Page 43 of Our Little Secret

Ten minutes later Brooke spied her sister. In a pink sundress, pulling a roller bag behind her, holding on to a floppy-brimmed hat with the other, Leah looked around, lost.

Brooke honked, then climbed from behind the wheel to wave and catch her sister’s attention.

Leah started in her direction, stopped suddenly, and waited impatiently for a minivan to drive past before hurrying along the aisle between the parked cars.

“Good God, I forgot how cold it is up here,” she said before releasing the suitcase handle so she could offer Brooke a huge, unexpected hug. “Brrr. I don’t know how you stand it.”

Brooke flinched a little as Leah inadvertently squeezed her hard enough to remind her of the bruise healing on one shoulder.

“Ooh, sorry.” Leah stepped back and appraised her sister, her large eyes focusing on Brooke’s scraped chin. “You look like hell.”

“I missed you too.”

“I mean . . . I forgot you took a header and—” Her gaze swept over the front end of Brooke’s Explorer. She ran a finger along a huge dent. “Ouch.”

“Yeah, ‘ouch.’ Let’s go.” She put Leah’s bag onto the back seat.

“Wait!” Leah leaned in through the open back door, unzipped the bag, and found a sweater and a pair of casual shoes. Quickly, she took off her heels, closed the door, then climbed into the passenger seat, where she slipped her feet into her Skechers. “Sorry,” she said. As Brooke climbed in behind the wheel, Leah wriggled into the oversize cardigan before snapping her seat belt over her slim torso. “It’s freezing.”

“It’s sixty.”

“Like I said, freezing.”

“Didn’t you live in Chicago?” Brooke started the SUV.

“Once upon a time, yeah. Eons ago. With Ryan.” Leah glanced out the window as if she’d rather not talk about the time when she was married to her first husband, Ryan Connolly, whom she usually referred to as Ryan the Rat. “It’s a dry cold there, you know.”

“What? In Chicago? No. Cold is cold. And it really freezes there. I’ve seen pictures of ice on Lake Michigan.” Eyes on the backup camera, Brooke reversed the Explorer out of the tight parking space. “You’re just used to Arizona.”

“I guess.” Leah changed the subject. “All this”—she made a circular motion with her hand to take in Brooke and all of her injuries—“happened when you—what? Tripped?”

“Right.”

Leah gave Brooke an exaggerated once-over as the sound of a revving motorcycle engine echoed through the structure. “You should be more careful.”

“Ya don’t say,” Brooke said dryly.

“Seriously.”

“I’m working on it.” Brooke wound her way down the spiral ramp, other vehicles sliding behind her, the sound of the motorcycle still audible. For a second she thought about Gideon and his Harley, then tried to shove the idea out of her head. There were hundreds—no, make that thousands—of motorcycles in the area. And he hadn’t bothered her in the few days since the fight. She was letting her own paranoia get the better of her.

“That was kind of a freak accident, right? You tripping like that. I mean, you’ve been running for years and never—”

” What?” Brooke’s thoughts had taken her out of the conversation. “Oh, when I fell down? I just lost my concentration.” Brooke didn’t want to talk about it, to keep lying, to think about the physical altercation with Gideon. “It wasn’t a big deal.”

Again, the wide-eyed and skeptical appraisal from the passenger seat. “If you say so.”

“I do.” Brooke’s fingers tightened over the steering wheel. Leah had only been in the car a few minutes and already she was getting under Brooke’s skin. Unfortunately, this had always been the case. As their mother had said when they were still in elementary school, “I swear, you two are like oil and water, or dogs and cats, or oil on dogs and water on cats! I don’t understand why you girls just can’t get along. You’re sisters, for God’s sake.”

“You mean like you and Aunt Janey get along?” Brooke had reminded her.

“That’s different. Jane and I are ten years apart, almost different generations. And different interests. You two, on the other hand, should be close. Not quite a year separates you.”

Which, in Brooke’s opinion, had only made it worse.

Brooke’s jaw slid to the side as she remembered their mother turning from the front seat of their grandmother’s old Chevy Impala, where the odor of once-smoked cigarettes lingered in the interior despite the fact that the windows were cracked slightly.

Nana was driving, a bit of a woman whose eyes, like Brooke’s, were “as green as the Irish sea,” according to their now-dead grandpa. Nana was clinging to what seemed an oversize steering wheel in her small hands, the rosary wound over the rearview mirror dangling and swaying, casting prisms of tiny lights onto the ceiling.

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