Whisper Me This by King Kerry Anne

Author:King, Kerry Anne
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781503901957
Publisher: Lake Union Publishing
Published: 2018-07-31T16:00:00+00:00

Chapter Eighteen

Marley, coiling up cables on the stage, hears us walk up behind her. She turns, ready with a professional smile, probably expecting a fan.

I open my mouth to tell her who I am. Some version of, “Hey, guess what? I’m your long-lost sister!” but my voice box freezes.

Her eyes travel from me to Elle and back again. Her lips flatten out into a thin, compressed line. It’s Mom’s displeased expression, perfectly replicated on a stranger’s face.

I swallow. “Hi, my name is Maisey and—”

“What do you want, an autograph?” She turns her back and continues coiling up a power cord, looping it around her hand and elbow.

“No, I—this might sound weird, but I’m your sister.”

“I know who you are. The fabled Maisey. And Maisey Junior, if I’m not mistaken.”

“You know about me?” Somehow, this seems worse than my not knowing about her.

“Trust me. I know plenty.” Her voice is hard, dismissive, as far from the warm friendly tone she’d used on the crowd as I am out of my comfort zone. “What I don’t know is what you’re doing here.”

Elle stiffens beside me and my anger sparks. “Go find Mia,” I tell her.

For once she doesn’t argue.

I follow Marley across the stage. “How?” I ask her. “How could you possibly know about me?” Dropping the cord into a box, she swings around to face me. Her feet are planted shoulder-width apart. She’s a little shorter than me. Her eyes are the same shade of blue-green as my own, but manage to be decisive and calculating.

“I’ve always known about you, from Grandma and from Dad. You were always my mother’s favorite. Spoiled and cosseted. She left us and took you with her, and there we are. He still keeps a picture of her on his bedside table, God only knows why. What do you want from me?”

“What? Nothing! I just—”

“This chick bothering you Marl?”

It’s the sound guy. Up close he’s a mighty muscle machine, all testosterone and tattoos and intimidation. He plants himself beside her, feet spread, arms crossed. And then his face changes as he gets a good, long look at me.

“She looks like you, Marley,” he says. “Same eyes, anyway. The rest of her, not so much.”

“She’s my sister. My twin sister, to be precise.”

His tough-guy persona dissolves with these words, and he forgets all about me. “You have a sister?” He sounds like a little kid who has just figured out Santa Claus is a lie.

Marley doesn’t even look at him, her eyes still burning a hole into me. “It’s no big thing, JB. Trust me. Go help the guys pack up. I’ll just be a minute.”

He hesitates, then walks away from us, but he looks back over his shoulder at her, at me, and what I see is more hurt than hostility.

“When I was a little kid, I had an imaginary friend,” I blurt out. “Her name was Marley. We did everything together. Played games. Read books. I used to set a place for her at the table.

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