Husband's Mistress Killed Wrong Girl in OR, Now He's Mourning His Real Sister novel · Chapter 2 of 24

Chapter 2: Black Paint

Mara finds black paint on the wrecked Subaru, Mitchell pushes cremation, and the medical examiner says her autopsy request was withdrawn by her husband.

I told Mitchell I needed air, and I drove to the tow yard on Pike Street instead.

I had never been so calm.

It scared me a little, because I knew from work that calm is how shock feels from the inside.

The yard was a gravel lot behind a chain fence, with a man in a hooded sweatshirt asleep in the office.

My silver Subaru sat at the end of the second row.

The driver's side was crushed against the door and the airbag hung limp out of the wheel.

I made myself look at the seat.

There was a dark stain on the headrest, and I looked away and looked back.

Then I walked around to the rear bumper.

Along the left corner ran a long streak of black paint, ground into the silver, at the height of a big SUV's grille.

It was not from the guardrail.

The guardrail had left a sharp gray scrape on the other side.

I took six photos with my phone, close and wide, and a ruler from my purse laid against the paint.

"Ma'am, you can't be back here."

A man in a rumpled sport coat was coming across the gravel with a coffee.

He showed me a badge and said he was the detective on Kit's case.

"I'm her sister. It's my car."

"I'm sorry for your loss." He looked at the bumper and then at me. "That's a hit-and-run, most likely. Somebody clipped her and kept going. The river road has no cameras and no witnesses that we've found."

"There's paint on it. It's black."

"We'll collect it."

"Does the hospital know it's a hit-and-run?"

"Your husband called me twice this morning," he said. "He was very helpful. He asked me to send everything through his office, so you don't have to deal with it."

I said that was kind of him.

I did not say a word about the text on my phone.

Kit's text said somebody had followed my car, and it named no one.

If I handed it over, it would sit on a desk in a station where my husband had already called twice.

So I thanked the detective, and I drove home with six photographs and one secret.

Mitchell was in the kitchen when I walked in, still in his scrubs, with a pot of coffee going.

He had made me toast, and he set it in front of me and sat down across the table.

"I spoke to a funeral home," he said gently. "They already have her. The cremation can be done within forty-eight hours, and then we can plan something small."

"No."

"Mara."

"She gets a funeral. A casket and a burial next to Mom and Dad, the way she wanted. Kit would hate a cremation."

He watched my face for a moment.

Then he took my hand and said, "Of course. I'm sorry. Whatever you want."

He agreed too fast.

I thought it, and I buttered the toast and ate it, because Mitchell was watching me eat.

At noon the doorbell rang, and Camilla Monaghan stood on the porch with a casserole dish in both hands.

She had showered and put on a sweater, but her eyes were red.

"Don't say anything," she said. "I know you hate people at the door. It's chicken and rice. You can throw it out."

I let her in.

She put the dish in the oven, wiped my counter, and asked if I had picked a dress for Kit yet.

"I can't go to her apartment," I said. "I just can't."

"Then I'll drive you, and I'll wait in the car. Or I'll go in with you. Whichever."

She went in with me.

Kit's apartment smelled of vanilla and burnt sugar.

There was a cooling rack in the sink and a half-finished sketch of a wedding cake taped to the fridge.

Camilla took the blue dress out of the closet and held it up.

"She wore this to your Christmas party," she said. "Everyone was talking about it."

"That's the one."

I held it against my chest and cried for the first time since 6:41.

Camilla put her arm around my shoulders and cried a little too.

Then, as we were leaving, she asked in a soft voice, "Did Kit have her phone on her? The police always want the phone."

"It's in my bag."

"Good. Keep it safe."

I thought that was thoughtful.

I carried the blue dress out to the car in both arms.

That evening Mitchell took a call in his study, and I sat on the edge of the bathtub and dialed the county medical examiner's after-hours line.

A woman answered, sounding bored.

I gave her Kit's name and my own, and I said I wanted an autopsy done.

"One moment." I heard typing. "Mrs. Bannister, there's already a note on this file."

"What kind of note?"

"A waiver. The family declined the autopsy at 7:30 this morning. It says Dr. Mitchell Bannister called on your behalf, because you were too upset to speak."

At 7:30 this morning I had been sitting in a parking garage with my sister's apron against my face.

I had not spoken to anyone.

"Ma'am? Are you still there? The body was released to the funeral home at nine."

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