The Wrong Sister

by T.E. Woods

Genres: Psychological Thrillers; Suspense

Synopsis

Sometimes a perfect stranger...

From behind the wheel of her car, Tess Kincaid glimpses a woman walking down a Madison, Wisconsin, street. They've never met, but Tess senses an undeniable familiarity about her. Hair color, square chin, wide-set blue eyes . . . Tess sees the same features every time she looks in the mirror.

Is neither of those things.

Intrigued, Tess introduces herself and discovers that she and her doppelganger, Mimi, have more than appearance in common. They even share the same birthday. Mimi—confident and outgoing where Tess is understated and shy—is convinced they're twins, separated shortly after birth. Tess, who's felt unloved and unmoored since her mother disappeared years ago, only knows that there's more than coincidence.

Publisher: Brilliance Audio

Print pages: 272

Sample

I’d been in a police station before. When I was ten. I’d left my bike propped against a tree while I ran in to the neighborhood library to return some books. I figured it would take less than a minute and I didn’t want the hassle of locking it up. But Mary Ann Dunnick was at the return desk, trying to impress the librarian by naming all the state capitals. Mary Ann sat next to me in Mrs. Asher’s fifth-grade class. Always trying to get me in trouble passing notes or copying off my papers. She once made up a rumor that George Lyster kissed me on the spring field trip to Camp Randall Stadium. That was a stinking lie and she knew it. I remember being so angry I could have punched her right in that pearl-button nose she was so proud of. When I complained to my dad, he told me to rise above it. He says things like that a lot. I know what he meant by that now . . . what with my thirtieth birthday coming up fast . . . but back in fifth grade? When somebody said you kissed a boy? Well, there was no rising above that. That kind of wound sticks. From that day forward I’ve had to willfully remind myself that anything bad happening in the world . . . from Ebola outbreaks to that whole Real Housewives TV franchise . . . isn’t necessarily the work of Mary Ann Dunnick.

Anyway, back to my earlier visit to a police station. Like I said, my in-and-out plans for dropping off the library books got thwarted by my smart-ass classmate showing off, so I took a detour to the library shelves holding all the biographies. I loved that section. Still do. Pick a person, any person, and there’s their life, all laid out in four hundred or fewer annotated pages. I made like I was looking for a book, but I kept my eye on Mary Ann. She was taking her own sweet time. By the time she left and I got my books turned in, someone had helped themselves to my dented-up red Schwinn. After my dad got finished giving me the what-for for losing something he’d spent good money on, he made me go to the station with him to file the report. I remember the policeman being a whole lot nicer than my dad had been about it. He laid a big hand on top of my head and told me how sorry he was that my bike had gone missing. It didn’t go missing, I remember thinking. Someone took it. And if I were you, I’d go straight to Virginia Terrace and knock on Mary Ann Dunnick’s door. That was twenty years ago. I never did see that bike again. And I never again saw the inside of a police station, either. Until today. This time the policeman wasn’t so nice. I guess you really can’t expect that when he’s asking you about a murder.

“I don’t have time for long walks around complicated explanations.” He said his name was Detective Andy Anderson. Why would somebody do that to their kid? He was skinny, in that way men who run marathons are. Like you can see the bones under their skin and all you want to do is run out and buy ’em a hamburger. Extra cheese and bacon with a double order of fries. He had a tight buzz cut. Maybe he figured he could shave a half second off his time if he wasn’t burdened with hair. “We’ve got a dead body, and there are laws against wasting police time.”

I’m not sure how long I’d been at the station, or what time it was earlier that day when I’d heard loud pounding on my front door. Remembering it is like trying to read a newspaper in the fog. Two policemen stood on my front stoop and asked if I’d allow them to drive me downtown. I wasn’t sure what the reason was, and while the officers were polite, they gave me the impression that declining their invitation wasn’t an option. When I’d arrived and Detective Anderson had told me what they were investigating, my fog disappeared faster than you could say yikes. Murder isn’t part of our regular doings here in Madison, Wisconsin. Around here, the biggest crime is offending someone’s sensibilities.

