When Dorothy sat me down to tell me that Horace had already been married and even a been father before he’d moved to town, I told my first ever bald-faced lie. “I knew that. He already told me. I don’t care,” I continued, knowing Dorothy was sussing a lie. “It explains that pained look I’ve noticed in his eyes.”
“Why didn’t you tell me then?” She tilted her head to the left, a sure sign that she couldn’t tell if I were telling the truth or not.
I pretended to care about the condition of my fingernails so I wouldn’t have to meet her eyes. “Didn’t think about it,” I said.
“But did he tell you how he became a widower?”
I looked at her—there was a wicked look on my sister’s face—almost as if she were taking pleasure in hurting me. “Not exactly,” I said, aware that it was quite likely that I wouldn’t want to hear whatever else she was burning to tell me.
Dorothy’s pointed chin tilted up, a sign I’d learned long ago that meant she knew she had won. I pressed my lips tightly together to keep them from trembling.
“They drowned,” she said.