with Claireâs evasive answers. Her headaches.
Claire brought a hand to her throat. Dear God, what was she to do? How could she continue to keep the truth from her daughter?
The soup bubbled over again, sizzling as it hit the electric coils. Claire jumped at the sound, startled out of her thoughts. She grabbed a pot holder and took the pan from the burner, then turned off the heat.
The soup had made a mess, charring the burner and the pan underneath the coils. Claire turned to the sink for a sponge, wet it, then began cleaning up the mess, her thoughts still on Skye and their future.
She couldnât tell Skye the truth, no matter how much she hated lying. At least not yet. She couldnât, for Skyeâs own safety. When she was older, when she could really understand what kind of people the Monarchs were, what kind of person Griffen was, then she would tell her. Maybe.
Claire began to mop up the worst of the soup. Today, Skye had offered her an easy solution. Why hadnât she taken it? If she had told her she didnât know who her father was, that Skye was the product of a one-night stand, her daughterâs questions would have stopped.
Why hadnât she taken that easy out. Why?
Claire sighed. Because she hated lying. She had told so many of them over the past seven yearsâto Skye, to school principals, to employers, co-workers. The fabrications made her feel sick, deep down inside. They made her feel small and cheap.
Today, something had stopped her from telling Skye that lie. For, even as she had told herself to take the out, she hadnât been able to bring herself to do it. It would have been a big lie, one that would have been irreversible, with far-reaching consequences.
She supposed she wanted to have her cake and eat it, too.
But for now, her inability to commit to either the truth or a lie left her daughter with questions. And fantasies, some of them wild and romantic. She would have to tell her something soon. She would have to make up something safe. Something that would satisfy Skyeâs curiosity forever.
It broke Claireâs heart. She hated being dishonest with her daughter, but she feared the truth more. The truth had a name. It had a face. It had evil intent.
Claire closed her eyes and pictured Adam as she had seen him that last day, flushed with fury, eyes bulging as he tried to squeeze the life from her. She pictured Griffen, remembering the way he had followed Grace around, the way he had stared possessively at his sister; she pictured him holding her baby down while he violated her.
The monstrous dark birds hovered over her.
Claireâs eyes popped open and she realized she was panting, her heart pounding. They were after her; Aunt Dorothy had told her so. Even if she hadnât, Claire would have known by her dreams; her premonitions and visions.
She left the mess on the stove and began to pace. It had been Aunt Dorothy who had told her Adam was alive. Three months after she had run away with Grace, her premonitions had started. So, she had called Aunt Dot. Claire had told her nothing but that they were all rightânot the names they had taken nor the direction they had gone. Dorothy had begged her to come back. She had told Claire of the depth of Pierce and Adamâs fury and of their quest to find Grace. But she hadnât mentioned the missing gems. Not then or in any of their conversations since.
Claire had found that strange. She still did.
The gems. Many times she and Skye had been desperate for money, but she had been afraid to try to sell the stones. She had no idea how or where such a transaction would take place, but more, she had feared that Pierce would be able to trace her through their sale.
Claire crossed to the dinette, to the storage compartments located under the bench seats. She lifted out a carton of cookware, then dug carefully through it until she found what she had hidden there. A six-inch-square, antique cherrywood
Claire brought a hand to her throat. Dear God, what was she to do? How could she continue to keep the truth from her daughter?
The soup bubbled over again, sizzling as it hit the electric coils. Claire jumped at the sound, startled out of her thoughts. She grabbed a pot holder and took the pan from the burner, then turned off the heat.
The soup had made a mess, charring the burner and the pan underneath the coils. Claire turned to the sink for a sponge, wet it, then began cleaning up the mess, her thoughts still on Skye and their future.
She couldnât tell Skye the truth, no matter how much she hated lying. At least not yet. She couldnât, for Skyeâs own safety. When she was older, when she could really understand what kind of people the Monarchs were, what kind of person Griffen was, then she would tell her. Maybe.
Claire began to mop up the worst of the soup. Today, Skye had offered her an easy solution. Why hadnât she taken it? If she had told her she didnât know who her father was, that Skye was the product of a one-night stand, her daughterâs questions would have stopped.
Why hadnât she taken that easy out. Why?
Claire sighed. Because she hated lying. She had told so many of them over the past seven yearsâto Skye, to school principals, to employers, co-workers. The fabrications made her feel sick, deep down inside. They made her feel small and cheap.
Today, something had stopped her from telling Skye that lie. For, even as she had told herself to take the out, she hadnât been able to bring herself to do it. It would have been a big lie, one that would have been irreversible, with far-reaching consequences.
She supposed she wanted to have her cake and eat it, too.
But for now, her inability to commit to either the truth or a lie left her daughter with questions. And fantasies, some of them wild and romantic. She would have to tell her something soon. She would have to make up something safe. Something that would satisfy Skyeâs curiosity forever.
It broke Claireâs heart. She hated being dishonest with her daughter, but she feared the truth more. The truth had a name. It had a face. It had evil intent.
Claire closed her eyes and pictured Adam as she had seen him that last day, flushed with fury, eyes bulging as he tried to squeeze the life from her. She pictured Griffen, remembering the way he had followed Grace around, the way he had stared possessively at his sister; she pictured him holding her baby down while he violated her.
The monstrous dark birds hovered over her.
Claireâs eyes popped open and she realized she was panting, her heart pounding. They were after her; Aunt Dorothy had told her so. Even if she hadnât, Claire would have known by her dreams; her premonitions and visions.
She left the mess on the stove and began to pace. It had been Aunt Dorothy who had told her Adam was alive. Three months after she had run away with Grace, her premonitions had started. So, she had called Aunt Dot. Claire had told her nothing but that they were all rightânot the names they had taken nor the direction they had gone. Dorothy had begged her to come back. She had told Claire of the depth of Pierce and Adamâs fury and of their quest to find Grace. But she hadnât mentioned the missing gems. Not then or in any of their conversations since.
Claire had found that strange. She still did.
The gems. Many times she and Skye had been desperate for money, but she had been afraid to try to sell the stones. She had no idea how or where such a transaction would take place, but more, she had feared that Pierce would be able to trace her through their sale.
Claire crossed to the dinette, to the storage compartments located under the bench seats. She lifted out a carton of cookware, then dug carefully through it until she found what she had hidden there. A six-inch-square, antique cherrywood
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