The Lost Girls Read Online Free Page A

where her mother grew up. Maurie rarely talked about her childhood, and as an adult she was such a creature of the road that Justine had always pictured her screaming her way into the world in a caravan somewhere, a modern-day gypsy. “Minnesota,” was all she’d say when anyone asked where she was from, somehow making an entire state sound like a bus stop. Now Justine remembered her lying on the porch swing at the lake house as the sun, silty with motes, spilled through the front windows onto golden pine floorboards. Her hair was in a loose ponytail, her face was young, and she laughed with her mouth wide open.
    But Lucy had left the house to Justine.
    The elevator chimed. Phoebe, the office manager, was back from lunch.
    â€œMom, I have to go,” Justine said. “Do you have the lawyer’s number?” She wrote it down and slid the phone back into her purse just as Phoebe opened the office door. “Angela’s sick,” she said to her, without meeting her eyes. She’d never asked to leave early before.
    Phoebe sighed. She didn’t much care for Justine, but she had a fatherless child of her own, so she said she’d cover the desk. Justine walked out without looking back.
    In the apartment she paced, holding the phone in one hand andthe lawyer’s number in the other. Finally she sat at the kitchen table, pulled up her knees, and closed her eyes, as she did during her morning minutes. Only this time she couldn’t hear the silence. Instead she heard the low hum that came from the refrigerator, the fluorescent lights, the clock on the wall.
    The apartment was crappy. The walls were scuffed, the carpet was matted, and the sliding door was held shut with duct tape. Still, it was the only place she’d lived since she stood with one hand in Francis’s and the other on her belly, where the secret clot of cells divided and grew, and told her mother, who’d decided to give Portland a try, that she was staying in San Diego. She was eighteen, Francis nineteen. They’d picked it because it was the closest place to the ocean they could afford. Eight blocks, so not that close, but when she stood on the balcony at night with Melanie in her arms Justine could hear it whispering beyond the low-slung buildings that made up their neighborhood. The night they moved in they drank champagne out of paper cups in the empty living room. The worn nap of the carpet was soft on Justine’s shoulders as they made love, and she’d sworn she’d never leave. That her child would grow up in one place, whole.
    She opened her eyes. Patrick’s coffee cup, half empty, sat on the table.
    She dialed the lawyer’s number. Just to find out what was going on. To see if her mother had her facts straight, which wasn’t a certainty by any means.
    The lawyer’s name was Arthur Williams. He and his uncle before him had handled the Evans sisters’ affairs for decades, he said. Lucy had died three weeks before, in her sleep. It had been sudden but peaceful, and her neighbor had found her the next day. His voice was soft, the consonants that bracketed the broad vowels crisp.
    Justine pressed the handset against her ear. “My mother said you wanted to talk about Lucy’s will?”
    â€œYes. You’re her sole beneficiary.” This meant, he explained, that Lucy had left Justine everything she owned, except the jewelry she’d left for Maurie. The house was old and in need of updating, but it was unencumbered by any liens. Lucy had a checking account and an investment portfolio, too; he would fax her the details.
    â€œHow much is in the accounts?” Justine asked, then wished she could take the question back. It sounded like something her mother would ask.
    The lawyer answered as though it were a perfectly acceptable question. The checking account had about $2,000, and the investments were mostly stock and worth about $150,000. “You might want to come