“It sounds bogus to me.”

“It wasn’t his imagination. There was something buried there.”

“Oh, please,” she said. “Michael’s a drama queen. He can’t seem to help himself. Sometimes I think he’s delusional or spaced out on drugs. He’s incapable of telling the truth. It’s not in his nature. He can’t tell the difference between what’s really true and what he imagines.”

That caught my attention. In my brief relationship with him, I could cite my experience in support of her claim. He was evasive, omitting critical information from his account of himself. When I called him on it, he’d corrected himself and filled in the blanks. If I hadn’t, I would have ended up with an erroneous impression. I felt protective nonetheless. I didn’t want to sit and say nothing while his sister trashed him. “I don’t think he fabricated the story. He was six. Maybe he didn’t understand what he’d witnessed, but that doesn’t mean he lied.”

“That’s exactly my point. He takes a simple moment and he embellishes, invents, and exaggerates. Next thing you know, there’s an elaborate conspiracy afoot. He sees two men digging a hole and suddenly it’s about Mary Claire’s murder and her being buried in that grave.”

“You’re implying that he did this deliberately, which I find hard to believe.”

“I’m not telling you this stuff just to hear myself talk. This is how his mind works. You can’t believe a word he says.”

“This comes a little late from my perspective.”

“Don’t kid yourself. You haven’t seen the last of him. It’s never over with him. Have you met any of his friends?”

The shift in subject caught me off guard. “One. A girl named Madaline. He told me she was addicted to heroin . . .”

“And now she’s clean, but not sober,” Diana interjected, derisively. “Did he mention she’s a lush? Twenty-two years old and she’s on probation for public drunkenness. Of course, he’s the one who ferries her to AA meetings. He collects losers like her, anyone in worse shape than he is, if you can imagine such a thing. Sutton’s wounded birds. He gets into rescue mode so he can feel good about himself. There’s usually two or three of them hanging around at any given time. They move in. They borrow money. They take his car without permission and wind up in fender-benders that he ends up paying for out of pocket. Some land in jail, while loudly protesting their innocence. He bails them out and brings them home again because they have nowhere else to go. That’s when they steal his credit cards and go on a spending jag.”

“Poor judgment.”

“Very poor. I can’t tell you the money he’s gone through. What scares me is thinking about what’ll happen when he’s emptied all his bank accounts. He’s never really worked. He’s held jobs, but none for long. The money he inherited is the only thing keeping him afloat. Once that’s gone, he’ll end up on my doorstep, begging for help. What’s my choice then? I take him in or he ends up living on the street.”

“You’re not obligated.”

“That’s what my brothers tell me.”

“Why do it then?”

“I guess I feel guilty because he’s such a mess and the rest of us are okay . . .”

As she went on, I could hear my own story echoed in hers. My grievances, my determination to hang on to everything that seemed unfeeling or unfair. Her complaints were legitimate, but so what? The recital of her woes only made matters worse, keeping the pain alive when it should have been laid to rest.

Diana must have realized I’d clocked out. “Why are you looking at me that way?”

“I have family issues of my own and they sound just like yours. Different scenario, but the angst is the same. Personally, I’m getting tired of hearing myself whine. And if I’m tired, what about the people around me who have to put up with my shit?”

“It’s not the same.”

“Sure it is. What’s the point in going over and over it? I’ll bet you’ve told the same story a hundred times. Why don’t you give it a rest?”

“If I give it up, Michael wins. Bad behavior triumphs over good yet again. Well, I’m sick of it. After the havoc he’s wreaked, why should I let him off the hook?”

I could feel myself getting irritated. I understood where she was coming from, but the events she’d described were years in the past. Waltzing into my office to unload it all on me was out of line. She’d turned venom into a lifestyle and it wasn’t attractive. On first meeting, I’d been put off by her aggressiveness. Now I was put off by her attempt to rope me into Sutton bashing.