When the officers first brought me in, three detectives sat me in this small room, asked a whole lot of questions, and listened to what I had to say while they scribbled notes on little pads. After they heard my story, I couldn’t tell if they were disappointed or confused. Two of the detectives left, saying they’d check things out. Andy Anderson remained, telling me we’d both stay put until they “see what we’re dealing with here.”

After Anderson warned me about wasting police time, he left me all alone. I thought about getting up, heading home, and waiting to see if they’d come for me again, but I’ve seen enough television shows to know that someone was watching me behind the giant mirror on the far wall. So I sat there, getting to know every inch of that room.

About an hour later, the door opened and Anderson walked back in. This time with a woman. She didn’t look much older than me. Midthirties, maybe. She wasn’t as afraid of hair as Anderson. She had a whole head of unruly blond curls. She smiled and reached out to shake my hand when they sat down.

“Sally Normandy,” she said. “Nice to meet you.”

I liked her eyes. Blue. Clear. Like she was sincere but focused. Smart and not ashamed for you to know it. People used to tell me I was smart. But that was when I was a kid. Back when all you had to do was follow instructions, stand in line, and not do anything to piss off a teacher. Do that, and the next thing you know you’re off to the Talented and Gifted program.

Things with me are different now. Folks in this town have lots of words for soon-to-be-thirty-year-old college dropouts. Smart isn’t one of ’em.

“Tess Kincaid,” I answered. I figured it was the polite thing to do, but I was sure she knew more than my name by the time she walked into that stuffy closet they called an interview room.

“I’ve already told Ms. Kincaid here we got a term for lying to the police. It’s obstruction of justice.” Andy Anderson shook his head to let both me and Sally Normandy know he wasn’t going to let anybody pull the wool over his close-set brown eyes.

“I got a thumbnail sketch of your statement from the detectives you spoke to earlier,” Sally said to me. “But I’d like to hear what happened, this time straight from you. Would that be okay?”

I nodded. She seemed nice enough. Besides, I was sitting in the downtown office of the Madison Police Department. Would anyone really have the right to say that talking about what got her here wasn’t okay?

“Can I get you anything before we start?” she asked. “Some water, maybe some coffee? I could probably scare up a sandwich if you’d like.”

I couldn’t recall the last time I’d eaten. I looked up at the clock on the wall. It was behind a steel cage. That didn’t make any sense to me. Who’d steal a government-issue wall clock from a police station?

“I’m not hungry.” It was true, even though it was nearly eight o’clock at night. “But water would be great.”

Less than a minute later someone knocked on the door. Andy Anderson opened it and an arm reached in, offering a glass. Probably delivered by those people behind the mirror. The ones watching and listening to what was going on in this humid little space. I thanked them both when Detective Anderson handed me my drink.

“Tell me what happened,” Sally said. “From the beginning. Slowly. With as many specifics as you can. Details are very important. Start at the beginning and tell me like it happened yesterday.”

I told her I didn’t think that would be difficult since it was less than a dozen yesterdays ago that this whole mess got started. I took a drink and started in.

“Are you from here?” I asked her.

Sally’s smile was easy and relaxed. “I was born in Ohio, but I think of this place as home. I came for school and never left.”

Her answer reminded me of that old joke about Madison. The one about even the cab drivers having PhDs. I’ve lived here all my twenty-nine years, but native-borns aren’t all that common. The majority of Madisonians came here to study and learned soon enough that this isthmus is a very difficult place to leave.

“You a west-sider?” I asked.

“Close enough.” Sally turned to Anderson. “You too, right?”

Andy Anderson grunted a syllable that could have meant either yes or no. He didn’t seem interested in chatting about Madison neighborhoods. I directed my conversation to Sally.

“You know the intersection on Regent? Down by the stadium?” I asked her.

“Do you mean the star intersection? Where all those side roads meet and everybody’s turning? Bike paths crossing? Yes, I know it. I’m surprised it’s not blocked with accidents every day.”

