Closer Than Blood by Gregg Olsen Read Free Book Online Page A

sought. Everything from how many mint sprigs and limes should be muddled in a mojito to the best fish tacos in Los Cabos.
    She hated the whole lot of what she was doing, but reporters like her had been shoved out the door in an age that no longer seemed to value context, nuance, and depth.
    Everything was free, and fast. Even the news.
    Her cell phone rang and her eyes darted to the tiny screen, but she did not recognize the number. It was too early for a source to phone. Neither was it the number for one of the other reporters who’d regularly called to commiserate about their bleak futures in a post-newspaper world. A moment later, the caller tried a second time.
    It must be urgent , she thought. She clapped the phone to her ear.
    â€œHello?”
    â€œLainie?”
    The voice was a whisper.
    â€œYes, this is Lainie O’Neal,” she said.
    A second of silence and the sound of a deep breath.
    â€œLainie, it’s me. Your sister.”
    Lainie no longer needed the early morning jolt of a mud-thick French roast coffee from Starbucks. The words were a cattle prod at her heart.
    â€œTori?”
    Silence.
    â€œTori? Is that you?”
    Another hesitation on the line. “I’m in the hospital. I’ve been hurt. I need you.”
    â€œWhere?”
    â€œTacoma. I’ve been shot.”
    â€œOh, wow, but no, where are you?”
    â€œSt. Joe’s.”
    Lainie felt her adrenaline surge, slowly, then a tidal wave. She needed more information. She had no idea in which city her sister resided. They were twins, but they hadn’t spoken in years. Just how many, Lainie didn’t know. She refused to count the number anymore. It hurt too much.
    â€œWhat happened?”
    â€œAn intruder last night. Late. I was shot. My husband was killed.”
    Husband? Lainie had no idea that Tori had married again.
    â€œWill you come? I need your help.”
    Again, an awkward silence, the kind that invites the person waiting to hear to press the phone tighter to her ear.
    â€œThey’re whispering about me . . . I think they think I did this to myself,” Tori said. “To him.”
    â€œI’ll be there,” Lainie said. “Right away.”
    â€œNo. Not now. Wait a day or two. I’ll be okay in the hospital. I’ll let you know when to come.”
    â€œAre you sure? I can come visit you now.”
    â€œNo. Good-bye.”
    Lainie hung up and looked across the room at a photograph of two little girls posing in leotards on a balance beam. Their hair was blond, eyes blue. Everything about them was the same, but in reverse. Like looking into a mirror. Lainie’s hair parted naturally on the left side of her face, Tori’s on the right. Lainie’s upper left lip had a mole. Tori had had hers—on the right side—removed when she was fourteen. Their mother dressed them alike until fourth grade, when both girls rightly rebelled. No one could tell them apart. They were so close. So seemingly identical.
    Yet they were not the same.
    Not by a mile.
    She wondered about her sister living in Tacoma, too. An encounter with an old classmate the previous fall came to mind.

    Lainie O’Neal felt a tap on her shoulder as she stood in line at a Queen Anne drycleaner. Her mind was on her job-hunting suit and the stuffed-mushroom stain from September’s “networking” meeting for displaced media professionals.
    She turned around to a somewhat familiar face.
    â€œLainie, it’s me. Deirdre Jericho, now Landers, from South Kitsap.”
    Lainie paused as the synapses fired and the memory returned. Fourteen years ago, Dee Dee was a sullen girl with blue streaks in her brunette hair and a penchant for scoop-neck tops that dropped a little low for South Kitsap dress codes.
    Except for the disappearance of those blue streaks, she hadn’t changed all that much.
    â€œOh, yes, Dee Dee! How are you?”
    â€œBetter than last time I saw you,” she