Read Online Killer by Jonathan Kellerman - Free Book Online Page B

Rambla and then she’d always tell me when I called that Rambla was doing great, I deserved a vacation, just go have a good time—it was like she approved of me. For the first time in my life.”
    “You were encouraged.”
    “I’m not saying that excuses it. Staying away from my baby-love so long. And yeah, I wasn’t being totally honest with you, Rambla didn’t jump into my arms, at first she looked scared and my heart just dropped to my feet, like
Girl, you really screwed up, this time. One thing in your life that you love and now you screwed it up
. More like she accepted me but she was quiet. But it didn’t take long and she was like melting against me just like she’s doing now.”
    Her eyes lowered to her shoulder. “Touching my braid just like she’s doing now. It’s like the flame needed to be turned on but once it was, it just kept burning.”
    She kissed a plump cheek. “I just love you, I love love love you.”
    Rambla stirred. Opened her eyes. Smiled lazily at her mother.
    Spotting me, she gripped Ree tighter. Began whimpering.
    Appropriate attachment. Expected separation anxiety for the age
.
    Ree said, “I usually give her a snack when she wakes up.”
    “Sounds like a good idea.”
    I sat there and watched Rambla eat, keeping my distance, careful not to intrude. Ree broke the food up into tiny pieces while delivering an ongoing commentary. (“Organic, Dr. Delaware, no preservatives.”) Eventually, Rambla permitted herself several glances in my direction.
    I smiled.
    The fourth time she smiled back. I got up, crouched low within inches of her face.
    She yelped and gripped her mother.
    I retreated.
    Ree Sykes said, “It’s okay, baby—I’m sorry, Dr. Delaware, she must be still half asleep.”
    Appropriate, appropriate, appropriate
.
    The great yeah-sayer.
    Rambla quieted but avoided eye contact.
    Five minutes later, she allowed me to show her the picture I’d drawn. Smiling face, bright colors.
    She beamed. Giggled. Snatched the paper and crumpled it and threw it to the floor and thought that was just hilarious.
    For the next ten minutes, I sat next to her high chair and we giggled together.
    When I got up, she waved.
    I blew a kiss. She imitated.
    I said, “Bye bye.”
    “Bah bah.” Plump hand to mouth, flamboyant wave.
    I headed toward the front room.
    “Now what?” said Ree.
    “Nothing,” I said, “I’ve seen enough.”
    I gave her hand a squeeze and left.
    That night I wrote my report. Shortest draft I’ve ever sent a judge.
    The first sentence read, “This well-nourished, well-functioning sixteen-month-old female child is the object of a guardianship dispute between her birth mother and her maternal aunt.”
    The final sentence read: “There appears to be no reason, based on either psychological factors or legal standards, to alter the child’s status. A strong recommendation is made to reject Dr. Constance Sykes’s request.”
    A few paragraphs in between. Nothing that required a Ph.D., but education’s what they pay me for.
    A week after I sent my findings to Nancy Maestro, I returned home after a run and found Connie Sykes out on my front terrace, sitting in one of the wicker chairs Robin and I leave there when we want to catch sunrise over the trees.
    Warm morning; I was sweaty, breathing hard, wearing a sleeveless tee and shorts.
    She said, “Nice muscles, Doctor.”
    “What can I do for you, Connie?”
    “Obviously, I’m pretty crushed.”
    “I’m sorry—”
    “I understand,” she said, in a softer voice than I’d ever heard. But still, that strange, digital spacing. As if every word needed to be measured prior to delivery. “I knew at the outset that it was a long shot. May I come in?”
    I hesitated.
    “Just for a little support? You are a psychologist.”
    I glanced at my watch.
    “I won’t take up much of your time. I just need to … integrate. To talk about my own plans. Maybe adopting a child of my own?”
    “Was that something you’d