“Me too,” I said. “I guess drivers are extra careful. Knowing the dangers, I mean. That’s where this whole thing got started.”

“At the intersection?” Andy Anderson asked. “When was this?”

“A little more than a week or so ago,” I said. “That’s when I saw her for the first time.”

“Who, Tess?” Sally asked. “Who did you see for the first time?”

I looked at Anderson. His face was a stony mask. He’d heard my story and wasn’t buying a word of it. I turned back to Sally. I could tell she already knew the answer. She just needed to hear it from me.

“I was in my car, waiting for traffic to move, when I saw her. She was coming out of Hotel Red.” I took another sip of water. I knew what this sounded like.

“Who was coming out?” Sally asked.

“Me,” I said. “I saw myself come out of the hotel, cross the street, and walk right on by.”

I told them I had been on my way home after visiting my father. I stop by every few days after work. He doesn’t get out much. Who am I kidding? If he leaves his house three times a month it’s a real Dear Diary moment for the guy. I bring him groceries. Sometimes takeout from his favorite Thai noodle place. His liquor deliveries he arranges himself.

That Tuesday had been particularly hot and humid. Dog days of August. I thought he might get a kick out of something cold, so I swung by Michael’s Frozen Custard on my way. I knocked on his door, but there was no answer. I kept knocking. Long enough that his across-the-hall neighbor poked her head out.

“I haven’t seen him in two days,” she said. “He didn’t look none too healthy, if you ask me.”

I thanked her and knocked again. The pint of custard was getting soft. I finally used my key and let myself in. I hate doing that. Bad karmic deposit. I wouldn’t want anybody walking into my apartment unannounced. But then, he gave me the key for a reason and, like I said, I come by every couple of days.

His place was hot and smelled like dirty laundry, bacon grease, and seven-dollar-a-pint whiskey. I put the custard in the freezer, walked into his living room, and turned on the window air conditioner. The grinding sound of metal on metal warned anybody listening that the unit was putting in its retirement notice. The fan alone was loud enough to wake him up when my knocking hadn’t.

“There she is.” My father wiped a hand over his face. “I must have dozed off. Heat and all.”

“I brought you some Michael’s,” I said. “Death by Chocolate.”

He struggled to bring his recliner to an upright position. “What time is it?”

“Five-thirty.” I picked up the mug and newspaper from the table next to his chair. As I headed into the kitchen I collected a half-dozen paper plates littered with tortilla chips and caked-on salsa.

“Will you stay for dinner?”

He always asked me that. As though dinner was a scheduled and respected event in his life instead of a grab-a-plate-of-whatever-is-handy-and-sit-in-front-of-the-television affair. When we were living together, before I left for my ill-fated attempt at a college education, I’d set the table and we’d talk. The meals weren’t fancy. I was never the cook my mother was. But I tried to make it a special family time the way she always did.

“Not tonight.” I threw the plates in the garbage, along with a few empty cans of fruit cocktail—always the kind packed in heavy syrup—and a flattened cereal box. “What did you do today?” I pulled the garbage bag clear of the bin, tied it tight, and carried it to the front door.

“I planned on walking over to Hilldale. Maybe see who’s at the coffee shop. But the day got away from me somehow. I never seem to know where the time goes.”

It goes into that coffee mug you fill with booze first thing in the morning, I thought. Followed by several more as you fry your mind in front of morning talk shows.

“Well, maybe tomorrow,” I said. I got a packaged meat loaf dinner from his freezer, stabbed a few holes into the plastic cover, and popped it into the microwave. He asked me the same questions about work he always does, and I gave the same answers. Our conversation ended when the timer dinged four minutes later and I busied myself scooping the slice of ground beef, dollop of mashed potatoes, and spoonful of green beans onto a clean paper plate. “You want the gravy over just the potatoes or the meat, too?”

“Let’s live dangerously, Tess.” He wiped his hand over his face again, like he was trying to clear away the haze. “Gravy über alles.”

I set the plate on the table next to his recliner. I brought him a fork and a glass of ice water. I knew he preferred a different beverage, but I long ago stopped bringing that to him. The ice water would be nothing more than a chaser for the fresh glass of whiskey he’d pour the minute I left.

