at Isla on the sofa. She was watching me instead of the movie.
“Yes,” I said.
But I did not call first.
I organized.
I printed the camera stills at the copy shop downstairs while Isla sat beside me coloring quietly. I downloaded the access logs from the building app. I saved the bank transfer records, the transaction times, the text messages, the screenshot of the social media post, and the confirmation email from a travel company that Celeste had accidentally left open on my old laptop the last time she used it.
That was Celeste’s weakness.
She believed consequences were something other people invented after she was already gone.
She never cleaned up properly.
When Isla fell asleep that night, I called Nina to come sit in the apartment. Then I drove to the precinct through streets silvered by rain.
Detective Jonah Price met me in a small interview room with beige walls and a clock that ticked too loudly.
He was younger than I expected, maybe early forties, with tired eyes and a voice that did not waste words.
I laid everything on the table.
He looked at the camera stills first.
“That’s your sister?”
“Yes.”
“She had permission to enter?”
“She had an emergency code. This wasn’t an emergency.”
He nodded and reviewed the footage. When Celeste pulled the pouch from the closet, his jaw tightened slightly.
“What was inside?”
I listed it. Cash. Cashier’s check. Medical documents. Copies of identification. A hospital payment sheet.
He wrote everything down.
Then he looked at the bank records.
“How did she access the account?”
“I don’t know.”
“Was she authorized?”
“No.”
“Did anyone else know the account details?”
My answer caught in my throat.
“My mother helped me open it. Years ago.”
His pen paused, then continued.
By midnight, Detective Price had contacted the credit union’s fraud department, confirmed the external transfer destination, and requested that Celeste’s return flight be flagged for police attention. She had booked a round trip. Of course she had. Celeste always believed she could return after the damage and make everyone adjust around her.
I drove home under a black sky and found Nina asleep upright in the armchair, one hand still resting on a baseball bat she had borrowed from the hall closet.
“You okay?” she mumbled.
“No.”
“Good. That means you’re sane.”
I almost laughed. Instead, I went into Isla’s room.
She was asleep under her moon-patterned blanket, cheeks flushed, hair spread across the pillow. Beside her bed was the hospital folder with her star drawings on the edge.
I sat beside her until dawn.
At 6:18 a.m., Detective Price called.
“Her flight is on schedule,” he said. “We’ll meet her before baggage claim.”
“Does she know?”
“No.”
My mother called three minutes later.
I knew before I answered that Celeste had contacted her. My mother never called early unless there was a crisis involving Celeste, which meant there was always a crisis involving Celeste.
“Mara,” she said, crying. “Please tell me you didn’t involve the police.”
I stared at the hallway closet, still open because I had not been able to close it.
“She stole from Isla.”
“She made a terrible mistake.”
“She committed a crime.”
“She panicked. You know how she gets when she feels cornered.”
That sentence again.
Celeste
