My Kaylie’s hair curls and kinks, but this ‘Kaylie’ sports loose waves. I wanted her hair when we were little, since it was baby fine and more tame than my wild, brush-breaking mane. The blue-black hair flows down to ‘Kaylie’s’ waist, and it immediately shouts ‘box-dye’ to me. But my mom greets her warmly, and hugs her, and calls her my sister like this woman doesn’t look older than me. Like she’s not several inches taller with a foot more hair.

“What, were you just force fed vitamins?” I joke, but she just laughs in that odd way and doesn’t respond. When we first saw her at the police station, I looked at her and said matter-of-factly that she wasn’t my sister, and since then she hasn’t said a word to me. She talked a bit with my mom that day, simple yes-no’s, but she didn’t come home until now. She asked where my father was, and we had to tell her the police would explain. I wonder what they said.

“Kaylie doesn’t like tomatoes,” I say as she reaches for the mixed salad my mom places down on the table. “Never has.” Her hands hesitate for a moment and my mom shoots me a noted glare.

After a beat, she reaches for the salad and serves herself a generous portion, tomatoes clearly visible. She picks a cherry tomato out with her hand and pops it into her mouth. Juice leaks. She wipes it off with a swipe of her hand. “You learn to eat what you’re served,” she says, finally. Her voice is soft and unsteady, but her eyes bore into me. She pushes the bowl of salad back to the center of the table and I snatch it quickly, piling some up on my plate.

“Good,” I say, pouring some dressing and cheese only what was once a healthy meal. “You’re too old for that childish stuff now, right?” I think she hears the edge of my voice. Other Kaylie, real Kaylie, would’ve stuck her tongue at me, and probably thrown a cherry tomato to boot. This Kaylie stabs her fork into the leafy greens, spearing a large mouthful and bringing it to her mouth. I will not be unnerved by the eye contact. She crunches into the iceberg lettuce loudly, and I know she caught that edge.

My mom pulls herself a chair at the middle of the table. We used to have a table with just four chairs. I hated sitting with just my dad, or just alone. At one point, I moved Kaylie’s chair out of the dining room because I was so damn tired of sitting and staring at her empty space. When my dad left-- when my dad was taken-- we didn’t really talk about it, but my mom started eating at the table with me again. One night she stood and dragged his chair straight to the garage, and then there were just two. Right before she told me Kaylie was back, though, a new table appeared. The old table was darker, a reddish cherry wood. It was sleek and shiny, with upholstered chairs. The new table was a light wood--pine? Sanded down but not varnished. Farmhouse style, I suppose, with uncushioned chairs that hurt your butt after sitting too long.

The new table came with six chairs. My mom tucked them all into the table like a happy, stable family going to sleep--Daddy Chair, Momma Chair, and four little Baby Chairs. Nuclear. For guests, my mom explained. But guests never came. Only Kaylie.

Even though mom just sat down, I push my plate away and stand. “I don’t feel comfortable missing a whole day of school,” I explain half-heartedly. She looks up at me, mid-chew, and then covers her mouth with her hand and nods. She stands when she finally swallows and goes in to hug me.

“Will you call a car?” she asks, and I nod even though I know I won’t. I get that it feels unsafe letting your kid go out after a lot of girls were murdered and all, but you’d think she’d feel a little better now that the killer--her actual husband and my actual father--is behind bars. Besides, if someone could kill me just out in daylight in public, someone could definitely kill me for after getting into their car after an app told me to. Perspective.

My backpack’s sitting at the drop-off, a little table mom put by the door to toss your keys and stuff when you walk in, so we don’t lose things as much. This was the first change to the house, before the table. Mom bought it way before my dad was taken, just a cutesy touch to make the house more welcoming. Maybe 4 years ago. I was in middle school. She saw it at the flea market, and the seller spoke Spanish and carved it himself. Of course my mom’s gotta represent when she sees her people, so she doubled what he asked and brought this little table home. First thing dad said was that only idiots gathered all their keys in one accessible space like that. He didn’t say it to be mean or anything, but he said that you can’t do that since someone could steal your keys and your car keys and wallet and everything all at once. It made sense. And I guess now we know he knew what he was talking about.

He was out and the table was in and I’m not going to lie, it was cute and sturdy and we never lost our keys.

“You don’t have to go to school until you’re ready,” Mom says to Kaylie, whose food has disappeared. “We’ll talk about all that stuff later--when you’re ready.”

The thought of this person--what is she, 19? 20?--showing up to school where my sister left off is laughable. Here’s grown-ass Kaylie, here to restart her first day in 8th grade at Franklin Middle School! Puh-lease.

“I’m meeting the Uber at the end of the block, mom! See you later.”

“Take one home!” she calls back, but I’m out the door so fast I don’t even have to lie.