Read Online Tell Me by Lisa Jackson - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Lisa Jackson
Tags: Suspense
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walked up the stairs again and sorted through the four volumes to find the school year she was looking for—the last year of Amity O’Henry’s life. Almost gingerly, she pulled the volume from its resting place to carry it downstairs.
Once she’d changed into an oversized nightshirt, she plumped up the pillows on her bed and settled in. Mikado curled up beside her, and Jennings found a spot near the footboard. Carefully, she turned the pages, spying pictures of classmates as they’d been twenty years earlier, wearing eager, fresh faces, once-cool fashions, and hairstyles that were no longer in vogue. She found Amity O’Henry’s junior-year picture, and Nikki’s throat tightened as she studied it.
As beautiful as her mother, Amity looked into the camera. Her dark hair fell past her shoulders, her big eyes a cool blue and the smile that touched the corners of her lips sensual. Not yet seventeen, she appeared to be a grown woman with almost innocent eyes. There had been something about Amity that had caused heads to turn and boys to fantasize.
And one had done more than that, obviously.
Amity had dated a lot of boys, her relationships as volatile and short-lived as a firecracker on a rainy Fourth of July, sputtering out quickly.
So who had gotten her pregnant? Flipping through the pages of the yearbook, Nikki saw the faces of the boys who had openly dated Amity. Brad Holbrook, the baseball jock, and Steve Manning, a do-nothing stoner who was Hollywood handsome, were the two Nikki remembered, but that was because Amity tended to date older guys, in their twenties—“men,” she’d called them, though the ones Nikki had met hardly seemed like adults. Nikki, a year and a half younger, had been given strict curfews, and boys who dared to take her out learned very quickly that Judge Ronald Gillette expected his daughter to be brought home and walked to the door. She remembered one particularly excruciating experience. Tate Wheeler had asked her out, and upon his arrival at the house, they’d both been summoned into her father’s den.
“You will have her home by midnight,” he’d said, eyeing Tate as if he might be a deadly rattler ready to strike.
Standing in front of the desk where the judge had been seated, both Tate and Nikki had squirmed. Leather-bound books filled several tall cases that flanked the windows, while family photos, law degrees, awards, and antique weapons vied for the remaining wall space. Half-glasses at rest on his nose, the judge had selected a cigar from his humidor but hadn’t bothered to light it, just fingered the rolled tobacco, as he repeated, “Midnight.”
“Yes. Of course, sir,” Tate had responded, and Nikki had withered inside. Why did her father have to be so old-school?
“Good.”
Tate, in an effort not to shrink before the man, had said, “Nice guns,” and nodded toward a wall of pistols and rifles mounted above a mahogany credenza.
“Thank you. I’ve collected arms all my life, and they each have a unique history.” Pointing with his cigar at a long-barreled pistol, he’d said, “I have it on authority that this pistol was used in the War of Northern Aggression. I believe it killed at least one Yankee soldier, though of course there could have been more.” His smile was cold as ice, and the look he sent Tate was usually reserved for prosecutors and defense attorneys who irritated the hell out of him in the hallowed walls of his courtroom. Getting to his feet, he added, “You know, son, this pistol is worth a fortune, I suppose, but the most important thing about it is that it still works. I took it out just last week. Hit a target dead on from twenty paces. The way I see it, a collection of firearms isn’t worth a damn if the guns don’t work.”
She’d shot her father a “don’t do this” look, which, if he caught, he’d ignored. “You kids run along. Have a good time.” His fleshy fingers moved in a quick “be off with you” motion as he sat in
Once she’d changed into an oversized nightshirt, she plumped up the pillows on her bed and settled in. Mikado curled up beside her, and Jennings found a spot near the footboard. Carefully, she turned the pages, spying pictures of classmates as they’d been twenty years earlier, wearing eager, fresh faces, once-cool fashions, and hairstyles that were no longer in vogue. She found Amity O’Henry’s junior-year picture, and Nikki’s throat tightened as she studied it.
As beautiful as her mother, Amity looked into the camera. Her dark hair fell past her shoulders, her big eyes a cool blue and the smile that touched the corners of her lips sensual. Not yet seventeen, she appeared to be a grown woman with almost innocent eyes. There had been something about Amity that had caused heads to turn and boys to fantasize.
And one had done more than that, obviously.
Amity had dated a lot of boys, her relationships as volatile and short-lived as a firecracker on a rainy Fourth of July, sputtering out quickly.
So who had gotten her pregnant? Flipping through the pages of the yearbook, Nikki saw the faces of the boys who had openly dated Amity. Brad Holbrook, the baseball jock, and Steve Manning, a do-nothing stoner who was Hollywood handsome, were the two Nikki remembered, but that was because Amity tended to date older guys, in their twenties—“men,” she’d called them, though the ones Nikki had met hardly seemed like adults. Nikki, a year and a half younger, had been given strict curfews, and boys who dared to take her out learned very quickly that Judge Ronald Gillette expected his daughter to be brought home and walked to the door. She remembered one particularly excruciating experience. Tate Wheeler had asked her out, and upon his arrival at the house, they’d both been summoned into her father’s den.
“You will have her home by midnight,” he’d said, eyeing Tate as if he might be a deadly rattler ready to strike.
Standing in front of the desk where the judge had been seated, both Tate and Nikki had squirmed. Leather-bound books filled several tall cases that flanked the windows, while family photos, law degrees, awards, and antique weapons vied for the remaining wall space. Half-glasses at rest on his nose, the judge had selected a cigar from his humidor but hadn’t bothered to light it, just fingered the rolled tobacco, as he repeated, “Midnight.”
“Yes. Of course, sir,” Tate had responded, and Nikki had withered inside. Why did her father have to be so old-school?
“Good.”
Tate, in an effort not to shrink before the man, had said, “Nice guns,” and nodded toward a wall of pistols and rifles mounted above a mahogany credenza.
“Thank you. I’ve collected arms all my life, and they each have a unique history.” Pointing with his cigar at a long-barreled pistol, he’d said, “I have it on authority that this pistol was used in the War of Northern Aggression. I believe it killed at least one Yankee soldier, though of course there could have been more.” His smile was cold as ice, and the look he sent Tate was usually reserved for prosecutors and defense attorneys who irritated the hell out of him in the hallowed walls of his courtroom. Getting to his feet, he added, “You know, son, this pistol is worth a fortune, I suppose, but the most important thing about it is that it still works. I took it out just last week. Hit a target dead on from twenty paces. The way I see it, a collection of firearms isn’t worth a damn if the guns don’t work.”
She’d shot her father a “don’t do this” look, which, if he caught, he’d ignored. “You kids run along. Have a good time.” His fleshy fingers moved in a quick “be off with you” motion as he sat in
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