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Jonas was not meant to be hers.
    Maybe she’d been in need of as much help as Elinor.
    Recalling a line about being able to pick your friends but not your relatives, CJ exhaled her frustration and opened the junk drawer. She bypassed a letter opener, a few old pens, a screwdriver, her cell phone charger. At last, she located the camera. Closing the drawer, her glance fell on the Sunday Times that sat on the counter where she had dropped it.
    As she turned to leave, a front-page photo caught CJ’s eye: A small group of men stood under the canopy at the front door of the New York Lord Winslow.
    She halted.
    That’s odd, she thought. Coincidental.
    Her eyes scanned the caption: the men had stayed at the hotel Thursday night after late meetings at the United Nations. Most prominent in the photo was Joseph Remillard, vice president of the United States.
    Good grief , CJ thought. If Elinor had been at the hotel at the same time, she was lucky her lace panties hadn’t been found by the vice president or the Secret Service or any of Mac’s Washington cronies.
    With a small laugh, CJ turned back toward the living room. Then her footsteps slowed. Her muscles went slack. A puddle of bile pooled in her throat.
    Holy.
    Shit.
    No , she thought. It can’t be .
    Then CJ remembered that Elinor and Mac had had some sort of connection to the VP, which Elinor liked to flaunt with a martini pitcher.
    Oh , CJ thought. Oh, God.
    She went back to the newspaper. Stared at the photo. The New York Lord Winslow. Friday morning.
    Her twin-psyche lurched into high gear.
    “I can’t tell you everything,” Elinor had said. “We’ll just have to leave it at that.”

Nine
    Elinor was the first to leave, which meant CJ didn’t get the chance to ask her in private if she was sleeping with the vice president.
    CJ had shuddered through the rest of the visit, during which Poppy had consumed three Bloody Marys while insisting that she had recovered from the incident with the gardener years ago and didn’t even remember his name.
    Did they?
    Yolanda had been mute. CJ had shaken her head, and Alice had, too, though anyone who had been in the county when it had happened probably knew the name Sam Yates. Sixty-three-year-old World War II veteran. Caught peeping at fifteen-year-old girls. Yuck.
    But rather than dredge up that ancient pile of manure, Alice had stood up and announced it was time to leave. CJ could have kissed her, because she had such an awful headache by then.
    Besides, there had been nothing left to talk about. The others hadn’t been willing to discuss Elinor in front of CJ, because no matter how strained the twin’s relationship sometimes was, they no doubt knew that family ties were still stronger than theirs.
    Finally left with dirty glasses, blessed silence, and Luna, who wanted to be fed, CJ scooped a bowl full of dry food, put out fresh water, grabbed the front section of the Times , and plunked herself at the table. She studied the picture as if it might hold a clue, a telltale remnant of Elinor, lipstick on his collar, panties peeking from his pocket.
    When CJ saw no clue, she stared at the man. Joseph Remillard was on the short side, with football-player-wide shoulders and thinning hair. He had a slight paunch but a charming smile with a cleft in his chin that must have been good for a few female votes. Still, he was not as good looking as Malcolm.
    “So what’s the deal?” CJ asked the man in the photo. “Are you sleeping with my sister?”
    It had been years since she’d seen Elinor naked, but CJ supposed she looked the way CJ did now—butt cheeks that weren’t as taut as when they’d been teens, breasts not as perky, bellies still small but no longer appropriate for an itsy-bitsy bikini.
    Not that they’d ever been allowed to wear one.
    “No daughter of mine is going to pierce her ears (wear bell bottoms or miniskirts, smoke marijuana, get into a car witha boy),” their father had barked on more than one occasion.