Closely Akin to Murder Read Free Page A

said. “To return to the story, the day we arrived, Oliver Pickett’s daughter came to our bungalow and introduced herself. Fran was a year younger than I, but much more sophisticated. She had streaky blonde hair, large hazel eyes, and the body of a model. My parents urged me to accept her invitation to go to the beach. From that moment until—until the tragedy, she and I whizzed around Acapulco in her father’s limousine, shopping and hanging out at the beach clubs. At night while the adults were partying in hotel bars and private homes, we’d have Jorge drive us to seedy bars in the
Sona Roja
, where we drank margaritas until we threw up in front of the pimps and prostitutes.”
    â€œYour parents allowed this?”
    â€œMy parents did whatever Oliver said. If he’d told them to dive off the cliff at La Quebrada, they would have put on their bathing suits and started climbing. Oliver had divorced Fran’s mother years earlier, and was accompanied by his so-called secretary, an aspiring actress named Debbie D’Avril. She was quite the party animal, as was Chad Warmeyer, Oliver’s assistant. The five of them would start celebrating at sunset and stagger back to Las Floritas at sunrise to sleep until noon. Fran and I had virtually no supervision. Occasionally, we were deprived of the limousine when Chad was sent out to photograph a house or beach, but then we took taxis.”
    I grimaced as I imagined Caron and Inez in a similar situation. “You mentioned a tragedy,” I murmured.
    â€œOn New Year’s Eve, the adults went to a party. A few days earlier, Fran had decided that we should have our own party in her bungalow. She’d invited a dozen kids from the beach, and by midnight, there were three times that many. I drank too much and smoked pot, and eventually passed out in the master bedroom. When I awoke, everybody was gone. My hand and shirt were smeared with blood, and I was holding a knife. Oliver Pickett’s body was on the balcony. Two days later I was arrested. Shortly after that, my parents rented a car to drive to Mexico City to get help at the American embassy. I was informed the next day that they’d been in a fatal car accident. A matron smuggled in a newspaper for me; I couldn’t read Spanish, but I could tell that I was presumed to have been in the car with them.”
    I was too shocked to attempt a response for a long while. The story seemed ludicrous, more suitable for low-budget movies and exploitative true crime novels. My cousin the killer? “I don’t know what to say,” I said inanely.
    â€œFew people would. I was convicted and sentenced to twelve years in prison. After serving eight, I was released, ordered to leave the country, and given enough money to take a bus to the border. I was too ashamed to make contact with any of the family, so I stayed in San Diego and worked as a waitress and maid until I’d completed my GED and put myself through college. My grades were good enough to get me into medical school. Between moonlighting and student loans, I earned a degree, did further graduate work, and went into research.”
    â€œBut how could you allow us to believe you were dead? Didn’t you feel any obligation to the people who cared about you? Couldn’t you have written fromprison, or at least after you were released and were back in the country?”
    â€œI killed a man, Claire. I stabbed him in the throat, then tried to escape retribution by throwing his body off a cliff in hopes the police would believe he’d fallen to his death and cut his throat on a sharp rock. I spent eight years wishing I’d died with my parents. When I got out, I wanted nothing more than a new identity and a fresh start. A judge heard me out and allowed me to adopt my mother’s maiden name.”
    I licked my lips. “Why did you kill him?”
    â€œHe came back unexpectedly—I think he’d fallen into