in, please.”
    “You don’t need visitors—”
    “I’m going home with him, Mish.”
    “You can’t be serious.”
    Watching her severe expression crumble into hurt and dismay, I wavered, but only for a second. The nurse waited for clear instructions. “Tell him to come in,” I said.
    “Rachel—” Michelle broke off when Luke appeared in the doorway.
    “I’m sorry, Mish.” I was deserting her when she needed me most, but there was no other way I could get through the coming days. “I can’t go back to the house.”
    She glared at Luke with a hatred so raw it took my breath away. She spun and rushed out of the room.
    Luke came to the bed and closed his arms around me. Too weary to cry, I let sorrow and guilt fill me to overflowing, strangle me, drown me, then I felt it all drain away, leaving me empty and cold.
    ***
    By mid-afternoon a police detective was at Luke’s apartment to question me. His name was John Rodriguez and he was about Luke’s age, with very short black hair and an intensity and attentiveness that kept him always leaning forward, missing nothing.
    I sat on the couch and answered the detective’s questions dully, trying to dissociate myself from the words and black out the images they called up, suppressing the urge to scream that rose inside me like a living thing fighting for release.
    “Mother was under a lot of stress in the last few weeks,” I said. “She’d developed heart disease and we’d all been worried about it.”
    “Would you say she was depressed?” Rodriguez asked. His dark brown eyes were locked on my face.
    “Yes. She wasn’t herself. My sister’s studying psychology, she can describe Mother’s condition better than I can.” I shook my head. “I never expected anything