Read Online The Other Daughter by Lisa Gardner - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Lisa Gardner
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Then the nagging pain in his lower back wouldn't go away. He had problems running. Bruised tendon, they thought. Maybe he was outpitching his arm, needed to give it a break. David had to ease up. Steven took over for a while.
But David's back got worse and his shoulder got worse, and one day he was in a doctor's office being told his joints were too inflamed for him to continue pitching, while Steven was throwing his first no-hitter.
The Riggs men had never been quite the same since. David gave up serious baseball — pro teams didn't recruit young studs with health problems — and went to college instead. He didn't play baseball anymore. He left that to Steven, who did get a college scholarship but was never scouted by the pros. Steven had an arm, but he didn't have
David's
arm, and they all knew it.
Steven was now an assistant baseball coach at UMass Amherst, happily married with two great kids and maybe the next major leaguer. And since David couldn't be an all-star pitcher for his father, he'd offered up federal agent instead. He'd put away murderers, catch a serial killer, get a movie of the week. When he'd been assigned to the Boston office, he'd fantasized about exposing Boston's Mafia. He'd work undercover to expose the prominent crime families and have a showdown with the head don.
First year out of the academy, a chiropractor finally diagnosed David as having AS. His “bad back” would never get better.
The Bureau assigned him to white collar crime, where the biggest field danger was paper cuts from sorting through hundreds of boxes of subpoenaed files. David got good reviews each year for his “analytics,” the Bureau's euphemism for being adept at speed-reading large quantities of gibberish while downing take-out Chinese. And he watched his academy classmates break up drug rings, foil terrorism plots, and get promoted first. Those were the breaks in the Bureau.
His back felt much better now. Did that mean it would let him sleep? Nearly five in the morning. Steven probably had a game today. He should drive over and watch. His father would be there.
David would probably go in to work instead. The cleanup at the Stokes house wasn't finished yet, and David needed the excuse to be around. It would give him a chance to learn more about Dr. Harper Stokes and Digger's strange allegations about his adopted daughter.
David walked into his apartment as the first rays of sun began to lighten the sky. Only two pictures decorated the walls. Fenway Park lit up at night. Shoeless Joe Jackson. Not much about the place to call home.
David cast off his clothes without turning on the light and slid into bed. Two more hours until the alarm clock would go off. He needed to sleep.
He stared at the portrait of Shoeless Joe instead.
“Remind me life isn't fair,” he muttered to his idol. “And tell me it's okay, dammit, it's okay.”
Shoeless Joe didn't reply. After a moment David rolled over and pretended to get some sleep.
FIVE
AT FOUR A.M. Melanie bolted awake, a scream ripe in her throat and images blazing in her mind. Little Meagan Stokes chasing her with a bloody head. Little Meagan Stokes chanting “
Russell Lee Holmes. Russell Lee Holmes. You're just the brat of Russell Lee Holmes
.”
Melanie climbed out of bed. Her breathing was hard, her hands were shaking. She could taste blood. She finally realized that in her instinctive effort not to make any noise, she'd bitten her tongue.
She rubbed her damp cheeks, took a deep breath. A minute more and she slid to her feet. Downstairs, she could hear the grandfather clock ticking. Other than that, the three-story house was perfectly still.
Melanie moved quietly. Driven by an impulse she didn't care to examine just yet, she headed downstairs.
The living room was empty, the furniture reassembled, and the whole room cast in a soft glow from the gas lamps on the street.
She drifted toward the fireplace, feeling lonely.
Since her breakup with
Then the nagging pain in his lower back wouldn't go away. He had problems running. Bruised tendon, they thought. Maybe he was outpitching his arm, needed to give it a break. David had to ease up. Steven took over for a while.
But David's back got worse and his shoulder got worse, and one day he was in a doctor's office being told his joints were too inflamed for him to continue pitching, while Steven was throwing his first no-hitter.
The Riggs men had never been quite the same since. David gave up serious baseball — pro teams didn't recruit young studs with health problems — and went to college instead. He didn't play baseball anymore. He left that to Steven, who did get a college scholarship but was never scouted by the pros. Steven had an arm, but he didn't have
David's
arm, and they all knew it.
Steven was now an assistant baseball coach at UMass Amherst, happily married with two great kids and maybe the next major leaguer. And since David couldn't be an all-star pitcher for his father, he'd offered up federal agent instead. He'd put away murderers, catch a serial killer, get a movie of the week. When he'd been assigned to the Boston office, he'd fantasized about exposing Boston's Mafia. He'd work undercover to expose the prominent crime families and have a showdown with the head don.
First year out of the academy, a chiropractor finally diagnosed David as having AS. His “bad back” would never get better.
The Bureau assigned him to white collar crime, where the biggest field danger was paper cuts from sorting through hundreds of boxes of subpoenaed files. David got good reviews each year for his “analytics,” the Bureau's euphemism for being adept at speed-reading large quantities of gibberish while downing take-out Chinese. And he watched his academy classmates break up drug rings, foil terrorism plots, and get promoted first. Those were the breaks in the Bureau.
His back felt much better now. Did that mean it would let him sleep? Nearly five in the morning. Steven probably had a game today. He should drive over and watch. His father would be there.
David would probably go in to work instead. The cleanup at the Stokes house wasn't finished yet, and David needed the excuse to be around. It would give him a chance to learn more about Dr. Harper Stokes and Digger's strange allegations about his adopted daughter.
David walked into his apartment as the first rays of sun began to lighten the sky. Only two pictures decorated the walls. Fenway Park lit up at night. Shoeless Joe Jackson. Not much about the place to call home.
David cast off his clothes without turning on the light and slid into bed. Two more hours until the alarm clock would go off. He needed to sleep.
He stared at the portrait of Shoeless Joe instead.
“Remind me life isn't fair,” he muttered to his idol. “And tell me it's okay, dammit, it's okay.”
Shoeless Joe didn't reply. After a moment David rolled over and pretended to get some sleep.
FIVE
AT FOUR A.M. Melanie bolted awake, a scream ripe in her throat and images blazing in her mind. Little Meagan Stokes chasing her with a bloody head. Little Meagan Stokes chanting “
Russell Lee Holmes. Russell Lee Holmes. You're just the brat of Russell Lee Holmes
.”
Melanie climbed out of bed. Her breathing was hard, her hands were shaking. She could taste blood. She finally realized that in her instinctive effort not to make any noise, she'd bitten her tongue.
She rubbed her damp cheeks, took a deep breath. A minute more and she slid to her feet. Downstairs, she could hear the grandfather clock ticking. Other than that, the three-story house was perfectly still.
Melanie moved quietly. Driven by an impulse she didn't care to examine just yet, she headed downstairs.
The living room was empty, the furniture reassembled, and the whole room cast in a soft glow from the gas lamps on the street.
She drifted toward the fireplace, feeling lonely.
Since her breakup with
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