Rachel Goddard 01 - The Heat of the Moon

judge. In the meantime, everything in the house has to be catalogued and removed to storage. But if you want to keep everything—”
    “I don’t want any of it,” I said.
    A short silence followed, and I realized how harsh and abrupt I’d sounded. I glanced at Michelle. Tears stood in her eyes. I leaned toward her over the chair that separated us. “Mish,” I said softly. “Keep whatever you want. I’m not interested in the money from the sale.” 
    She turned to look at me for the first time, and as she did a tear spilled down each cheek. She started to speak, but her breath caught on a sob.
    “Oh, Mish.” I rose and went to her side, awkwardly leaning to embrace her with my free arm.
    She pressed her face into my shoulder, and I felt the wetness of her tears on my blouse.
    “We’ll get through this,” I said. “We’ll get all this done and behind us.”
    The real estate agent gathered her papers, slapping them together briskly. “I’ll be in touch,” she said. “And you can call me anytime, of course, if you have questions.”
    As she bustled out, Waterston also rose. “I’ll let you two have a few minutes to talk,” he said. He closed the door softly behind him.
    I sat in the chair next to Michelle and reached for her hand. Her skin felt icy. “Mish,” I said, “how have you been?”
    “I miss her so much. I can’t believe she’s dead.” With a low moan Michelle began to cry, rocking back and forth in her chair. Tears poured down her face and spotted the front of her blue dress. I waited silently.
    When her sobs subsided, she turned beseeching eyes on me and said, “She was a good mother to us, wasn’t she? I mean—She gave us so much—”
    “Yes, she did.” I took my sister’s hand again. Her fingers tightened around mine. “If I could turn back time, if I could make all this go away, believe me, I would.”
    She looked down at our clasped hands. Her voice was a whisper. “She was trying to kill you. She would’ve killed you if I hadn’t stopped her. I didn’t imagine that, did I?”
    “No, you didn’t imagine it.”
    When she raised her eyes to mine again, I saw that she’d begun to accept the truth, or what she knew of it. But I also saw anguish on her face and in every tense line of her body. How much more could I ask her to accept?
    “I’ve been wanting to talk to you,” I said, “about what to do next. I want to try to find out who we really—”
    “No!” She shot to her feet, rocking her chair backward. “You can’t, you have to let it drop.”
    I stood and reached out to her. She stepped away from me.
    “I just want to know,” I said. “I need to know.”
    “Is this his idea? Is he pushing you to do this?”
    “Who are you talking about, Mish?”
    “Luke! He just wants to come between us, he’s determined to keep us apart—”
    “Luke has nothing to do with this. He’s not coming between us.”
    “Then why are you with him instead of me?” She wailed the words like a heartbroken child.
    I held out my arm and this time she came to me, wrapping her own arms around me and burying her face in my shoulder.
    “Nobody will ever come between us,” I said. “I have to stay with Luke, but anytime you need me, just call or come to me. I love you so much, Mish. I always will.”
    ***
    When I sat once more in the periodicals room of the Library of Congress, looking at newspapers on microfilm, I began to doubt my memory again. I’d been so sure the abduction happened during warm weather, but I worked my way through June, July, August, scouring every page, examining even the smallest articles, and found nothing. I requested the April, May and September issues.
    Nothing appeared in the April papers. I was near the end of May, pausing to rub my throbbing temples, when I spotted the one-paragraph item in a regional news roundup column. Two Young Sisters Disappear from St. Cloud Playground.
    I held my breath while I read it. Catherine and Stephanie Dawson, ages five and three, vanished while their mother was in a nearby shop. In St. Cloud, not Minneapolis.
    I sat back, covering my face with my hands, unable to stop the tears. Catherine and Stephanie. I fumbled a tissue from my purse and wiped my face, not caring what people at the surrounding desks thought. I read the little item over and over.
    We were the daughters of John and Barbara Dawson. I could see them, still not sharply defined but clearer than they’d ever been. My real mother was slender and