Read Online When She Was Bad: A Thriller by Jonathan Nasaw - Free Book Online
Authors: Jonathan Nasaw
Tags: Fiction, General, thriller, Suspense, Thrillers, Mystery & Detective, American Mystery & Suspense Fiction, Espionage, Serial Murderers, Government investigators, Fiction - Espionage, Multiple personality
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thought. In a way, it was like that old cliché about careful what you wish for because you might get it, only with a new twist. Be careful what you’re afraid of, is what they should say, Lily decided. Be careful what you’re afraid of, because someday it might get you.
6
As much as he disliked the responsibilities that came with being the director of an institution the size of Reed-Chase—the administrative details that threatened to swamp him on a daily basis, the weight of all the people, staff and patients alike, whose welfare depended on his decisions—Al Corder had to admit that you couldn’t beat the commute.
It was close to six o’clock when he left Irene Cogan and Lily to say their good-byes. Only minutes later he unlocked and ducked through the arch-topped door set into the ivy-covered brick wall bordering the northern end of the arboretum, strolled across the lawn, passed the disused swing-and-slide set, and let himself in through the back entrance of the eighty-year-old, half-timbered, Tudor-style fieldstone manor that came with the director’s job. End of commute.
“Home is the hunter, home from the hills,” he called.
“Hi, I’m in the kitchen.”
As he passed through the dining room, Corder noticed the table was set for two. “The princess does not deign to dine with the commoners this evening?”
Cheryl Corder was at the stove, wooden spoon in one hand, kettle lid in the other, her dark blond hair limp from the steam. “The princess,” she replied over her shoulder, “is a little down in the dumps.”
“Boy trouble?” Corder gave her a peck on the back of the neck, then peered over her shoulder into the kettle and inhaled greedily.
“What else?” She replaced the lid, set the spoon down carefully on a folded paper towel.
“Should I have a fatherly chat with her?”
“I suppose you might as well give it a shot—Lord knows she won’t confide in me.”
Knock, knock. “Allie? Allie, it’s Dad.”
“Yeah, I guessed from your voice.”
She can’t help it, Corder reminded himself, she’s an adolescent. “May I come in?”
“If you promise not to act like a psychiatrist.”
“Word,” said Corder; it sounded lame even to him, so he hastily added, “On it, you have my word on it.”
His quintessentially fifteen-year-old daughter lay facedown on the bed, her right hand under her cheek, her left hand dangling just above the carpet. She was wearing a pair of skintight, below-the-navel jeans and a cutoff top. She edged her legs away from the side of the bed to give him room to perch—a major concession.
“Speaking not as a psychiatrist but as a father—you want me to beat him up?”
He was rewarded with a giggle. “Oh, Daddy, he’s a football player.”
“I was on the track team—I could pop him one, then run away quick.”
As Alison rolled over and sat up, it struck Corder once again that somehow, almost overnight, his little girl had metamorphosed into, for want of a better word, a hottie.
“How come boys are such a-holes, Daddy?”
“Hormones, sweetie—at that age, they’re a raging stew of hormones. Speaking of which, your mother is cooking up a heavenly beef bourguignonne—if there’s beef bourguignonne in heaven. I’m, ah, thinking about cracking a real nice-looking ’98 Napa cabernet to go with it.”
She cocked her head like a curious jay. “Aaaand…?”
“Your mother and I were talking the other night about whether you were old enough—or I should say, mature enough—for us to start initiating you into the proper enjoyment of the, ah, fruits of the vine. So I was thinking, maybe I’d set out an extra glass tonight—if you’re feeling well enough to join us for dinner, that is.”
She nodded, slowly, responsibly, maturely. “Sure, okay.”
“Good, good—I’ll set a place, we’ll call you when dinner’s ready.” He patted her ankle and stood up, thinking that he’d surely kept his promise not to act like a psychiatrist.
6
As much as he disliked the responsibilities that came with being the director of an institution the size of Reed-Chase—the administrative details that threatened to swamp him on a daily basis, the weight of all the people, staff and patients alike, whose welfare depended on his decisions—Al Corder had to admit that you couldn’t beat the commute.
It was close to six o’clock when he left Irene Cogan and Lily to say their good-byes. Only minutes later he unlocked and ducked through the arch-topped door set into the ivy-covered brick wall bordering the northern end of the arboretum, strolled across the lawn, passed the disused swing-and-slide set, and let himself in through the back entrance of the eighty-year-old, half-timbered, Tudor-style fieldstone manor that came with the director’s job. End of commute.
“Home is the hunter, home from the hills,” he called.
“Hi, I’m in the kitchen.”
As he passed through the dining room, Corder noticed the table was set for two. “The princess does not deign to dine with the commoners this evening?”
Cheryl Corder was at the stove, wooden spoon in one hand, kettle lid in the other, her dark blond hair limp from the steam. “The princess,” she replied over her shoulder, “is a little down in the dumps.”
“Boy trouble?” Corder gave her a peck on the back of the neck, then peered over her shoulder into the kettle and inhaled greedily.
“What else?” She replaced the lid, set the spoon down carefully on a folded paper towel.
“Should I have a fatherly chat with her?”
“I suppose you might as well give it a shot—Lord knows she won’t confide in me.”
Knock, knock. “Allie? Allie, it’s Dad.”
“Yeah, I guessed from your voice.”
She can’t help it, Corder reminded himself, she’s an adolescent. “May I come in?”
“If you promise not to act like a psychiatrist.”
“Word,” said Corder; it sounded lame even to him, so he hastily added, “On it, you have my word on it.”
His quintessentially fifteen-year-old daughter lay facedown on the bed, her right hand under her cheek, her left hand dangling just above the carpet. She was wearing a pair of skintight, below-the-navel jeans and a cutoff top. She edged her legs away from the side of the bed to give him room to perch—a major concession.
“Speaking not as a psychiatrist but as a father—you want me to beat him up?”
He was rewarded with a giggle. “Oh, Daddy, he’s a football player.”
“I was on the track team—I could pop him one, then run away quick.”
As Alison rolled over and sat up, it struck Corder once again that somehow, almost overnight, his little girl had metamorphosed into, for want of a better word, a hottie.
“How come boys are such a-holes, Daddy?”
“Hormones, sweetie—at that age, they’re a raging stew of hormones. Speaking of which, your mother is cooking up a heavenly beef bourguignonne—if there’s beef bourguignonne in heaven. I’m, ah, thinking about cracking a real nice-looking ’98 Napa cabernet to go with it.”
She cocked her head like a curious jay. “Aaaand…?”
“Your mother and I were talking the other night about whether you were old enough—or I should say, mature enough—for us to start initiating you into the proper enjoyment of the, ah, fruits of the vine. So I was thinking, maybe I’d set out an extra glass tonight—if you’re feeling well enough to join us for dinner, that is.”
She nodded, slowly, responsibly, maturely. “Sure, okay.”
“Good, good—I’ll set a place, we’ll call you when dinner’s ready.” He patted her ankle and stood up, thinking that he’d surely kept his promise not to act like a psychiatrist.
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