Read Online The Murderer's Daughter by Jonathan Kellerman - Free Book Online
Authors: Jonathan Kellerman
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armpits. Trickled down her rib cage. Pores opened, she felt herself bathed in perspiration.
She
never
sweated.
And now her chest was tight and breathing had become a challenge. As if a huge animal had settled on her diaphragm.
Andrew Toner stared. Grace stared. Two helpless…offenders?
No, no, no, she was stronger than that, there was always a solution.
None came to her.
Stupid girl.
redredredredred.
Grace remained standing in the doorway. Andrew Toner remained seated.
Both of them encased in an aspic of shame.
Again, he was the first to find his voice. Dry-croaking: “My God.”
Grace thought:
If there is a God, He’s laughing His deified head off.
Her brilliant response: “Well…”
Why had she
said
that?
What
could
she say?
Stupid girl.
No no no I’m smart.
And I haven’t done anything
willfully
wrong.
Miles from actually believing that, she dredged up enough rationalization to look straight in the pretty blue eyes of Andrew from San Antonio, Texas. A man who’d traveled to see her because she had something valuable to say about…wearing the same tweed sport coat and rumpled khakis as last night.
Different shirt.
So his hygiene is decent. Who gives a fuck!
Grace forced air into cement lungs. Thought about how to phrase her apology.
Yet
again,
he beat her to it. “I’m so sorry.”
What did
he
have to apologize for?
Grace said, “You’d better come in.”
He didn’t budge.
“Really,” said Grace. “This isn’t the end of the world. We need to work it out.”
With nothing more than hope and bluster to propel her, she headed back toward the therapy room.
Hearing footsteps behind her.
There he was. Following instructions.
Just as he had last night.
F ive-and-a-half-year-old Grace was an expert at hiding.
With no alcoves or nooks in the single-wide and only one door in and out, the key was to stay close to walls. As far as she could from the strangers.
Out of arm’s reach, when possible.
She didn’t have a word for the concept but had learned about arm’s reach by accumulating bruises and sore spots, a couple of bloody noses, the loss of one tooth. A baby tooth, but when Ardis’s hand shot out to slap Dodie’s face and the combination of weed, whiskey, and anger shoved him off course and his knuckles collided with Grace’s mouth, it hurt a lot.
She didn’t cry. Crying didn’t come naturally to her and besides, she didn’t want to be noticed. She’d been eating a Fudgsicle and dropped it and stooped to pick it up.
The blow hurt Ardis, too. He kept shaking his hand and screaming in pain.
Dodie laughed and that made Ardis even more mad and the second time he went for her, he punched her in the forehead and it was her turn to scream, calling him filthy names.
That made him laugh and he lunged for her again. She feinted out of the way and tried to outlaugh him, which enraged him further and he wound up to deliver one of his roundhouses, the blows that left Dodie’s face swollen and, the next day, all black-and-blue.
But Ardis’s rhythm was off and he ended up on the floor and Dodie got off with a fingernail graze.
Grace thought:
Now he’s using his fist all the time. They’re both so stupid.
Throughout the melee, neither of them noticed her, backed into the farthest spot she could find, blood mixing with chocolate from the Fudgsicle, creating a sweet, repellent mud that streamed down her face.
Her mouth hurt really bad but, of course, she kept quiet about her pain because when you complained it got worse; they—especially Dodie—could get mad at you.
Instead, she thought of nice things, anything that wasn’t pain.
Sometimes that meant shows she’d seen on TV or books she’d read at preschool. Sometimes it meant imagining the strangers gone. Like tonight.
She tried to eat more Fudgsicle. That’s when her tooth crunched and bent and she reached inside her mouth and it came right out and she could feel air whistling through the space.
More blood than
She
never
sweated.
And now her chest was tight and breathing had become a challenge. As if a huge animal had settled on her diaphragm.
Andrew Toner stared. Grace stared. Two helpless…offenders?
No, no, no, she was stronger than that, there was always a solution.
None came to her.
Stupid girl.
redredredredred.
Grace remained standing in the doorway. Andrew Toner remained seated.
Both of them encased in an aspic of shame.
Again, he was the first to find his voice. Dry-croaking: “My God.”
Grace thought:
If there is a God, He’s laughing His deified head off.
Her brilliant response: “Well…”
Why had she
said
that?
What
could
she say?
Stupid girl.
No no no I’m smart.
And I haven’t done anything
willfully
wrong.
Miles from actually believing that, she dredged up enough rationalization to look straight in the pretty blue eyes of Andrew from San Antonio, Texas. A man who’d traveled to see her because she had something valuable to say about…wearing the same tweed sport coat and rumpled khakis as last night.
Different shirt.
So his hygiene is decent. Who gives a fuck!
Grace forced air into cement lungs. Thought about how to phrase her apology.
Yet
again,
he beat her to it. “I’m so sorry.”
What did
he
have to apologize for?
Grace said, “You’d better come in.”
He didn’t budge.
“Really,” said Grace. “This isn’t the end of the world. We need to work it out.”
With nothing more than hope and bluster to propel her, she headed back toward the therapy room.
Hearing footsteps behind her.
There he was. Following instructions.
Just as he had last night.
F ive-and-a-half-year-old Grace was an expert at hiding.
With no alcoves or nooks in the single-wide and only one door in and out, the key was to stay close to walls. As far as she could from the strangers.
Out of arm’s reach, when possible.
She didn’t have a word for the concept but had learned about arm’s reach by accumulating bruises and sore spots, a couple of bloody noses, the loss of one tooth. A baby tooth, but when Ardis’s hand shot out to slap Dodie’s face and the combination of weed, whiskey, and anger shoved him off course and his knuckles collided with Grace’s mouth, it hurt a lot.
She didn’t cry. Crying didn’t come naturally to her and besides, she didn’t want to be noticed. She’d been eating a Fudgsicle and dropped it and stooped to pick it up.
The blow hurt Ardis, too. He kept shaking his hand and screaming in pain.
Dodie laughed and that made Ardis even more mad and the second time he went for her, he punched her in the forehead and it was her turn to scream, calling him filthy names.
That made him laugh and he lunged for her again. She feinted out of the way and tried to outlaugh him, which enraged him further and he wound up to deliver one of his roundhouses, the blows that left Dodie’s face swollen and, the next day, all black-and-blue.
But Ardis’s rhythm was off and he ended up on the floor and Dodie got off with a fingernail graze.
Grace thought:
Now he’s using his fist all the time. They’re both so stupid.
Throughout the melee, neither of them noticed her, backed into the farthest spot she could find, blood mixing with chocolate from the Fudgsicle, creating a sweet, repellent mud that streamed down her face.
Her mouth hurt really bad but, of course, she kept quiet about her pain because when you complained it got worse; they—especially Dodie—could get mad at you.
Instead, she thought of nice things, anything that wasn’t pain.
Sometimes that meant shows she’d seen on TV or books she’d read at preschool. Sometimes it meant imagining the strangers gone. Like tonight.
She tried to eat more Fudgsicle. That’s when her tooth crunched and bent and she reached inside her mouth and it came right out and she could feel air whistling through the space.
More blood than
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