I kissed the top of his head and tasted his oily hair on my lips. “Maybe you could take a shower tonight, Dad. Show off your handsome side when you strut on over tomorrow for coffee with the buds.” I headed to the front door, collected the waiting garbage bag, and told him I’d see him soon. “Don’t forget the custard in the freezer. It’ll make a nice dessert.”

He asked me to make sure the door was locked on my way out.

I was thinking about my father’s life as I inched through traffic back to my place. He hadn’t always been like this. I remember Sanford Kincaid coming home for supper when I was little. Back when everything was different. He was a giant man with shoulders as wide as any door he walked through. At least that’s what it looked like to my little girl eyes. He was always in a hurry. A new professor at the university’s law school didn’t have much time for family matters. But dinners were important to my mother. She traveled a lot for her job. I remember she worked at the university for some hotshot genetics guy, but when she was home she made sure to carve special time for the three of us. He always indulged her. I remember her saying, “We have seventy-five minutes with your father. Let’s make them count.” She had a way of making things festive. On nights my mother had to be gone, my father wouldn’t bother to come home for dinner at all. Katya, a university student with acne so bad it scared me, would meet me after school and feed me canned soup or tuna sandwiches before sitting me down to concentrate on homework. But when my mother was home, her kitchen welcomed us with warm aromas of roasts or casseroles every night at precisely six o’clock. She’d still be wearing her good dress, the one she wore to work. I’d tell them what happened in school that day. Only the good things, Mother insisted. Things that would make my father proud. At precisely 7:15 he’d push away from the table, tousle my hair, kiss my mother’s cheek, and head back to his office, where he would stay until long past my bedtime. Back in those days, even though it was my mother who traveled, I viewed my father as a visiting dignitary, granting us an abbreviated slice of his oh-so-important schedule before disappearing, leaving us grateful for the crumbs of time he’d dusted us with and filled with anticipation for our next encounter.

I remember begging him to teach me to ride a bike when I was six or seven. He always promised he would, but stacks of papers and piles of books kept him too busy to follow through. It had been my mother who took the training wheels off my bike one Saturday morning. We put that bike in the trunk of her car and drove to the empty parking lot behind the engineering building. In less than an hour I was confident enough to tell her to drive away, I’d bike myself home.

But my father did take great fun in letting me drive his car. It made my mother shiver in fear, but once or twice a week my father would come in, drop his briefcase by the door, and call out for my mother to hold dinner. Just five minutes should do it, Audra, he’d say. Then he’d wave for me to join him, let me crawl into his lap behind the wheel, and we’d go forward and back along our driveway. Is D for Donuts? he’d ask. I’d be very serious and tell him no, D was for Drive. He’d tell me how clever I was. And R . . . I suppose that’s for Rug Rats? I’d shake my head, check my rearview mirror, and assure him I knew which gear was for reverse.

We started that ritual when I was eight years old. My legs were too short to touch the pedals. We’d make five or six runs up and down the drive, then head in to hear my mother fuss that one day I’d plow right into the house.

“Or into the street and get hit by a truck,” she’d say.

My father would give her that look. The one warning her not to say another word on the matter. Then he’d nod at me, closing the subject before taking his seat. No matter what my mother served, dinner always tasted better on those nights my father took me driving.

After my mother left us I tried my best, but running a house that big was too much for a preteen, no matter how grown up I thought I was. My father had to shop for groceries and take me to dentist appointments. He had to write checks, gas the car, and go to my school conferences. I convinced him I was old enough to stay home alone, even though it was scary rattling around those rooms all by myself. And there was a giant oak tree with a branch that liked to knock against my bedroom window when the wind was strong enough. Truth told, I was relieved when a concerned neighbor called CPS and my father gave up those evening working hours. But that didn’t work out so well for my father. His students complained he wasn’t available. He no longer had the time to devote to his research. He missed one important conference when I was sick with pneumonia and another when my wisdom teeth needed to come out. I’ll never forget those weeks after the dean informed him he wasn’t putting my dad’s name forward for tenure. I’d just started middle school. He’d sacrificed his career to take care of me, and the look in his eyes told me he was wondering if I was worth it.

