Read Online Fourth Grave Beneath My Feet by Darynda Jones - Free Book Online
Authors: Darynda Jones
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entertain Harper’s delusions of doom, much less those of a hired private investigator.”
Mrs. Lowell’s expression would suggest she thought I was nothing more than a charlatan,
out to take Harper’s—aka her—money. Since I was quite used to people believing me
a charlatan, the snub didn’t irritate. But the slight to Harper did. She clearly harbored
no genuine affection for her stepdaughter. She saw her as a nuisance. A burden. Much
like my own stepmother thought of me.
“And,” Mrs. Lowell continued, a thought having occurred to her, “she disappeared for
three years. Three! Off the face of the Earth, as far as we knew. Did she tell you
that?”
While I wanted to say, I would have, too, with a stepmother like you, what I said was, “No, ma’am, she didn’t.”
“See. She is completely unstable. When she finally deigned us with her presence, she
said she had been on the run for her life. Of all the ludicrous…” Mrs. Lowell shifted
in irritation. “And now she hires a private investigator? She has gone over the edge.”
I wrote the word psycho in my notebook, then scribbled it out before she saw. I was letting my own biases
guide me on this case, and that would get me nowhere. Taking a mental step back, I
took a deep breath and tried to see this from Mrs. Lowell’s perspective, as difficult
as that might be. I didn’t often identify with rich bitches, but they were people,
too. Weren’t they?
So Mrs. Lowell marries a man, a rich man, only to find out the man’s daughter hates
her with a passion and despises the relationship her new mother has with her father,
so much so that she makes up wild stories about someone trying to kill her. To get
back at her new mother? Her father for abandoning her?
Nope. I didn’t buy it. Mrs. Lowell was a cold bitch. She most likely married for the
money, not that I could blame her entirely for that—a girl’s gotta do what a girl’s
gotta do—but to dismiss Harper’s fears outright and so callously bordered on neglect,
in my opinion. Jason Lowell was her meal ticket, and his daughter was part of the
deal. I couldn’t help but feel a little ambivalent toward Harper’s father. Where was
he in all this? Why was he not here supporting his daughter? Taking up for her?
I cleared my throat and said, “You mentioned drama. Can you give me an example?”
“Oh, goodness, you name it. One minute someone is leaving dead rabbits on her bed,
and the next minute a party popper made her throw up all over her cousin’s birthday
cake. A party popper. Then there were the nightmares. We used to wake up to her screams
in the middle of the night, or we would find her standing beside our bed at three
in the morning.”
“She sleepwalked?”
“No, she was wide awake. She would say someone was in her room. The first few times,
Jason would jump out of bed and go investigate, but the therapist told us that was
exactly what she wanted. So, we stopped. We started to ignore her and told her to
go back to bed.”
“And would she?”
“Of course not. We’d find her the next morning asleep under the stairs or behind the
sofa. And searching for her would always make us late to this or that. Her antics
were absolutely exhausting.”
“I can only imagine.”
“So, we stopped searching for her altogether. If she wanted to sleep in the broom
closet, so be it. We let her and went about our usual routine. But the doctor insisted
there was nothing wrong with her. She said the more attention we gave Harper, the
more she would act out. So we stopped paying attention.”
A dull ache ricocheted through the cavern of my chest. To know what Harper went through
with no one to support her. No one to believe her. “So you did nothing?”
“As per her doctor’s instructions,” Mrs. Lowell said with a sniff. “But her outbursts
escalated. We went through the nightmares and the panic attacks night after night,
and
Mrs. Lowell’s expression would suggest she thought I was nothing more than a charlatan,
out to take Harper’s—aka her—money. Since I was quite used to people believing me
a charlatan, the snub didn’t irritate. But the slight to Harper did. She clearly harbored
no genuine affection for her stepdaughter. She saw her as a nuisance. A burden. Much
like my own stepmother thought of me.
“And,” Mrs. Lowell continued, a thought having occurred to her, “she disappeared for
three years. Three! Off the face of the Earth, as far as we knew. Did she tell you
that?”
While I wanted to say, I would have, too, with a stepmother like you, what I said was, “No, ma’am, she didn’t.”
“See. She is completely unstable. When she finally deigned us with her presence, she
said she had been on the run for her life. Of all the ludicrous…” Mrs. Lowell shifted
in irritation. “And now she hires a private investigator? She has gone over the edge.”
I wrote the word psycho in my notebook, then scribbled it out before she saw. I was letting my own biases
guide me on this case, and that would get me nowhere. Taking a mental step back, I
took a deep breath and tried to see this from Mrs. Lowell’s perspective, as difficult
as that might be. I didn’t often identify with rich bitches, but they were people,
too. Weren’t they?
So Mrs. Lowell marries a man, a rich man, only to find out the man’s daughter hates
her with a passion and despises the relationship her new mother has with her father,
so much so that she makes up wild stories about someone trying to kill her. To get
back at her new mother? Her father for abandoning her?
Nope. I didn’t buy it. Mrs. Lowell was a cold bitch. She most likely married for the
money, not that I could blame her entirely for that—a girl’s gotta do what a girl’s
gotta do—but to dismiss Harper’s fears outright and so callously bordered on neglect,
in my opinion. Jason Lowell was her meal ticket, and his daughter was part of the
deal. I couldn’t help but feel a little ambivalent toward Harper’s father. Where was
he in all this? Why was he not here supporting his daughter? Taking up for her?
I cleared my throat and said, “You mentioned drama. Can you give me an example?”
“Oh, goodness, you name it. One minute someone is leaving dead rabbits on her bed,
and the next minute a party popper made her throw up all over her cousin’s birthday
cake. A party popper. Then there were the nightmares. We used to wake up to her screams
in the middle of the night, or we would find her standing beside our bed at three
in the morning.”
“She sleepwalked?”
“No, she was wide awake. She would say someone was in her room. The first few times,
Jason would jump out of bed and go investigate, but the therapist told us that was
exactly what she wanted. So, we stopped. We started to ignore her and told her to
go back to bed.”
“And would she?”
“Of course not. We’d find her the next morning asleep under the stairs or behind the
sofa. And searching for her would always make us late to this or that. Her antics
were absolutely exhausting.”
“I can only imagine.”
“So, we stopped searching for her altogether. If she wanted to sleep in the broom
closet, so be it. We let her and went about our usual routine. But the doctor insisted
there was nothing wrong with her. She said the more attention we gave Harper, the
more she would act out. So we stopped paying attention.”
A dull ache ricocheted through the cavern of my chest. To know what Harper went through
with no one to support her. No one to believe her. “So you did nothing?”
“As per her doctor’s instructions,” Mrs. Lowell said with a sniff. “But her outbursts
escalated. We went through the nightmares and the panic attacks night after night,
and
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