Jessica sat beside her, reviewing documents on her laptop. They’d spent the last week preparing for this trip, gathering evidence, rehearsing questions, planning for every possible scenario. Jessica had wanted to bring Marcus, the private investigator, but Margaret had refused. “This is between me and Diane,” she’d said. “I don’t want her to feel ambushed. I want her to talk.” Jessica had argued, but eventually relented. She understood, even if she didn’t agree. This wasn’t just a legal matter anymore. This was personal.
This was family, whatever that word even meant anymore. They landed in Phoenix at 2:15 in the afternoon. The heat hit Margaret like a physical force the moment she stepped off the plane. Dry and relentless. Nothing like the humid Tennessee summers she’d grown up with. Even the air smelled different here, like dust and sage and something vaguely chemical. They rented a car and drove to Scottsdale. The city was nothing like Margaret had expected. All glass and chrome and perfectly manicured lawns that seemed to defy the desert around them.
Money. That’s what this place smelled like underneath the dust. Money and the desperate effort to pretend you weren’t living in the middle of nowhere. Diane’s neighborhood was called Desert Crown Estates. Gated community, private security, the kind of place where houses cost more than most people made in a lifetime. Jessica pulled up to the gate and rolled down her window. “We’re here to see Diana Hartley,” she said to the guard. “She’s expecting us.” That was a lie. Of course, Diane had no idea they were coming, but Jessica had called ahead, pretending to be from a charity organization that Diana Hartley had supposedly donated to.
She’d gotten the address, the gate code, and confirmation that Mrs. Hartley was home. The guard checked his clipboard, frowned, made a phone call. Margaret held her breath. “Go ahead,” the guard finally said, waving them through. The gate opened. They drove inside. Diane’s house was at the end of a culde-sac, a sprawling singlestory mansion with a red tile roof and a circular driveway. There was a fountain in the front yard, actual water in the middle of the desert and a row of palm trees that must have cost a fortune to maintain.
Jessica parked the car and turned to Margaret. Are you ready? Margaret looked at the house, at the life her sister had built on the wreckage of everything she’d destroyed. “No,” she said, “but I’m going anyway.” They walked up to the front door together. Jessica rang the bell. For a long moment, nothing happened. Then Margaret heard footsteps. Slow, shuffling. The footsteps of someone who was sick. The door opened and there she was. Diane, 20 years older, thinner than Margaret remembered.
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