He’d been allowed to finish the year. They offered him a one-year extension as an instructor, but he declined. My grandparents died before I was born and left him a modest trust fund. It carried us for a while, but we had to sell the big old house on Lathrop Street two years later. I asked him how my mother would know where to find us when she came back. He answered me by telling me to pack another box. I didn’t ask again. After all, we wouldn’t have been moving if he didn’t have to spend all his time caring for me. He didn’t need me complaining about anything, right? We rented a bungalow off Monroe Street, and he got a job teaching at the local community college. The two bottles of wine it took to soothe his pride each evening cost him that position my sophomore year in high school, and we moved to a two-bedroom apartment over a pie shop. He was never employed again. When I left for the university, his moves took him to smaller apartments in shabbier buildings. He’d been in the one-bedroom place off Midvale Boulevard for the past three years.

By the time I got to that star intersection, I was thinking about how my mother and I had cost Sanford Kincaid everything. I by my presence, she by her absence. I was also thinking about how small my life and my father’s were. For all intents and purposes my father’s entire world was a four-hundred-square-foot apartment. Mine wasn’t much bigger. In six square miles of Madison real estate I was born, raised, and educated from kindergarten through two years of college. I still work at the same place that hired me when I dropped out . . . that library where my bike went missing all those years ago . . . and I rent the bottom floor of a three-flat two blocks away.

The Kincaid corner of the world is pretty damned minuscule. That’s what I was thinking about when I saw her.

It was what she wore that caught my attention first. I saw a woman come out of the Hotel Red wearing a black suit and high heels. She was walking up the sidewalk, toward where I sat waiting for the traffic to clear. She’s not from around here, was my first thought. You rarely see that level of dress-up here in Madison. And you certainly don’t see it on a late workday afternoon when temperatures are in the high nineties with enough humidity to make your car windows sweat. I figured she must be from Chicago, up here on business. Traffic was barely moving. It wasn’t quite six o’clock, and it seemed as if every automobile, motorcycle, bicyclist, and bus in town was making its way down Regent Street. I watched her walk closer. First it was her hair. It was so like mine. Not exactly the dishwater blond mine is, but close enough. A few blond streaks and highlights perked it up. She wore it short, bobbed to a chin as square and level as mine. My mother used to tell me it looked like God got done with my face, grabbed a straight edge, and ran it under my jaw for a nice, clean finish. Then she’d kiss the top of my head and tell me I was her beautiful doll.

My chin’s still as square, but it’s been many, many years since anyone’s called it beautiful.

The woman got closer. I moved forward one car length, following the little electric roller skate impersonating an automobile in front of me. I could see her better. She took her right hand, combed it through her hair, and flexed her fingers at the top of her head, giving herself a little scalp massage.

Like I do.

She was about parallel with my car when the person behind me honked. I’d been so focused on the woman, I’d missed the opportunity to move ahead. The horn blast caught her attention, too. She turned, and for a moment our eyes locked. She had large blue eyes, spaced wide under a high forehead.

Like mine.

I could tell something registered with her. She wrinkled her brow. The movement was identical to the furrow I get when I think something’s not adding up. Her nose dipped at the tip. Like mine. Her lips formed an anxious smile. Only for half a second. More nervous reaction than sincere greeting. Thin lips. Like mine.

The car behind me honked again. The woman on the sidewalk looked over her shoulder, like maybe she expected someone else to be there. I remember thinking she seemed startled. Maybe a little afraid. She looked at me one more time, real quick. Then she turned around and walked back toward the hotel. I inched my car ahead, keeping my eyes on her. I saw her re-enter the hotel. I didn’t know what to make of it. I mean, you gotta admit, the whole thing was kind of freaky.

Then I got this queasy sensation in my stomach. Thought maybe I was going to throw up.

Like I said, it was real ho. . .