Mori shooed her away, hissing, “You go now!”
Stevie thanked the old man once more and set off toward the house, dressed in a navy tracksuit, Nike running shoes, and a black baseball cap embroidered with a gold gramophone, a souvenir from last year’s Grammy Awards. She crouched low, using the dense shrubbery as cover. The sun was coming up over the distant hills, its pale light glistening on the still damp grass, where shadows stretched like mile markers pointing the way. The only sound was the chittering of birds in the branches overhead.
As she wriggled through hedges and around rosebushes that snagged her clothing, Stevie found herself wondering again what had driven Grant Tobin into seclusion. Was it guilt over the Lauren Rose affair, or being hounded by the press, or both? Whatever the reason, she was determined to find out. It was either that or spend the rest of her life wondering if the man who’d given her life was a would-be killer.
The thought sent a cool trickle down her spine. For all she knew, Grant could be holed up in there with an arsenal of weapons, like those crazy fanatics on Ruby Ridge. What was to stop him from taking a shot at her ?
She spun it out a little further, picturing herself laid out in her coffin. Would Ryan cry at her funeral? Would he be sorry for ignoring her attempts to get in touch with him? Her throat tightened, and she squinted against the light that had become suddenly too bright.
When she was close enough to the house, she circled it once to get the general layout before stepping onto the shaded walkway that led around in back. The air was still cool, but she was sweating as if it were high noon. Stevie Light, known for having nerves of steel, felt more like a scared kid right now than an ace reporter. As a child she’d dreamed of this reunion and had imagined her father clasping her in his arms, weeping with joy. But what if he turned out to be an uncaring prick? Or worse, a monster.
She stepped through a stone archway draped in honeysuckle and onto a patio sheltered by walls on all four sides, in the center of which glimmered a pool undisturbed by so much as a ripple. It was so perfect, she thought, it might have been a back-lot set for one of those suspense thrillers that lull you down the garden path before scaring the bejesus out of you.
A pair of French doors led into the house, and she noticed that one of them stood open a crack. Glancing around first to make sure she wasn’t being observed, she stepped through it into a cool, darkened room. At one end stood a grand piano, gleaming dully in the bands of light that filtered in through the closed shutters. On the wall between sets of bookshelves hung a collection of framed gold and platinum records from the days when Astral Plane had ruled supreme along with Joplin and Hendrix, the Stones and the Grateful Dead.
From down the hall drifted the faint sound of voices—a man and a woman conversing in Spanish. Stevie’s heart began to hammer in earnest. But she didn’t dare turn back. Who knew when she’d get another opportunity to meet her dad? Cautiously, she crept out into the dimly lit hallway, the soles of her Nikes squeaking faintly against the polished hardwood floor as she made her way toward the circular staircase that led to the floors above. Grant would most likely still be in bed at this hour. That is, unless she’d miscalculated and, contrary to the rumor that he never set foot off this estate, he wasn’t home.
After poking her head into several rooms that were unoccupied any time in her recent memory, she found herself peering into a darkened bedroom in which she could make out an unmade bed and clothes strewn about. She was venturing inside to explore it further when a soft moaning sound caused her to freeze in her tracks. That was when she noticed the figure seated crosslegged on the carpet at the foot of the bed: a bony castaway of a man with scraggly gray hair to his shoulders, dressed only in a
Stevie thanked the old man once more and set off toward the house, dressed in a navy tracksuit, Nike running shoes, and a black baseball cap embroidered with a gold gramophone, a souvenir from last year’s Grammy Awards. She crouched low, using the dense shrubbery as cover. The sun was coming up over the distant hills, its pale light glistening on the still damp grass, where shadows stretched like mile markers pointing the way. The only sound was the chittering of birds in the branches overhead.
As she wriggled through hedges and around rosebushes that snagged her clothing, Stevie found herself wondering again what had driven Grant Tobin into seclusion. Was it guilt over the Lauren Rose affair, or being hounded by the press, or both? Whatever the reason, she was determined to find out. It was either that or spend the rest of her life wondering if the man who’d given her life was a would-be killer.
The thought sent a cool trickle down her spine. For all she knew, Grant could be holed up in there with an arsenal of weapons, like those crazy fanatics on Ruby Ridge. What was to stop him from taking a shot at her ?
She spun it out a little further, picturing herself laid out in her coffin. Would Ryan cry at her funeral? Would he be sorry for ignoring her attempts to get in touch with him? Her throat tightened, and she squinted against the light that had become suddenly too bright.
When she was close enough to the house, she circled it once to get the general layout before stepping onto the shaded walkway that led around in back. The air was still cool, but she was sweating as if it were high noon. Stevie Light, known for having nerves of steel, felt more like a scared kid right now than an ace reporter. As a child she’d dreamed of this reunion and had imagined her father clasping her in his arms, weeping with joy. But what if he turned out to be an uncaring prick? Or worse, a monster.
She stepped through a stone archway draped in honeysuckle and onto a patio sheltered by walls on all four sides, in the center of which glimmered a pool undisturbed by so much as a ripple. It was so perfect, she thought, it might have been a back-lot set for one of those suspense thrillers that lull you down the garden path before scaring the bejesus out of you.
A pair of French doors led into the house, and she noticed that one of them stood open a crack. Glancing around first to make sure she wasn’t being observed, she stepped through it into a cool, darkened room. At one end stood a grand piano, gleaming dully in the bands of light that filtered in through the closed shutters. On the wall between sets of bookshelves hung a collection of framed gold and platinum records from the days when Astral Plane had ruled supreme along with Joplin and Hendrix, the Stones and the Grateful Dead.
From down the hall drifted the faint sound of voices—a man and a woman conversing in Spanish. Stevie’s heart began to hammer in earnest. But she didn’t dare turn back. Who knew when she’d get another opportunity to meet her dad? Cautiously, she crept out into the dimly lit hallway, the soles of her Nikes squeaking faintly against the polished hardwood floor as she made her way toward the circular staircase that led to the floors above. Grant would most likely still be in bed at this hour. That is, unless she’d miscalculated and, contrary to the rumor that he never set foot off this estate, he wasn’t home.
After poking her head into several rooms that were unoccupied any time in her recent memory, she found herself peering into a darkened bedroom in which she could make out an unmade bed and clothes strewn about. She was venturing inside to explore it further when a soft moaning sound caused her to freeze in her tracks. That was when she noticed the figure seated crosslegged on the carpet at the foot of the bed: a bony castaway of a man with scraggly gray hair to his shoulders, dressed only in a
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